Minions (3 page)

Glen invited Devlin to enter.  “We call this room the
‘bunker’, for obvious reasons,” he said at a shout above the noise.  

Devlin nodded a greeting to two men and a woman, standing
around a long hardwood polished table covered with five laptops, while waiting
to be introduced.  He surveyed the room, bathed in bright artificial light,
noting the single door at one end and another bank of televisions on the
opposite wall.  The door sealed home behind them with a low vibration.

One of the three responded to a gesture by Glen and
silenced the music.  He was tall, wearing just jeans and an old t-shirt and
young; Devlin guessed about twenty or so years old. 

“This is Ikel,” Glen started the introductions.  “Clearly,
my staff have all heard the news.  Though I would have thought that they were paid
enough to not worry about such trivial matters?”

“I know, but it’s just so cool,” Ikel replied.  “Actually,
my name is Michael, but you might as well call me Ikel.  I had a cold when Glen
and I met, and he thought I said ‘Ikel’.  I guess you had to be there, but the
name stuck.”

Glen introduced the remaining pair.  “And this is David
and Lori.”

The woman smiled openly.  She was probably average height,
Devlin thought, with short cropped auburn hair, and wore torn, designer denim
jeans and a t-shirt a size too small with ‘Get I.T. here!’ boldly written on
the front.  The t-shirt was marketing at its best as only on a second glance
did Devlin even notice the corporate logo to the outside of each of her
breasts.  He tried his best not to stare, but the shirt was intended to be worn
by women only and larger breasted women at that. “I’m Lori.  It’s short for
Loretta, which I hate, so I’d prefer ‘Lori’.” 

David was the last to meet Devlin.  “So you’re the fresh
meat?” he mused.  “I’m just kidding, it isn’t bad here,” he added, rubbing his
eyes beneath his sun-glasses which made perfect sense in the glare of the room.

“You are on a plane that has just been taken over by
terrorists,” Glen began after coaxing everyone to take a seat.  “For arguments
sake, these are decidedly nice terrorists who give all passengers a sheet of
paper and a pencil.  What do you write?”

Devlin resented being put on the spot.  “I’m not the best
person to ask.  I guess others …”

“I’m not asking other people.  I’m asking you,” Glen
insisted.

“Do I know if the terrorists will deliver my message?”

“A great question, but you’re stalling.  Assume ‘yes’, just
answer.”

“OK,” Devlin conceded.  “There’s nothing I’d want to say.”

“Not a note to your mother?”  Glen said with raised
eyebrows.  He turned his attention to his remaining staff.  “What
would
others write?  More to the point, what
do
others write?” 

Ikel spoke first.  “Regrets.”

“Love notes and things left unsaid,” added Lori solemnly.

“Confessions.  Pleas for absolution.  Desperate attempts
to make peace,” David contributed in turn.

Devlin wasn’t convinced.  “OK.  I’d still probably just
enjoy the view from the plane,” he offered defiantly.

All eyes centred on Glen.  “Lori, David, Ikel, I’d like
you to meet Devlin Bennett.  Facing death, he is possibly the only one in the
world with nothing to say.  He is also the same Devlin Bennett, recently
released from remand, all but convicted of manslaughter, but acquitted, or really
had the conviction effectively overturned on a technicality.  All fairly
remarkable notoriety of his own doing despite a famed family pedigree, but
incarceration has, apparently, neither humbled nor hardened him.”

Devlin was still not used to being outed and feared the
reaction of others, but the outing could have been worse.  There were no gasps,
sighs of recognition or looks of disapproval. 

Glen took a deep but quiet breath.  “Devlin, you’re
welcome here and you are among people you can trust.  Everyone has a past.  Everyone
here
has a past.  Lori was a prostitute, Ikel is a drug dealer and user,
and David here used to be a Catholic priest.  But that’s not why you’re each
here.”

Glen settled himself.  “It struck me once, some time ago
as I sat late one night having a coffee on a warm summers’ night.  Across the
road, there was a woman having an argument with some man, presumably her
boyfriend.  As it grew heated, the woman became more and more scared. 
Eventually, he all but threw her into a taxi and off they went.  Everyone
returned to their mundane chatter and the night went on.  She was later found, beaten
to death. 

