Pears and Perils Read online

  Pears and Perils

  By Drew Hayes

  Copyright © 2013 by Andrew Hayes

  All Rights Reserved.

  Edited by Erin Cooley (cooleyrevision.com)

  Cover by Barry Behannon (barrybartist.com)

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Pam, for supporting me on this even when she loathed one of the characters; to Erin, for putting up with my seemingly endless typos; and to Dr. Winston, for reminding me how to simply not give a fuck at the end of a long day.

  I also want to thank my beta readers for all the feedback and assistance. To Eddie MacIntosh, E Ramos E, Bertha Tang, Priscilla Yuen, and Brian Poirer, this wouldn’t be the same book without you guys. You all rock out loud.

  1.

  “Tucker! My office! Now!” Mr. Henderson didn’t even bother to make his already thunderous voice seem civil. Everyone within the distance of his shout, which is to say everyone within a forty cubicle range, could guess that whatever Clint Tucker was being called in for, it likely ended with a boot up his ass: likely a boot with a pink slip attached.

  Mr. Henderson stood in the door of his office, his impressive bulk nearly blotting out the silver-haired gentleman behind him. Dr. Caruthers (he didn’t get a Ph.D. in economics to be called Mr. Caruthers thank-you-very-much) stood silently in the shadow of the larger man, content to represent himself physically rather than vocally. His physical representation was quite excellent at that: a tall, lean figure in a suit that cost more than the car any given person on this floor drove. His face was placid and if one didn’t know better, one would have thought him to have a look of kindness. Those who were more informed thought of it as the expression an alligator wears as it drifts through the swamp. It was an expression that conveyed a willingness to wait, but only until there was prey within striking distance.

  “Tucker!” Mr. Henderson’s voice roared through the office once more.

  Slowly, as if he were savoring every moment he still had in the fluorescent environment, Clint Tucker rose from his cube and began plodding toward the office. He was slightly taller than most of the employees, with a shock of light brown hair and muddy chocolate eyes. The suit he wore was off the rack, the kind of garment Dr. Caruthers would buy for his butler, only to give himself something to chuckle about. Clint was a curious fellow; he always ambled where others rushed and never seemed to sweat the frequent rumors of layoffs swirling about the office.

  “You wanted me, Boss?” Clint asked evenly as he stared at the purple vein bulging in the front of Mr. Henderson’s bald head. It swelled and pulsed whenever Mr. Henderson was angry. Once upon a time he’d covered it up with hats and toupees, but over the years Mr. Henderson had come to embrace his vein for the motivational tool it was.

  “We need to have a little chat.” Mr. Henderson pronounced ‘chat’ the way mean-spirited judges pronounced maximum sentences.

  “Cool.” Clint slid past the larger man and took the nearest unoccupied seat in the contemporary office. There was a large oak desk, motivational posters decorating the walls, and it was filled with natural light from a window with a gorgeous view of the city. Mr. Henderson had fought, back-stabbed, and kissed all manner of ass to procure this office. Publicly he’d say his children were his pride and joy. After a few scotches, though, he could be pressed to admit it was this office.

  Mr. Henderson shut the door firmly and took his time working around the desk to his high-backed leather chair. He sat with a considerable thump and looked at the young man across from him. Silence hung in the air as the two older men stared down the youthful face in front of them. Clint was barely twenty-four, hardly more than a baby as far as these two business veterans were concerned. He had his whole life ahead of him, or would have if circumstances were different.

  “Clint,” Mr. Henderson began softly, switching up his vocal tactics to keep the boy on his toes. “We’re here to talk about Project Jefferson.”

  Clint nodded solemnly. He’d been under no illusions that this could be about anything different.

  “As you know, the program was supposed to create a centralized system into which people could feed all of their e-mail addresses and then access them from a single point. Now, when you gave us the go ahead to begin beta-testing, we discovered an unfortunate side effect of the system. Would you care to venture what that is?”

  “It deletes all of their e-mail?”

  “It deletes all of their e-mail!” Mr. Henderson shouted, slamming his fist of the desk before realizing that Clint had actually replied. “Wait… you knew?”

  “It seemed like it was a possibility when I looked at the code. But the people at the top wanted us to hit their deadline so I rolled the dice.” Clint nodded unapologetically toward Dr. Caruthers. The doctor was head of the Engineering and Development department despite his utter lack of knowledge in anything technical beyond checking stocks on his phone. “When people who are clueless are made into leaders, there are bound to be mistakes.”

  Dr. Caruthers felt his eyebrows go up in surprise. Who in the hell did this whelp think he was?

  “Now see here, young man, I happen to have a doctorate in economics from a very prestigious university-”

  “Tell me the difference between Python and Perl. Tell me how long it takes an average programmer to write one hundred lines of code. Tell me what a reasonable deadline for developing software like this is. I know you can’t do the last one, you already fucked that up, didn’t you?” There was no anger in Clint’s voice, no fire being verbally released. He talked calmly, as though he were stating obvious facts like, “The sun is hot” or “Coffee wakes you up.”

