by Tom Andry
"So, what does this mean, exactly?"
"I don't know. I need to be careful that I'm not detected. This is our last lead."
I wiped my mouth, "Damn it." I picked at a piece of peperoni, rolling it over with the tip of my finger. "You suck as a supercomputer. Can't you be more specific?"
"That hurts, Bob. I'm doing the best I can."
I continued pacing, fuming. Eventually, I realized she'd stopped talking, "Listen. At some point you are just going to spit it out, right? I mean, how much of this crap do I have to listen to before you get to the point?"
"That's the pizza talking."
"What?" I demanded, placing the half-full box of pizza into the refrigerator.
"It's got your blood sugar elevated."
"I'll show you elevated..."
"More irrational behavior. Mood swings. Classic symptoms."
"Shut up," I growled through gritted teeth.
"I can wait. Tell me when you are feeling rational."
I bit back a retort and moved to the counter to refill my scotch.
"Alcohol is full of sugar, you know."
I didn't respond, filling my glass almost to the rim. I didn't usually like this much in a glass, but I couldn't help myself. Mind didn't have the benefits of the cameras we had installed around my real home and office, but she could tell a lot from the sounds. She would know how much I'd poured, probably to the milliliter.
I brought the glass carefully to my lips, leaning over, making sure not to spill anything on my clothes. I sipped enough off the top to make the glass transportable without fear of spillage.
"Ah," I sighed, "that's better."
"So, are you ready for me to continue?"
I walked back to my bedroom and my wall of research, "If by 'continue' you mean 'get to the point'."
"Fine. I've directed the Multikey to download as much as it can. But it doesn't have much local storage. That means it either has to pick and choose, or it has to compress."
"Oh my God. Seriously? The point?"
"The point is: I don't know, but longer is better. If I had full access, I could retrieve the data right now."
"And why don't we have full access, exactly?"
Mind's voice slowed, as if she were speaking to a child, "As I've said before, I could force my way in, but it would mean letting them know there was an incursion."
"And we can't do that because they'll suspect it is you."
"Perhaps. Likely not, but why take the chance? The terms of our arrangement are simple: you provide me a safe place to reside, and I help you."
"And we keep each other's secrets."
"Exactly."
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at all the lines on my walls, "We're close, Mind. I can feel it."
"You've said that before."
"This time it is different."
"You've also said that."
"No, I haven't."
Mind started playing back my own voice through my ear piece. I had said it, or some variation of it.
"Whatever," I grumbled. "It's different this time."
"Of course, Bob."
* * *
Chapter 2
I had barely made it through the door of the EnviroKop building before two burly guards in blue blazers intercepted me and brought me to an office I'd never seen.
"Mr. Robson, take a seat, please."
The grey-suited man behind the desk was tall, thin, and had the look of someone who had lost quite a bit of weight. He flopped into his chair as if he had expected it to be higher. He glanced down at it angrily before turning his gaze toward me.
"We've been watching you closely, Mr. Robson. I think you are aware of that." His jowls quivered as he spoke, his brown toupee looking like it might fall off his emaciated frame. The suit looked expensive and tailored, but might have been made for someone else as it hung off him like a hand-me-down from an older, larger brother.
I took the seat offered, the only other in the room. It was plush-looking, but I shifted a few times trying, unsuccessfully, to find a comfortable position. Obviously, it was chosen for looks more than comfort...or maybe being uncomfortable was the whole point.
"I'm not sure what you mean," I responded nasally, pushing my black-rimmed glasses up my nose. "What is this all about? And please," I added, "call me Bob."
"And you can call me Mr. Well." Samuel Well, head of security for EnviroKop, if the plaque on his desk was to be believed, paused for a moment as he sat, then added, "Wait, your name is Bob Robson?"
I looked at him blankly, "Yes."