“And this affects me, how?” Devlin asked. 

“It doesn’t.  My point is that I knew
my
life would
have been a whole lot different had I spoken one timely word in that poor woman’s
defence.  I didn’t need to be a hero, and I didn’t need to make a difference to
others.  I only needed to make a difference for myself.  I’m offering you the
same opportunity.”

“I’m too cynical to want to make a difference,” said Devlin. 
“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Cynics and sceptics make better readers,” said Glen.

“What’s a reader?”

“It’s just a nickname for your role, the others here will
explain.”  Glen nodded to each of his charges and turned for the door.  He left
the room being sure to secure the door behind himself.

                                                                                                                                                          
Chapter - 6.
                  
 

As soon as Glen left the room,
Ikel restored the stereo, but not to the same excessive volume as before.  It
was only then that Devlin became aware of the effect that Glen being in the
room had on the others.  “Do you always shrink into the background when Glen’s
around and then burst to life when he’s gone?”

“He’s a good man,” Lori began.  “I’ve been here for about
six weeks, a little less than Ikel, and we’re still largely in awe.  David’s
been here for longer, but he’s only marginally more comfortable with him. 
Anyway, it’s time you got started.”  She invited Devlin to sit beside her at
one of the otherwise idle computers.  “Formally, your role is ‘
Media Analyst
’,
but we prefer the name
reader
.  Glen’s a decidedly clever guy, and we
figure he chose the title because it looks better on a résumé when we eventually
move on.”

“Does it work?  Has anyone who left actually kept in
touch?” Devlin asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Lori.  “It’s a great job
though and staff turnover is fairly low.”

“Turnover isn’t low, it’s just periodic.  You just haven’t
experienced anyone leaving yet,” David corrected, while remaining fixated on
his computer screen.  “People leave just as in any job, and no, I didn’t keep
in touch with them.”

“So what do I do?” Devlin asked.

“Can you read?” David muttered.

“We do mainly read,” said Lori.  “But there
is
a
little more.  Technically, no reading or manual intervention is really necessary
because it’s all automated, but there’s a need for some degree of
quality
control
.”

“You proof read people’s letters?”

“No, we don’t proof read, and legally we couldn’t make
changes anyway.  Especially since September 11, Glen was keen that LastGasp’
didn’t become the last bastion of fanatics and martyrs.”

“That’s very noble of him.  Was this for Western
sensibilities or to protect his brand?” Devlin offered, immediately
appreciating that his comment was not well received. 

“You haven’t known Glen for very long but I’m more than
confident that you’ll come to like and admire him as we do.”  David spoke
maturely, drawing approving smiles from Lori and Ikel.  “Until then, keep your
bullshit thoughts on him to yourself.”

“Sorry to offend,” Devlin said unconvincingly. 

Lori picked up from where she’d left off.  “Anyway. 
Readers read the messages.  We just read them.  If something isn’t right we
flag it and the system handles it.  Nothing to it really.”

“So what stops us changing them?”

“There’s no means for us to edit them.  The entire system
really dances on a legal tightrope.  If we could edit messages then we could
conceivably be exposed to scrutiny about who actually composed the messages. 
Do you know anything about ‘libel’?” Lori asked, not waiting for an answer.  “The
messages can’t be sent until the user is confirmed to be dead, otherwise imagine
what would happen with a message revealing a sordid past or some other secret
that was too juicy to live with, but too good to die with.  That’s why controls
are in place to ensure they aren’t sent prematurely.  Glen’s a genius really,
in more ways than one.”

“So readers read
every
message?” Devlin asked.  He
struggled a little mental arithmetic before adding, “Just how many messages are
there?”

“We
can
read all of them, but we generally don’t. 
The system automatically flags the ones which need a little human filtering and
then a percentage for quality control.  God only knows how many there are, but
logically we only need to read them when they are added or changed.  So volume varies;
sometimes we’re pretty busy and sometimes substantially less so.  We all read a
lot more than we need to.  Glen reads too.”

