A Needle Pulling Thread: Chapter 1

         The room vibrated with white noise. Nineteen out of twenty-one computers sat in groups of four with their monitors off and their towers running. Nineteen fans were working to whisk all that generated heat away to the air shafts where it could be treated, filtered, cooled and blown back in.

         The lights had been dialed to energy conservation mode with the red exit signs adding their buzz of electricity to the general din. The only light outside of them were the two monitors blinking in the corner.

         The first computer had a green utilitarian background with the outline of a brain with a tendril of lightening, watermarked on it: the logo of MentaLink, Incorporated. On that screen eight different programs scrolled through data and catalogued it into a database that would, at times, take the resident psychiatrist, William Dankurt, hours to sift through.

         The second computer sat opposite the first in the closest bank of four computers. On the monitor was a somewhat fuzzy kaleidoscope of greens and browns with large spheres of white dazzling and blinking in front of a dismembered head that skittered along the bottom of the screen. Seated in between the two computers, currently facing the second and muttering under his breath, was Jeremy Quinn, currently known as Satlemoor, a third level rogue who was proving no match for the two seventh level Will - O - Wisps who he had decided to engage.

         Jeremy slouched in front of the keyboard considering his options. His dark hair grazed his patchy cheek lifelessly in slightly-greasy strands as his long, knobbed fingers hovered over the keys. His work shirt was criss-crossed with wrinkles across his stomach broken only slightly by a navy blue tie. He hadn’t bothered to shave for himself so stubble created islands of shadow on his chin.

         His hazel eyes flashed with his decision as he started running Satlemoor through the two foes toward the little bridge on the other side of the trees. His heart beat faster and he held his breath as his life bar shriveled after their attacks, but soon he found the river and, following that, a small contingent of armed guards. The guards chopped and hacked at the Wisps as he ran through their shield.

         No loot was, at times, a small price to pay for the time that he would have to take finding his body. He knew the game well enough, but with this viewpoint he could almost trick himself into believing that he was there for a few minutes, in the game, and all of the landmarks looked different from his lowered view.

         His breathing was labored as he decided to wait for his guild to power level this character. He switched the viewpoint back to normal and all of his screens-within-screens appeared again. He would just have to wait until the majority of his guild had woken up.

         With a sigh of temporary defeat he logged off Satlemoor and picked up his main toon, Mattias. As the new character was loading, he turned in his chair to the computer behind him to check and make sure that all was well on the MentaLink intranet. He noted another three hours of collation before the filing program was complete. That would put him out of the lab at 5:30 this morning.

         Idly he pulled down the task list and looked at what the main computer, Dr. Dankurt’s computer, had yet to accomplish. After “Collaborate with network computers,” was “Check for corrupted files in previous transmission.” Reasoning that, if the files had been corrupted they would have already had problems that week, he closed the election and was satisfied when the estimated time he had to wait on the program had dropped by an hour and forty-seven minutes.

         Satisfied, he turned back to the game where Mattias was waiting for him -- all 75 levels of Death Knight goodness. Given, he couldn’t really start anything this evening. Everything of his caliber took at least two hours to execute anymore, but, after having his butt handed to him by a couple of Wisps, he was in the mood to feel invincible again.

         I was wondering when u were going 2 show up. Across town, Xorch’s chubby fingers typed recklessly against the keyboard. Aaron had stopped banking long enough to remove the cap from his two-liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew. The glow of the monitor reflected off of his wrinkled black tee-shirt and, brighter, his second chin.

         Jeremy hesitated slightly before answering. Late night n the lab, he typed.

         Yeah? It must be nice 2 work n stuff. Aaron continued, oblivious to the curtness of his friend’s response.  N 2 make $$$$$. When I’m older I’m gonna get myself an uber nice cushy IT job, too. The fifteen year-old leaned back and looked over at the only ornamentation in the room as he scratched at a zit along his jawbone thoughtfully. Illustrated by bright yellow lines and circles, the chemical composition of coffee blinked against the navy blue background. It complemented the fluidity of the Chinese calligraphy for the word, “life,” that had been painted underneath.

