Conor

Conor was tired when he got to the Geomys office. He couldn't sleep after seeing the sales figures. Cat hadn't let him look at the figures all the rest of the evening, and worried that he'd walk off the pier and fall into the canal if he looked on his way to work, had made him promise not to look until he got into the office. He had agreed.

He yawned, opening the door. 

"Good morning, Mr. Rayl," said Syd. He was already there, sitting in the breakroom. A black, embroidered cap sat on the table. It looked like he had been wringing it.

"Morning, Syd," said Conor.

Syd was the resident greybeard. He had been with the company for as long as it had been a thing, and before that he was working miracles for his previous employer. Conor was glad that Frank had convinced him to take a chance on Syd, even though he looked like he should have retired years ago. His technical knowledge combined with his experience prevent many false starts on the Taskrotta project.

"A word, Mr. Rayl," said Syd. He was so formal, calling Conor "Mr. Rayl" and Frank "Mr. Conchobhar." When Conor had tried to return the favor, Syd had stopped him. "It's a hard name to pronounce just right," he had said. "Syd's fine."

"What is it?" asked Conor. He set his computer bag down on the breakroom table.

"It's Mr. Conchobhar," said Syd. "He's not showed up yet today." He nodded his head toward the reception area. "Jeannie even says that his neighbor called, asking if he'd come in early." Conor looked down at Syd's wrung cap. "I think something might be wrong."

Conor shrugged. "Maybe he just slept in or something," he said, though he started to worry. Frank was always Frank, without deviation. 

Syd looked at him with a level gaze. "Let me show you something," he said. He led Conor back to his office. It was a dark room, the typical bright office lights bothering Syd's eyes. Surrounding his workstation were all the accoutrements of a sort of nerd-vana for someone nostalgic about nostalgia. Standing around his monitor like little soldiers were figurines of just about every representative of geek culture from the 21st century, as well as posters to the same effect. In lieu of ceiling lights, the room was lit by four main light sources: a lava lamp, a plasma globe, a nixie clock, and Syd's monitor, though the last was the weakest source of illumination, as Syd was a die-hard proponent of the dark theme: black background with green text.

Syd sat down at his chair, a sort of cross between a yoga ball and a beanbag chair. Conor stood behind him and watched him type.

Syd viewed the world through the command prompt. If it couldn't be represented by green text on a black background, it didn't interest him. His fingers danced across a keyboard with no letters or numbers printed on the keys. As he did this, his simple screen belied its underlying complexities. Firmaments arose and fell between bodies of text, and tides of blackness waxed and waned. Finally, a small table showed on the screen, outlined with pipe characters to make it look almost like a spreadsheet.

"Here's the activity logs from the system last night," he said. He jabbed his finger at a line that had just four characters: BBBP, followed by a timestamp from the previous evening.

"BBBP?" said Conor. "What does that mean?"

"Big, Bad Button Press," said Syd. "Someone set us up the bomb." He snorted with a laugh after he said it.

"What?" said Conor.

"It means," said Syd, "that at some time last night, somebody pressed a very bad button. You know, the kill switch? The one that disables all of the drones?"

"Yeah," said Conor. "The one we built into the system in case things got out of hand."

"Exactly, if the Taskrottas started going all paper-clippy," he said. "It looks like Mr. Conchobhar hit the button last night." He tapped away at the keyboard some more. Another text-based table appeared on the screen. A little arrow connected the BBBP line with the user table. It was Frank's account.

Conor took a step back and paused to absorb this information. "Is this big, bad button the same one that gives everybody a refund?"

"I think so," said Syd. "But that's more Boxter's concern. I just keep the wheels greased." 

"Hellfrost!" swore Conor. "Excuse me," he said. He left Syd's office, grabbing his computer from the breakroom before heading for his own office. He sat down at his desk. The orb on his desk was glowing with a notification. Jeannie spoke up from the orb. "Good morning, Mr. Rayl," she said. "You have three messages."

"Play them," he said. He was normally polite with Jeannie, but today, he was too worried to remember his manners. As the messages played, he started up his computer and opened Boxter's business logic manifest.

"Hello," said the first voice. It sounded like an older woman. "This is Emily Hayashi. I'm just calling to make sure that Frank, Mr. Conchobhar, has made it into the office today. I'm a little concerned because I haven't seen him this morning, and that's never happened before. If you could, please have him give me a call when he gets in. Thank you."