  Dr. Caruthers’ mouth opened and closed several times, his mind trying to wrap itself around the insolence that had just been thrust at him. He was accustomed to being on the offense; the idea of one of his grunts speaking to him in such a way confounded his strategies so much that he found himself trapped in a moment of inaction.

  Fortunately, Mr. Henderson suffered no such dilemma.

  “I will hear no more of this!” Mr. Henderson roared, rising from his desk like the licking fires of hell. “Dr. Caruthers is an outstanding leader who has always valued the opinions of his employees. If you had problems with the deadline, it’s your own fault for not coming to me or him with them. The one who made the mistake was you, and we’re throwing you on your ass for it. I want you out of my goddamned office in the next five minutes or I’ll break out the pepper spray we keep for dealing with protestors!”

  “Whatever you say,” Clint replied with a shrug. He headed out of the office and paused at his desk only long enough to pick up a pen he’d brought from home. Clint didn’t keep any personal items at his desk; it would be a silly practice given his line of work. There were a few consolatory nods from co-workers: had he been around longer they would have stopped him and found a place to meet up to throw a good-bye party. He hadn’t been around that long, though. He never was.

  Back in the office, Dr. Caruthers at last found his voice. “I cannot believe such an important project was handed over to that impudent little bastard.”

  Mr. Henderson nodded his agreement. “It was a real disappointment, especially given how outstanding his references were. When he first showed up his letters of recommendation were so glowing I thought they w
ere fake. That’s why I kicked the decision up to you.”

  Dr. Caruthers felt a scathing jab wither on his tongue. He’d nearly forgotten that he’d been the one to approve Clint Tucker’s hiring. That complicated things somewhat. He couldn’t throw Mr. Henderson to the wolves when it was the Caruthers’ name on all the documentation. Well, Tucker had admitted his own folly in front of two witnesses and been summarily discharged. The shareholders would have undoubtedly preferred a scapegoat that was higher on the food chain for this snafu; however, Dr. Caruthers was confident he could work with what he had.

  “It’s surprising he was able to do so much damage, given that he was just brought on to help the project meet deadline. I mean, he was barely here longer than a week.”

  “A lot can happen in a week,” Mr. Henderson replied.

  “So it seems,” Dr. Caruthers agreed. “I suppose that will be all today. Get your people busy on a fix for Project Jefferson. I want it by…” Dr. Caruthers hesitated. “Well, how long do you think it will take them to complete?”

  Mr. Henderson smiled confidently. “I am positive they can get it done in four weeks.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Caruthers said. “Have it ready in two.”

  * * *

  A young couple walked happily along the stone path, taking in the sights of the island as they adjusted to the tropical heat. Kenowai was a tourist mecca, offering inclusive resorts or secluded getaways, depending on a traveler’s preferences. Ahead of the couple, a tan man with dark hair and rippling muscles carried their bags. They hadn’t bothered to ask, but the fellow was a native named Mano. He’d worked at this particular hotel for many years and carried the bags of many couples. A few times a year he’d also carried some new bride with panicked regrets into the highest levels of carnal bliss, but that was a dangerous hobby and one best observed only in small amounts. On the whole, he worked here because the owners were nice, the visitors cheerful, and on the rare occasion when he got to work the pool bar, it meant he didn’t have to spend the whole afternoon sweating.

  They drew close to their building, a several-story complex that looked out of place against Kenowai’s unspoiled vegetative scenery. They were nearly to the double doors when Mano held up his hand to stop them. The couple obliged, unsure if there was some additional check-in procedure or quaint island tradition they needed to observe. Instead, they stood still as a cat walked across the path in front of them. It was the color of midnight across its entire body, except for the tail, which had a tip that was gold as sunlight dipped in honey. The cat paid them no mind as it skulked along, its eyes fixed on the world before it.

  “Sorry, folks,” Mano said with just enough accent to be charming. “Got to give right of way to the King of the Island.”

  The newlyweds stared at him for a moment, then began laughing at such an adorable concept. They went in and got their room keys while Mano set down their bags and noted what an appreciable bottom the woman possessed. He already had a feeling this was the kind of day that could end in trouble, but Mano had stayed out of trouble for a long time now and that was dangerous, too. Mano was firm in the belief that you had to visit trouble every now and then, like a needy relative, to keep it satiated. If you didn’t visit it then it was likely to get lonely and come looking for you.

  Outside, the cat came to a dune that overlooked the beach and took a seat. He stared out at the ocean, dreaming of all the fish that flew beneath its waves. The cat’s name was Sprinkles, and the reason for that is a story within itself. The humans thought they were joking when they called him King of Kenowai. They didn’t know it, but they weren’t. Sprinkles was a cat and a king and one thing more, and it was this third part that nagged him as he gazed out from his dune. Something was gathering, some confluence of events that would lead to his island. He wondered what it would be, though the wonder was less of a worry than the natural curiosity inherent to all felines. After all, Sprinkles was sure he could protect his island from any threat.