         A tower to his left made a slight “bing” in the darkness. It’s not all glamour, you know, Jeremy argued before popping his head up to look over his monitor to glare at the offender.

         Aaron leaned over his keyboard, his fingers flying over the keys  Waddya mean? ur working for the biggest biometrics research group in the state. u have first dibs on whatever they come up with. Aaron pointed out phlegmatically. He sat back in his grey ergonomically correct work chair with a squeak

         Jeremy’s cheeks started to flush in the glow of the exit signs as he tried to explain further. N for all those perks, I have to sit here, late at night, alone n wait for the computers to amass the information they need for some grant proposal brunch tomorrow. A grant proposal brunch, might I point out, that I’m not invited to. He began to lean over the keyboard as he warmed up to the topic. I’m low man on the totem pole -- last for breaks, last for time off, but first for mandatory overtime. Like I don’t have a life outside of these idiots or something. Jeremy snorted into the screen. N when they say something stupid like “Let’s paint the street outside purple and then take a pole to see how many people have noticed after 24 hours.” I have to be all “Sounds great! Where’s my paintbrush?”

         I’m, like, smarter than everyone here, yet I have to pretend that their ideas are important -- like stupid can’t rub off or something, he finished with a flourish of his fingertips.

         Dude… I don’t think it can, though. Aaron pointed out logically, rub off, I mean.

         Like for example tonight. Jeremy began, Do I really need to have the computer check for corrupted files from the previous transmission? I mean, if the files were corrupted, wouldn’t they have caused problems sometime before now?

         And actually, Jeremy continued on the previous topic, they did that study last month. Listening to country music produced a 15 point discrepancy in intelligence tests taken before and after a 2 hour exposure, no matter what the subject was doing while listening to the music. So, yes, what you hang around is, eventually, what you turn into.

         Aaron perked up, glad change the subject, Oh yeah? I like country. So what should I listen to when I study for midterms this year?

         Depends. Do you want to do well in school, Xorch, or do you want to get depressed because you killed your dog?

         Hey! I told you that stuff in confidence, Mat. Pookie had been my dog since I was, like, three years old. And how was I supposed to know that he was allergic to THC?

         I still say it could have been the beer, Xorch. Jeremy pointed out.

         ANYWAY… Mattias… what should I listen to this year, then?

         Actually, that’s kinda what we’re working on right now. What they’re trying to get the grant for. It looks to be the next step in brainwashing, though they haven‘t said as much, yet, he added, All digital.

         Yeah, but that’s not going to be on the market for a decade. What can I do now?

         I’ll just have to make you a mixed tape.

         Jeremy sat back in the chair, thinking of the suggestions he could put on Xorch’s tape. Definitely something to make him a little more cool. More creative. Smarter. Perhaps he’d do something about the abysmal lack of self-esteem.

         Behind him, the fan for the master computer stopped suddenly, leaving the room eerily quiet. Jeremy glanced around the back of his chair. Where the green background with the caricature of the brain should have been was a blinking blue screen. The screen saver had a red background. In fact, at no point during transmission, should a blue screen appear.

         afk he typed quickly before swinging his chair around. “Shit,” he whispered as he leaned closer. His thin legs protested slightly as, in one giant pull, he moved himself closer to the mainframe monitor.

         He hit the escape button and nothing happened. He hit the return button several times to no avail. He began muttering monotonously to the screen or whatever demons were listening a long slow string of, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

         He moved to the computer next to the one he was playing. He should have seen the red screen saver and, underneath, the collating program and one open window when he pushed the power button for the monitor. Instead he saw the same blue screen as before. His litany increased in volume.

         Each computer he inspected raised his voice a little. Each new placement in the room caused his blood pressure to raise and sweat to form patches underneath his arms and around his collar. By the end of the line large pools of  sweat leaden with fear made patchwork of his light blue button down shirt.

         As his monologue died on his fluttering lips, he stared at the computers that had betrayed him. His eyes finally rested on the red rotary phone in the corner of the room. Its rotary had been removed and there was only one number it would call.

         It was actually meant to be a joke, but he realized with a flutter of fear in his stomach that he had no choice but to use it.



