DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1)
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Authors: Eduardo Suastegui
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Dead Beef,
Copyright © 2014, Eduardo Suastegui
Published by Eduardo Suastegui, Kindle edition, revision 1.6
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without the permission in writing from its publisher, Eduardo Suastegui.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published By Eduardo Suastegui
A
Voice of the Mute Tales
production
“Just like that,” Martin Spencer said.
Through the office window he could see the garden one floor below. In the ten years since he directed that a green space should replace the previously dilapidated picnic area, the trees had grown to near full size. He wouldn’t be directing much more now, but at least something green and lush, something vibrant was growing thanks to a decision he’d made. Martin wished he could say that about more of his life.
“Just like that,” he repeated. “You’re firing me.”
“It was a difficult decision, Martin. You’ve accomplished a great deal for this company. You’ve contributed much.”
Martin pointed at the yellow pad on the desk then faced the window again. “I suppose in your little script there, now I’m supposed to object and say that I founded this company, that I built InfoStream with these two hands. From the ground up. My only mistake in all this time was selling out my majority shares to investors who have no idea what this company does or why it matters. Then I should tell you that every bit of technology that makes this company a profit originated in the space between my ears. If I were to say that, how are you supposed to respond, Rich?”
Rich cleared his throat. “As I explained, Martin, defense cuts forced our hand. It’s a tough fiscal environment. We’ve had to make difficult staffing decisions, especially among senior staff and others who are highly compensated. We had to weigh compensation against the latest contributions an employee has made.”
Martin Spencer considered that response for a second. How things had changed. There was a time not long ago, he mused, when people that knew as much as he did would never be fired. Rather they would receive lateral moves and nice payouts to put them out to pasture. There was a time when putting people like him on the street was far too dangerous a proposition for national security.
That was then. Now was the time of budget cuts, efficient government that wasn’t, and young kids that didn’t even vaguely imagine any of the scary thoughts that had guided the wisdom and caution of their predecessors.
“Tell me, Rich,” Martin said. “What kind of clearance do you have?”
“You know the type of clearance I have,” Rich said.
“That’s right, Rich. I know you have too low of a clearance to know what my latest contributions are or what they mean for national security or how they’re used to keep this country safe.”
Martin almost added that even if Rich had a high enough clearance, he still wouldn’t have the slightest intellectual inkling or the imagination to appreciate the work. But Rich was just the messenger. He didn’t deserve that sort of treatment.
“I don’t have to know everything to appreciate you, Martin. At a lower classification level I’ve heard enough about what you did to make a few educated guesses.”
“Expecting guesses to line up with reality is not how we do engineering, is it, Rich? It’s not how we do annual employee performance reviews either. I suggest you don’t jump to too many conclusions based on your guesses, no matter how educated you may think they are. At the end of the day, your guesses do not add up to the understanding needed to assess my performance and my value to this company.”
Rich stayed silent for a few seconds. Perhaps he was contemplating the irony that this office used to be Martin’s office before the previous set of budget cuts and reorganization. “Your last performance appraisal was informed by inputs from your peers. Peers who have the right clearances and who are aware and... appreciative of your work.”
“That’s right. I remember now. They said I’m bored. Not innovative. Unmotivated.”
This time Rich didn’t reply. Rich and Martin had worked through a similar conversation three months prior, during performance review season. A nice setup for his firing now, Martin had to admit.
He let the silence linger. Below, in the garden, two of his peers were taking a stroll. They looked young. Much younger than him, not bored, innovative, motivated.
“Did you let the government customer know, Rich?” Martin asked.
“They canceled your last project.”
Martin nodded. “They did. Yes, they did.” He turned and gave Rich his best blank stare. “Did you notify them?”
“We will forward full notification as soon as you’re out-briefed. That’s standard procedure.”
It wasn’t standard procedure, Martin reflected, but Rich didn’t have the clearance to know that, nor why one had to pre-notify the government before firing someone with Martin’s type of clearance and national security critical expertise. Martin wasn’t about to let Rich know, though. The way things were going down now only worked in Martin’s favor, making his exit cleaner and his immediate plans for life after InfoStream easier to carry out.
Rich escorted Martin down the hall to a security out-brief that lasted less than 30 minutes. Martin Spencer patiently listened to warnings about security violations and signed paperwork promising to never divulge classified information related to his work at InfoStream. Rich met him outside the security office and offered to help Martin pack his belongings.
“That won’t be necessary, Rich.”
“OK, I’ll just stand outside your office while you gather your things, then.”
“That won’t be necessary either. You should start planning your script for when they call you.”