When I didn't elaborate, Samuel Well leaned back in his chair, his deep-set eyes boring into me. Behind him was a wall of TV tubes showing different views of the interior and exterior of the building. His desk was aluminum and faux wood, and looked to me like a reject from an old middle school. The grey room itself was nearly bare, with more empty space than books on the shelves, no pictures of friends or family, not even a framed diploma or shooting award on the walls. The combination of the grey suit and grey walls gave the illusion that Well was part of the room. His dark blue tie with Windsor knot was an upside down exclamation point, reminding me of the lack of windows in the room. I couldn't help but focus on his face, however. It just seemed...wrong somehow.
I pulled my gaze away and let my eyes roll around the space, taking in the few details. Fluorescent lighting, scuff marks on the floor, discolored patches on the walls and floor, outlining where furniture had long been placed but recently moved. The room must have been recently repurposed. I would have thought that the head of security would get a better office than one that still smelled of mold, cleaning agents, and...something else. Sour.
"You seem unimpressed."
I turned back to Well. "Hmm?" I again pushed my glasses up my nose. "Oh, no," my practiced voice whistled through my nose, "sorry, sir. I've never been to this floor before. I'm pretty busy, though."
"You've been called into a surprise meeting with the head of security and you act like we're about to have a cup of coffee and talk about the game."
"Oh," I laughed with a snort, "I'm not one for sports."
His eyes narrowed, "Who are you, Mr. Robson?"
My eyes narrowed in return and I almost lost my practiced voice, "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
Well looked considerably more comfortable in his high-backed, leather chair. He steepled his fingers in front of his nose as he leaned forward, "Come now, Mr. Smith, we know Robson is not your real name."
I forced a chuckle, "Mr. Well, I don't know who put you up to this, but..."
"Bob," Mind's voice sounded in my head, "this guy isn't on the official employee records. Whoever he is, he's new or some sort of plant. I'm searching my database for any matches. Can you give me a description? There aren't any cameras in the room."
I shook my head slightly, covering it as a shiver.
"Okay," Well interrupted. "Let's talk a bit about you, Bob. You started here, what? About three months ago, correct?"
I looked up and off to the left, pretending to rack my memory, "Three months and...five days, I think."
"Whatever. What's important is..."
"No," I interrupted, "six days."
"Bob, I think this guy is a super."
I shrugged slightly, unconcerned.
"He might be a hired gun. Bob, you should consider making a run for it. Grab the Multikey and go. We'll have to make do with the data we got."
"Or was it five? I called in sick one day. Are you counting that? That should count, I would think."
Well slammed his hand down on his desk, his pallid face showing only the slightest coloring at the tips of his cheekbones and in the middle of his forehead. "It doesn't matter," he rasped through clenched teeth. He slumped back into his seat, his mouth already forming the next words.
I didn't let them get past his lips, "Oh, Mr. Well," I stated with forced passion, "it does matter." I pushed my glasses up again, "Down in accounting, we have a motto, 'A
ccuracy, Precision, Integrity'. Numbers mean everything. If we don't ensure that the numbers line up, that our calculations are correct, this whole company could go under!" I leaned forward, trying to exude passion for a subject I cared nothing about. "Did you hear about the OmniCure debacle?"
Confusion momentarily wiped the annoyance off Well's face. I could see indecision flicker across his forehead. I suddenly realized what made him look so odd. He didn't have eyebrows. I exhaled, somehow relieved that I had figured it out. He swallowed, his eyes dipping as he put a finger to his cheek and looked away, "Of course..."
I smiled slightly, "All it took was one misplaced decimal."
Well looked back at me.
"Just ONE," I held up a finger, "and that company, once the largest private security firm in the tri-state area, went under."
"Bob, what are you doing? I don't have enough info on this guy for an identification."
"Of course," Well coughed, "accounting is important. That's not under debate here."
"I should certainly hope not," I countered, shifting in my seat and wincing in annoyance, "just one bad egg in the accounting department can do irreparable harm to any business, much less EnviroKop."