                                        ***********************



         “What happened, Mr. Quinn?” Dr. Dankurt asked as he walked into the room. He glanced over at the clock. The large hands on the cheep white clock showed 3:45 in the morning. He realized he had just under six hours to fix his protégé’s problem. The red phone was used only in times of extreme emergency.

         Jeremy had raised the lights, but, still, the exit sign reflected off of the doctor’s glasses. He glanced at the darkened monitors briefly. Jeremy’s shirt was lined with ripples of sweat that had already dried and ones that had started again when his boss had gotten to the lab.

         William Dankurt was in his fifties. His full hair was more salt than pepper, yet seemed to lend competence to his countenance more so than if he’d still had the jet black hair that he’d sported the majority of his career. Currently it was mussed. If the truth be told, it was messy. Large patches stuck out at odd places and there seemed to be an imaginary wall on the left side of his face because of the way he’d fallen asleep that night.

         The rest of his body fell the way most men in their fifties tend to do, even though he secretly fought it with every nightly turn of the elliptical machine. However, no one would have guessed his exercise regimen by simply looking at his body. He had a small paunch. Skin hung limply off of his wrists, yet his face was still firm enough to cause speculation about plastic surgery at some point. He never admitted to it, but there was always a twinkle in his eyes when the subject came up.

         His eyes were probably the most striking aspect of his visage. Unlike his body, which had begun to decay, his eyes were still electric. They were a muddy shade of green, normal by anyone’s standards. Yet when they trained on someone, their focus felt as though the good doctor was looking directly into their soul. And  that, generally, he liked what he found there. That nothing could surprise him, no matter how dirty the skeletons in the closet happened to be.

         It was probably the main advantage he’d had when he had been in the private sector. The implied understanding was the main component that kept his clients coming back.

         Now those electric eyes were trained quietly on Jeremy Quinn as the young man squirmed and sweat before him.

         “Well,” Jeremy began wiping his stringy hair behind an ear, “there was a problem with a collating program.”

         “I gathered as much…” the doctor prompted.

         “I don’t exactly know what happened… I mean…” his hand dejectedly pointed to the main computer, showing him a calm background of the MentaLink logo, but nothing else.

         When he stopped, the doctor began to probe. “What did the computer say before it restarted?”

         “One minute it was running fine.” Jeremy said, raising his palms in front of him. “Then… I don’t know. The next thing I know the dumb things were beeping and shut off.”

         “Ah, but due to the security program, the system didn’t have shut off immediately.” Dankurt pointed out. “What did you see in the three minutes prior to shut down?”

         “I… I didn’t see anything, sir.”

         “Even a flash, a few letters, of that code at the end would help.” William pleaded softly.

         If Jeremy could give him the code -- even a fraction of the code -- that flashed on the error message thirty seconds before shutdown, he could start the program again at the correct place and, at least, get some of the information off of the machines. If they didn’t have access to that code, he would find out what happened eventually -- after IT went through the upload line by line.

         The last option would take no less than three days -- about sixty-six hours longer than he had before the funding brunch.

         “I’m sorry, sir. I… I wasn’t looking at the computer, really.” Jeremy said finally as he concentrated steadily on his sneaker. He scratched absently at his unshaven jaw.

         “All right,” Dankurt said, sighing, “what exactly were you looking at that you weren’t able to do the job that was asked of you?”

         Jeremy mumbled as the muscles worked harder along his jaw line.

         “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

         “I said that I was playing a game.” Jeremy ground out, louder. “Sir.”

         “Alone? Here? What were you playing, solitaire?”

         “No. It’s a computer game.”

         “And you decided that you could play this computer game on company time, I take it.” the doctor’s sigh was low and hopeless.

         “What was I supposed to do until 3:45 in the morning, alone?”

         “Just what computer were you playing on?“ William’s quiet voice rose a fraction of a decibel in frustration. He followed Jeremy’s shaky fingers, pointing to computer number 3, directly across from the mainframe. He shook his head, thinking quickly.

         The doctor pushed the button to illuminate the screen and his lips twitched slightly as he read the last of the conversation.

         Jeremy slouched lower as Dankurt leaned over the screen. When the older man turned around to him, his eyes flashing, Jeremy knew that he had no recourse. He hunched his tall frame even further in on itself and looked at the floor through greasy bangs.