  You see, while most cats were certain they were of divine blood, if not outright gods, Sprinkles was an aberrant piece of data in the equation. Oh, he had the same certainty as the others that he was cat, king, and godling, but Sprinkles was different.

  Sprinkles was right.

  * * *

  Clint sat in an Irish pub, nursing a beer that was dark as a storm cloud and twice as angry. Normally he would be sitting on a stool at the bar; however, the gentleman soon to be joining him insisted on a booth so they were less visible. If Clint had been pressed, he might have offered up a theory that working to be less visible only made you more interesting to look at. It didn’t matter, though: the company policy said that the client was always right. This was less out of a desire to provide excellent customer service and more from the desire to be able to claim blamelessness should the client’s preferred meeting method end in discovery. Not that what the company did was illegal, per se: merely frowned upon ethically.

  A figure in a raincoat and a hat slid through the door of the pub, keeping its eyes to the floor and moving quickly so as not to draw attention. Of course everyone noticed it, but when they realized it was neither a deranged shooter nor a beautiful woman, attention quickly waned. There was a groan from the booth’s boards as the figure settled its sizable heft across from Clint.

  “You… are amazing,” came a strangled voice from the poorly-concealed face. “You saved my job. My whole department.”

  “It’s what we do,” Clint said simply. “I’m glad it worked. Did you pad your schedule this time?”

  There was an adamant nodding of the mystery man’s head, one shake so vigorous it caused the hat to slip and nearly reveal the purple vein that bulged against the bald head. “I told him four, he gave us two, which is one more than we should need.”

  “Sounds like things are good then,” Clint said. “Just be careful what you authorize for beta-testing in the future. The businesses who lost their e-mails were howling for blood over lost orders and documentation. Even we can only do so much.”

  “I understand.” From within the jacket the figure produced a thin envelope and slid it across the table. “Your severance pay, as specified in your contract. To be honest, I’m surprised they agreed to it when they hired you.”

  “If your references are fantastic enough, they’ll do anything to get you. Speaking of which, I trust we can count on you for a letter of recommendation and an amazing review when you get called?”

  “Of course. Your company held up your end, I’ll hold up mine.”

  “I think that’s everything then,” Clint said simply. “Would you like a beer?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve spent the last month certain I was going to get fired. I’m spending tonight at home, celebrating with the wife.”

  “Understandable.” Clint watched as the large man worked his way free of the booth and hurriedly shuffled out the door. He took another sip of his beer and looked at the check in the envelope. It was all there, of course. Corporations were always fastidious about contract adherence. That was part of what made a position like Clint’s possible. His official title was Freelance Consultant for Withersby Positional Solutions Incorporated. They specialized in bringing in employees just before bad news became known to the higher-ups in a company, and then proceeding to take the blame for whatever that particular brand of catastrophe entailed.

  To put it simply: Clint Tucker was a professional scapegoat.

  2.

  The life of a professional scapegoat was not a glamorous one. Most of the people who worked for Withersby Positional Solutions Incorporated did it as a stopgap measure, something to pay the bills while searching for more gainful employment. It’s not to say the pay wasn’t good, or that the experience of walking into a job with the knowledge you couldn’t stay there wasn’t freeing in some regards. No, the problem was that continually taking blame for something that truly isn’t your fault wears away at a person, each rehearsed tirade shredding a few fibers more of their self-worth. I
t took a special kind of human to survive such verbal volleys without at least a bit of damage.

  Clint Tucker was a special kind of human.

  When most people met Clint they thought he was apathetic. This was an understandable conclusion, but an incorrect one. The truth is that Clint was simply Zen. Seeing his upper-class family bend and buckle in the unending cycle of trying to amass more wealth had left a sizable impression on the young Clint. From an early age he noticed the correlation of desire to despair, that the more the people around him got, the more they wanted, and the more miserable they became. So he tried something different.

  Clint picked the course of self-denial initially as an experiment, comparing his happiness to those who were indulging around him. The results it yielded were incontrovertible. He still might have grown out of it as he aged if not for an unfortunate event from his eighth birthday, one which made any paths back toward normalcy seem far too thorny and dangerous to travel. By the time he was old enough to read a book containing a bastardized Buddhist quote, the words merely cemented a truth he’d already come to on his own: “Desire is the root of all suffering.” Years later, he would study the religion and learn the actual version, but by that point the stones were already cast.

  Not that a Zen being was immune from physical need. As Clint pulled his sedan into Golden Acres Assisted Living Community, he clutched a bag of take-out from Camelot Burger, the knight mascot emblazoned across the cheap white paper telling him of all the riches he could win from the Camelot Island Adventure Give Away. Clint barely even noticed the words; his only concern was the juicy double-patty cheeseburger inside. For some reason his hunger always spiked on the day of a job’s completion. He wondered if somewhere inside him there was actually a bundle of nerves worried about being fired, driving up his metabolism in response. He thought it more likely that the hunger was a byproduct of being canned before lunchtime and being too busy reporting to home office to eat. The reason was ultimately irrelevant: only the consequence of hunger was a concern. Clint walked carefully through the parking lot and past the central doors.