He skimmed through the contracts subsection of the manifest, finding the section marked "Contingencies."

"Hello," said the next voice. Another female voice. It had the hint of an accent, like she grew up speaking English, but also her native language while at home. Her tone was very prim and professional. "This is Detective Bher Javan. I'm trying to reach a Mr. Conor Rayl. We would like to discuss an urgent matter with you at your earliest convenience. Unfortunately, it is not a matter I can discuss over the phone. If you are unable to find suitable transportation to Precinct 12, please use the following code and we will gladly pick up the cost of reasonable transportation." The message had several attachments which popped up as a notification on his computer. The first was Javan's digibadge, showing her headshot and verifying her role as a detective for Precinct 12. The other was a hex code voucher good for one free ride on the cops. listening to her rattle off the digits on the message reminded him of how Jeannie would rattle off phone numbers, imperfectly enough such that you'd notice, but not by much.

In the middle of the Contingencies section he found a block of text that said, in legalese, that, yes, in the event of pushing the big, bad button, every owner of every disabled drone would receive a prorated refund, based on how long the drone had been in service before being disabled.

The third message played. "Good morning, Mr. Rayl," said a man's voice. "This is Akira Taito of Araiguma Enterprises. We would like to set up a meeting with you sometime this week. Please, have your assistant let my assistant know when a good time for you would be."

"Boxter," said Conor into the orb.

"Yes?" said a digital male voice. It had a trace of a lisp. 

"What's the damage from last night's, uh, incident?" he said.

"Do you want the specifics, or just the generals?"

"Just give me an idea."

"We're so far in the red we should have bought stock in Red Ink, Inc.," he said.

"Skip the terrible jokes," said Conor. He sighed. "How are new sales?"

"Stagnant," he said. "Have you seen the news? I think we've lost significant consumer trust."

"No," said Conor. After a moment he said. "You watch the news?"

"I only watch it for the market report," said Boxter.

"Thanks," said Conor. He tapped the orb, ending the call. He pulled up the news app, typing in "taskrotta" into the search bar. He found one and clicked it. A video began to play.

"Drones falling from the sky?" said Magda Mitra. She stood there outside Hightower Estates, holding a broken drone in her hand. She had her typical cheery newswoman expression on her face as she spoke. "No, it's not the end of the world," she said. "Not unless you're working for Geomys. The exact nature of the accident is unknown for now, and we've been unable to reach a spokesperson at Geomys, but we'll keep you posted as we learn more. This is Magda Mitra reporting for BizNox News."

"Jeannie," Conor said into the orb. "Does Frank have any outstanding messages?"

"Mr. Conchobhar has over one hundred unheard messages. Shall I play them for you?"

"Not now," said Conor. "I'm just going to step out for a bit. Could you transfer that code the police sent me to my personal fob? I have a feeling I'm not going to want to have any unnecessary expenses for the time being."

"Yes, sir," said Jeannie. "What shall I do with any calls while you're gone?" 

"Take a message," he said. "And let me know when I get back." He looked at a map on his screen. "I might be a while." He stepped toward the door. "Oh, and Jeannie," he said.

"Yes?" she said from the orb.

"If Frank shows up, have him call me immediately. And if you can, kick his ass for me."

"I have no legs, but I must kick," said Jeannie.

"Are you getting humor lessons from Boxter?" He looked at the clock. "Never mind. I'll be back in an hour, I hope." He stopped by Syd's office on his way out. "I'm going to step out," he said to Syd. "Hold down the fort."

"Roger that," said Syd. He went back to typing at his computer.

Conor stepped out of the office and into the hallway. He looked back at the Geomys door, with its picture of the earth with a mouse flying around it like a satellite. If he remembered correctly, Frank's fiancé, Gloria, had drawn that, and it was too good to not use. He hoped that Frank was all right. He didn't want to have to navigate this minefield alone, let alone have to break the bad news to Gloria. Or to Cat. He thought about giving her a call as he made his way to the precinct, but he didn't want to worry her over nothing, not especially after all she had gone through after her other brother Jeremy had disappeared. He hoped he didn't have to tell her that she'd lost them both.

He hailed an autocab and fed it the code. "Right away, boss," said the speaker on the front. "Mind if I listen to music while we drive?"

"Go ahead," said Conor. The car started playing some rock-hop. Conor looked out the window as they rolled down the streets.