Rich frowned. He was a nice guy, but he really had no clue.
Martin smiled and patted Rich on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Rich. You drew straws and lost. You had to deal with the big jerk. And tomorrow, you’ll have to sweep up all the broken glass.”
“We really should go gather your things.”
“Let’s not.”
“This doesn’t need to be difficult, Martin.”
“It’s going to be super easy, Rich. I’ll just show my way out.”
Martin started walking. He did his best to move at a normal pace, restraining the urge to run out of the building. He walked down a long corridor lined with large posters hanging inside rich frames and shining glass extolling the virtues of information protection and all the other unclassified marketing jargon one could conjure up to describe how InfoStream Corporation made the nation and the world a better, safer place.
Rich followed him. “What about your office?”
“It’s all yours.”
“What about your things?”
“You can have’em, too,” Martin said. He quickened his step, trotted down one flight of stairs, and reached the lobby where two security officers watched him intently. “It’s OK, guys. It’s all good.”
Martin would have kept moving, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar face behind the reception desk. “Leti,” he said. “You weren’t here this morning, were you?”
She stood up. “Just got in.”
“I thought you were down in L.A.”
“I came in on the morning flight,” she said.
“How’s Luz?” Martin asked.
Leti looked down at the desk.
“Well, it’s good to see you,” he said, and forced himself to move toward the exit.
A few more steps and large sliding doors opened before him. Outside, the air felt different, alive. His Lexus convertible awaited him in one of the nearby parking stalls, the one they would probably give Rich, with thanks for his smooth handling of the Martin Spencer firing.
“Martin, what do you want us to do with your things?” Rich was asking behind him. “We can pack them for you and send them home?”
Martin filled his lungs with the crisp mid-morning air. “You can do whatever makes you feel better, Rich.” He took another long breath before he added, “But if I were you, I’d start working on how you’re going to handle the call.” He turned halfway and smiled at Rich. “They’re going to call you, and it’s not going to be a kind conversation.”
Martin walked to his car, hearing steps behind him. Rich would just not give up, would he? He got in the car and was about to start the engine, but stopped short. Leti was a few steps away, running toward him, svelte and tall as ever in her black security uniform, military issue Beretta 9mm at her side.
“Mr. Spencer,” she said, and for a brief instant Martin found himself atop a windswept rooftop, somewhere near the Iran-Iraq border, Special Ops officer Leticia Ortiz running to him yelling “Mr. Spencer!” as bullets flew around her, two of them ripping into her left shoulder, and she still kept coming for him like a tracer. He remembered how she grabbed him under his armpit with her good arm, and then they were up in the air, winching up to the helicopter, Leticia screaming in pain but never letting go.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for Luz,” Leticia was saying now. “She wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help.”
“I wouldn’t be here without you, Leti.”
“I’m really sorry they fired you, Mr. Spencer,” she said in her lovely sing-songy Mexican accent. “They shouldn’t have done that, not after all you’ve done for everybody.” She reached in her pocket. “Here, I want you to have this,” she said, handing him a laminated photo of her little girl, Luz.
“How old is she now?” Martin asked, and tried his best to imagine Luz lying in a bed with IVs pumping pain medication into her to make her losing battle with Leukemia somehow placable.
“She’ll be eight years old in two weeks,” Leti said.
“I wish I could have done more,” he said, reflecting on how he’d tried to help by voluntarily paying out of his own pocket for most of the little girl’s treatment.
“You’ve done so much, Mr. Spencer. You’ve done the most.”
Martin started the engine. “I gotta go, Leti. Running on a tight schedule.”
Leti waved at him as he drove off. He kept an eye on her in the rearview mirror until he forced himself to look away. For the first time this morning, he felt a twinge of regret about what he was going to do.
Martin had seen this day coming. He didn’t need to gather his things because he had removed anything he wanted out of his office months ago. The rather scathing performance review three months prior had further confirmed the suspicion that his days at InfoStream were counted in intervals shorter than 365.
Truth was he had seen that performance review coming too. Truth was he hadn’t tried very hard for the last year to do anything of value. Truth was that as insulting as it was to get fired from the very company he’d built with hard work and sacrifice, he was glad they’d made the choice for him that he should have had the guts to make for himself years ago.
He just hadn’t been himself. His wife, Cynthia had tried to get him to go see a therapist. But he couldn’t stomach it. The things that were bothering him, many of them were not for uncleared, nosy therapists. And if he went to a therapist, he’d have to report it to the security office, and his clearance could be revoked if there was any suspicion of mental instability.