         “When you signed on here to be a grunt and general peon, you do realize that you signed a confidentiality clause, correct Jeremy?” He began softly, his focus gleaming back and forth between shards of dark hair. After Jeremy nodded, he cleared his throat and continued a bit louder. “and with that confidentiality clause, you understood what it meant, did you not?”

         “It meant,” he continued through the boy’s shaky nod, “that you were not supposed to disclose ANY of the proprietary information including, but not limited to, trade secrets and current areas of study to anyone outside of the company. Not only for the purposes of corporate espionage, but also more mundane aspects of said research.” He cut himself off as his voice had continued getting louder. He began again after a breath, a bit more slowly and softly, but his words lost none of their bite as he stepped closer to the recalcitrant.

         “Not to get another job, not to change departments and certainly… absolutely…” he gestured a hand behind him towards the computer monitor, “DEFINITELY not to offer someone you have never even MET face-to-face a quick path to study success!”

         Dankurt broke off his tirade, his cheeks pink and panting. He turned away to collect himself. Closing his eyes he took a slow breath in through his nose, the suddenness of the change making Jeremy flinch.

         “I want you to call John and Vanessa.” he said quietly. Jeremy’s head snapped up, but he raised his hand to ward off the petulance. “Yes. I realize that it’s now…” he looked over at the clock, “4 am, but, if this issue is going to be fixed, they are the only ones to do it and they will need all the time we can muster for them.”

         “Wouldn’t it be better if you called them yourself?” Jeremy asked, trying to sound reasonable as his voice broke at the end of the sentence.

         “Ah, yes…” Dankurt said, slightly maliciously, “but I would imagine that the first apology they hear tonight should, by rights, be yours.”



         Vanessa yawned and squinted into the sharp morning sunlight. She shifted in her chair to keep herself awake. The brunch, the columniation of nine month’s worth of late nights and slices of pizza snatched between experiments (always while standing around, watching a video screen) was almost anticlimactic to the five-hour headache it took to reach this point.

         Breakfast, catered five minutes ago in the corner, made her stomach curdle. The sheer audacity of adding quiche or pancakes on top of the river of caffeine snaking its way through her digestive system would be criminal when she woke up again tonight.

         Vanessa smoothed her pink camisole back down over her stomach. The team’s official nod to the farce of equal opportunity was looking her part this morning. Her kinky black hair was relaxed enough for small black spiral curls radiating from her head. Honeyed tips skimmed her shoulder blades, highlighting sheer lack of care by how taut the muscles were. Her grey pantsuit was made of a durable, sensible, yet slightly clingy fabric, designed to drape well in creative places.

         Sparse golden jewelry played up the caramel luminescence of her chestnut skin. Her full  lips were deep translucent red. Around her eyes was another line of gold, feathered to peacock purple. On her feet, in stunning contrast, were jewel tone ruby heels.

         Luckily, she’d had the outfit (and all the fixings, since she never normally wore makeup) in her locker for three weeks. She looked good. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck.

         She took another sip of her fourth or fifth cup of coffee, mindful of leaving that amateurish smudge of red on the lip, as she looked at the clock behind John. Five minutes, but the clock was blurred around the edges by the sheer nerdiness that John was exuding.

         The white button-down shirt he wore was slightly wrinkled, though, thankfully, not miss-buttoned. He wore a black tie that was too thin for even his gaunt girth. Hands were shoved in pants that hung strait to shoes that had probably seen his prom night, too. His black plastic eyeglass frames matched the shiny vinyl of his pocket protector. Idly, she wondered if they even made pocket protectors anymore -- it could be an antique. A testament to his nerdiness. It was, Vanessa assured herself, just the outfit to inspire confidence in the scientific side of the research.

         William looked good, if a little frazzled. His power tie was proportionate and halfway hidden underneath a charcoal suit. His old comfortable-looking shoes had shined up nicely. His hair, she knew, had been taken in hand in the basin of the men’s bathroom, yet it was as if the graying had been placed at his temples by a professional. The highlight, not matter how unintentional, brought out his eyes which were a little bloodshot due to lack of sleep, but still nervous enough to keep him attentive. It was just not fair how men got better with age.