“I still think that Glen reads every message,” Ikel
commented.

Lori smiled and explained.  “Ikel has a theory that Glen
reads every single message.  We know he reads a lot, but we don’t think he’d do
100%.”

“He knows about every single one I’ve flagged and he
doesn’t sleep so that would have to free up some time,” Ikel continued his
case.

“So all you do is read?” Devlin asked, not interested in
the distraction of Ikel’s theory.

“Yes, and no,” said Lori.  “Yes, we mainly read messages
and related research, unless there’s an issue making contact.”

“Make contact?  Why?”

“Remember what LastGasp’ is all about.  People write
messages to be sent, typically as email, after they die, but sometimes it’s up
to us to hand-deliver them.  The purist might argue that there’s no point in
going to that much effort, to send a message which is only effectively
obligated to be sent by a, now, dead person.  But Glen is a big believer in his
obligations.  Anyway, here’s how it all works.”

Devlin positioned himself so he could see Lori’s screen as
she clicked and typed.  It looked simple enough; select something, read it,
then attribute it with a big green ‘tick’ icon, or any or many of a series of
red ‘flags’.  Clearly Lori held Glen in high regard and as far as she was
concerned, Glen had thought of everything.  She digressed into lengthy
technical explanations until she saw his eyes glaze over and this forced her to
reign in her language.

“The system isn’t airtight,” Lori pointed out.  “To be
airtight, you’d have to lock everyone out, but the reality is that anyone who
wants to get in will get in if they are determined enough.  Meanwhile, any and
all access is logged.  What you read, how long it took you to read it, what you
rubber-stamp or vet, and you absolutely can’t change anything.”

“Maybe I’m missing something, but I don’t get why this
bunker is really necessary.”

“The security is just something that we all accept.  It
isn’t something to be challenged.  On top of that, the most brilliant thing is
that all users are basically anonymous, even to us readers, right up until we
need to hand deliver a message, if hand delivery is absolutely necessary.”

“Why the big deal in anonymity?” Devlin insisted. 

“How’s he coming along, Lori?” Glen enquired as he
re-entered the room.

“I think he’s just keen to get into it.  He’s critical
enough.” 

“I’m not critical, just naïvely sceptical,” Devlin sniped
defensively.  “And frankly I still don’t really know what goes on here.”

Glen smiled.  “Perfect.  Thanks guys, I’ll take it from
here.”

                                                                                                                                                          
Chapter - 7.
                  
 

Malcolm understood that to even appear to be in a hurry to
be released from hospital would not be in his best interests.  Such behaviour
would only be interpreted as guilt.  Even outside of his current environs, it
would not take a large stretch to deduce that someone covered in blood was
guilty of something.

He knew he couldn’t present himself as angry, confused,
aggressive, moody, depressed, elated or any one of the myriad of other
emotional adjectives that would potentially be interpreted as markers of mental
health issues.  The system was nothing if it wasn’t predictable and this was,
after all, in his favour.  Provided he didn’t pose an immediate threat, there
would be no reason for him to remain at the hospital long.  All he had to do
was wait, behave reasonably and he’d be able to return to his projects.

The nurse returned to the room, this time accompanying a
recently post pubescent male with the obligatory stethoscope draped around his
neck.  Malcolm figured that the guy had to be a doctor, and it took all of his
control to resist a quip with references to ‘
Doogie Howser, M.D.
’.  The
nurse handed the doctor the patient file, and he read with a concentration that
defied his adolescent appearance.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Nick Turner.  I’m the resident.  How are
you feeling?”  Satisfied that he understood enough of the patient history, the
Doctor began before he’d actually finished reading. 

“Fine.  I got carried away, that’s all.”

The doctor finally gave his patient his undivided
attention.  “What’s your name?”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“I’m trying to help.  What harm would it be to tell me
your name?”

“No harm, but it also wouldn’t help me or you.  So earn
your pay and tell me how you plan to ‘
help
’?”  Malcolm didn’t need to be
difficult, but there was also no necessity for him to be excessively
compliant
either.  “I’ll bet I’m one of what, fifty, maybe more, who’ve crossed your
books recently.”