"Of course...it's just that..."
I continued as if he hadn't spoken, "EnviroKop is one of the largest private security firms in the country, Mr. Well, I'm sure I don't need to remind you. We provide everything from home security systems for middle class homes to large venue planning and oversight. We've installed systems in everything from mom and pop bagel shops to the homes of governors and senators. If our company were to go under...well, I'd hate to think what would happen."
Well was patting one hand at the air as if it could slow my rant down. "That's part of the point here..."
"I should certainly hope so, Mr. Well. Head of security or no, I have a very important job. And if you felt the need to pull me away...well...I hope it was for good cause."
"Now, if you'll just let me..."
"Because I'm working on a very important account right now. Sure, it isn't a big money client, but for them, it's their life."
"I understand, Bob, but what we're...you're...here to discuss is not your client."
"Are you satisfied yet?"
I nodded, covering the movement with a cough, "I didn't think so. So, who do you want to know about?"
Well's brows furrowed, "Huh?"
"I assume you want information on one of my coworkers. Is it Sanders?"
"No..." Well thought for a moment. "Why? Do you suspect him of something?"
"Her."
"What?"
"Her, Mr. Well. Not all accountants are men, you know," I pushed my glasses up my face.
"Something is happening. I think they are clearing the building. If you get out now, you should have no problems getting the Multikey in the confusion. I can lock the door behind you."
"Of course. Her. Do you have suspicions?"
I turned back to Well. I hadn't seen him press a hidden button, but perhaps he hadn't needed to. The guy didn't know the first thing about the company, or the security business for that matter. There was no Sanders in accounting, male or female. There was no OmniCure debacle or, as far as I knew, a company even named OmniCure. Samuel Well might've simply been ludicrously focused on his job and covering the fact that he didn't know these things, but I didn't think so.
I started to feed "facts" to Well about the fictional Sanders. I dropped in names of clients EnviroKop didn't have, services it didn't provide, and even mentioned the name of an invented manager. He copied it all down dutifully on a legal pad he produced from his desk.
As I went on, my claims and accusations became more and more outrageous. Even a person with a passing knowledge of the company should have recognized them as fiction. I watched as Well started getting more and more anxious. His eyes glanced with increased frequency to his watch, he started to ask if "that was all" more often, and sweat began to bead up on his sallow, heavily-lined, and eyebrow-less forehead. I decided to get this over with.
"And lastly," Well looked at me, a relieved smile on his thin lips, "I believe that Anderson is an alien."
Well blinked his fleshy eyelids three times, "Um...alien?"
I leaned forward, nodding slowly, "Yes. I'm almost sure."
"Like, an illegal alien?"
"Are there legal kinds?" Well exhaled softly in relief. I continued, "I mean, I don't know what sort of passport you'd need to come from another planet. Surely, someone would have mentioned extraterrestrial contact, you know?"
Well closed his eyes briefly, his eyelids quivering.
"Bob, you are way out on a limb here. They must suspect you, might even suspect that I've breached their system. Stop messing around and get out."
"I have to know," I half whispered.
"Excuse me?"
"He probably doesn't know anything about who hired him. Just get out."
Well was looking at me, hoping I would say something that would convince him I hadn't just wasted the last twenty minutes of his life. I couldn't help myself.
"It's Anderson, isn't it? You suspect him as well. You know," I grabbed the edge of his crappy, aluminum desk and gazed into his eyes conspiratorially, "he doesn't use the bathroom. Ever."
"What?"
"I know, weird, right? But I know what you're thinking. He's just one of those germ guys, right? Runs home on his lunch break? But that's not it. I've followed him."
Well's head fell. He slowly looked over the three pages of hurriedly scribbled notes on the legal pad in front of him. He tore the pages off and crumpled them into a ball. He glanced around each side of his desk and then under it. Finally he set it on the corner.