         “Worrying will not make the data come back, you know.” she reminded him without looking over. Her British accent echoed in the small conference room. “Might as well just sit down and gain some confidence already.” She smiled as she patted the chair next to her.

         “They’re here to see your confidence, too, you know.” she reiterated quietly as he settled into the proffered chair.

         “It’s not my idea in the first place -- I just happen to have the requisite degrees and tenure. They all suspect this is your baby, you know.” He pointed out, glancing at her through the corner of his eye.

         She smiled brightly, her borderline fanaticism gleaming in the sun. “Don’t worry… it is my full intention to make them realize I‘ve been using you as bait all this time, William.”

         At that moment, she didn’t have any more time to reflect on her goals. The door opened quietly as four gentlemen in matching black suits came in.

         She stood up quickly enough to teeter on her heels for a moment, but the deep pile kept her from falling over and embarrassing herself completely. As William stood and John turned toward the door, she stepped forward.

         “Gentlemen, I’m so glad you could come!” Her voice came too loudly for the room, overly-confident and glaringly un-American. The second man’s eyebrows raised unconsciously for a fraction of a second before settling again into an unreadable line.

         She felt the corners of her mouth begin to tighten, but she stuck her hand out to the first representative, anyway, willing her hand to stop shaking. His hand briefly encircled hers, perfunctionarily squeezed and released as he looked over her shoulder.

         “Dr. William Dankurt.” He said, his eyes lighting up for a second before he slipped by her elbow and walked quickly to the table. “I’ve read some of your clinical assertations since leaving active practice. I thought there was a typo when I saw your name on the notes. From practice to clinical to experimental? That’s not recommended by the APA, you know.”

         Vanessa listened to every word of the exchange as she passed through three more limpid handshakes.

         “Well, what can I say? I’ve always been a backward thinker…” the doctor said, garnering a guffaw from the assessor. “But, actually, Vanessa has been doing most of the work.”

         “Usually, you’re supposed to leave the tedious facts and figures to the younger generation, you know…” he said, pushing William’s shoulder playfully. “What did I hear once? Something about focusing more on completing the stories of others as we mature?”

         “I am mainly here in a managerial capacity…” Dankurt shrugged modestly. “Now, Vanessa…”

         “Thank you doctor, but for the record: you do more for the project than just manage. You give me some great ideas, too.” she started as she gestured to the seats across the table. “Basically, gentlemen, the reason why we’re here is because we, each of us, found out a way to get someone to do something for us. And that’s what we’ve been researching with last year’s grant. What influences people? What types of things to people notice within the context of their everyday life and, further, what people notice within the context of the imperative.”

         “The imperative influences every person’s life, from what brand of toothpaste they buy to how hard they work for their boss. If we could find out what, exactly, causes us to do these things, we could change people’s productivity, their lives, their sense of well-being… not to mention the, of course, astronomically high amount of applications within the fields of marketing. If we could derive a construct, a formula if you will, that will reach and resonate with 85 percent of the target demographic, and be provable, that formula would prove to command a handsome sum, indeed.”

         Vanessa stared at herself in the mirror. Water had splashed onto her suit making black blobs that, assuredly considering how her morning had gone, would stain or something. Her hands were still shaking and her makeup had run when she’d started to sweat. Her knuckles went white as she grasped the sides of the pedestal, her arms shaking with the effort, as she stared at herself in the mirror and replayed the last scene.

         “I think I can speak for my co-workers here when I say that the proof at this meeting doesn’t warrant further allocation of funds. That said, we will welcome the opportunity for a review in, say, three months? To give you time to get all of your data in order.” Then he shook her hand with as little contact as possible and the group filed out of the room.

         So, without even the decency to say it outright, they’d pulled the plug.

         It was the equivalent to the kiss of death in the funding world. How did they expect her to get information different than what she’d already told them about without funding? No one but her believed in it enough to study it for free. All of  their subjects were compensated, too. There would be no continuity within the test subjects, even if they had enough in the budget to get the necessary information from the hard drives after what Junior had done to them.