"You don't have a trash can?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "That's a little weird." I made a show of looking around the office. "In fact, I don't remember you around the office. I've worked here for three months and this is the first I've seen of you? And you are the head of security? Doesn't the head of a department rate at least a window?" I put my hand to my mouth in mock horror, "Oh God! You're one of them, aren't you?" I squeaked. I put a hand up in front of me, swallowing nervously, "What are you going to do to me?"
Mr. Well's thin, pale lips pursed so tightly that I couldn't see them anymore, "Enough," he growled. "Robson...or whatever your name is... " He spun his chair and touched a control on the wall of monitors. The images all changed simultaneously. Well stood and pointed to the leftmost tube on the top. "This is you," the image started to move, "trying to enter a restricted area."
As he spoke, my less-than-dashing figure walked up to the door and opened it. A person in a lab coat was on the other side and shooed me out. For this particular job, I'd had to wear a cheap suit and tie, a bit oversized and ill fitted, but it didn't hide the increasing expanse of my belly. In recent months, I'd put on a couple of pounds, a fact that I had been actively ignoring despite Mind's constant reminders. Now that I could see myself - a candid image without the normal sucking in of the gut that I did reflexively whenever I passed in front of a reflective surface or camera - all my rationalizations and explanations crumbled. I was fat.
"Damn," I chuffed, "I look like shit." My voice momentarily lost the nasally quality I'd perfected over the last couple of months.
"An understandable mistake," Well continued, "but here you are again," the image on the second monitor went into motion, "and again," the third image joined. "Each time, you try to enter a restricted area and are quickly discovered and escorted out. We've researched you, talked to your coworkers. They describe you as absent-minded. Friendly enough, but standoffish and a bit of a buffoon. The perfect cover for someone trying to steal secrets. But," he pressed another hidden control, and all the monitors shifted to create one large image of a door, "here, you succeeded." My pudgy figure opened the door and, after a moment, closed it behind me. My profile revealed considerably more chins than I had expected to see. "You don't come out for five minutes, Mr. Robson." Well turned back to me, "What
did you do during those five minutes?"
I smiled, "So, um, you're saying you're not an alien?"
Well slammed his hand down on his desk a second time, "Cut the crap, already!" Well opened a drawer near the top of his desk and pulled out a thick file. He placed his wrinkled hand on top of the file. It was odd how his skin looked so much older than he sounded. Maybe his super power was aging? I made a mental note not to let him touch me, though, generally speaking, it was a pretty good idea to stay out of arm's reach of supers anyhow.
"It's all here," he strummed his fingers across the top, "your work was riddled with errors. For all your earlier pontification," he'd obviously heard the word from someone else recently as it came out a bit mushy, "about numbers, you certainly don't seem to be very good with them. In fact," he opened the file and made a show of glancing at the top sheet, "it says here you were scheduled for termination," he smiled at the word. "Regardless, they almost believed you. Almost. But you were a little too clever for your own good."
"Was I?" I growled under my breath.
Mr. Well reached down and opened a drawer near the bottom. It clanged and rang like one of my father's toolbox drawers. A small smile flittered across his lips as he riffled through the drawer noisily. Well's smile widened, revealing dimples that pockmarked his cheeks. "Because whatever you did during those five minutes...whatever it was, gave you some sort of control over the system. The day after you entered that room, you called in sick. That might just be a coincidence except for one thing. You are never caught on camera again."
"Oh, yeah?" it was my turn to purse my lips.
"Oops." Mind's voice was as meek as I'd ever heard it.
"Yeah. Now, Mr. Robson, let's start again." Well cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck loudly. He took a deep, cleansing breath. "I have only one question..."
"Sorry, Bob. I guess I was a bit too thorough."
"Ya think?" I mumbled under my breath.
"Do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?"
I shifted in my seat and took off my glasses. I cleaned them with my tie, listening to Well dig around in that drawer. Was he looking for a gun? Some sort of death ray? I tapped the spot on my right thigh that triggered my Inertial Dampener.