Splicer (A Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Ludd was paranoid. He felt that someone was always on the company's tail. But he was more worried about his key developer. The long hours, the cases of Red Bull, the constant revisions - led to a kind of break from reality for Grieves. Some days he would stare into space; others he would have these long manic conversations with himself. He was freaking the team out.

  Then that pig Rosenblatt had begun to make separation sounds - things aren't working out - we're not happy with your attitude - you'd be happier somewhere else, oink, oink, oink. When Grieves finally walked out, he took what they called 'the Project', the Splicer, with him. All of it. It was rightfully mine thought Grieves - I worked on it for more than a year, sometimes seven days a week. Sixteen-hour days were the norm.

  Ludd even believed that Grieves had gone as far as to break into one of the management offices at 3 AM and purge the complete computer network of all project data. What Jeff didn't know was going to hurt him in a major way.

  Ludd became sick with anxiety. He called the police again. They told him they needed more than just circumstantial evidence. He promised he would get it. He sent one of his employees into Grieves' new office. She snooped out serial numbers on the office equipment and brought it back to Ludd who had fake invoices generated in their accounting system. It was easy, after all, they had written the program. And if it comes out of a computer, mused Grieves, people, especially cops, believe it. They supplied the documents to Kozak, convincing him the equipment was stolen from GeneFab, who promptly arrested Grieves and Redfield on possession of stolen property. In the process, they cleaned out Grieves' home of every file and piece of hardware he owned.

  Grieves fell further into a sleepless funk.

  Now that Ludd had possession of a truckload of files and equipment, he felt safer. He had his baby back. Little did he understand the judicial process.

  Dimbrowsky, the crown prosecutor, a bear of a man in a bad suit, attacked the two former employees like a bloodhound. He took the position that they were two opportunists; slyly taking GeneFab for everything it was worth. Ludd told him that the missing software had a value of ten million dollars. Dimbrowsky had swallowed hard. He wanted these guys. White-collar crime was in all the headlines lately - bagging these two would make him career points.

  But there was no software. Grieves hadn't stolen it. He had destroyed The Splicer by erasing and eliminating every last trace of the code. He wasn't sure he had gotten it all until he saw Ludd's face in the courtroom. Ludd was in pain.

  The court case became a long deadly bore. But the subterfuge over the so-called stolen hardware was going to stick to someone. Rusty wanted to testify, even though he was advised not to. After two hours in front of the judge, he was dismissed. The charges against him were dropped.

  Grieves refused to take the stand. He had a record - a patchy distant one, but by taking the stand he faced cross-examination over it. It was apparent that the judge didn't find his refusal to testify as prudent. He gave Grieves two years on several counts of possession and fraud. Grieves wasn't sure, but he felt somehow that Rusty was responsible. He hated his former partner more than the men who had manufactured his arrest.

  Two months after Grieves' incarceration, the prosecution delivered several boxes to Ludd's office. He tore through them, but found only various pieces of battered office equipment and dog-eared file folders. Grieves had outsmarted him. The software must be hidden. It was possible to rewrite the code of course, but with a programmer of even half the intelligence of Grieves, it could take four or five more years. Then it would be too late. He was certain that others were on the verge. If you weren't first - you were nothing. Hundreds of millions, even billions, hung in the balance.

  And Ludd had important clients he had to keep happy. Very important clients. People with serious money invested in his start-up.

  Shortly thereafter, Rosenblatt made a visit to Grieves in prison. Grieves looked thinner, tougher. His eyes were red and watery from some infection. They sat at a small table in a meeting room. A guard with a deeply pockmarked face stood in the corner, out of earshot.

  "I'm here on my own," said Rosenblatt. He told Grieves he felt responsible - that events had overtaken them - that they had over-reacted. That, and an over-eager prosecutor, had put Grieves away. Grieves acted like he wasn't listening. "I think you were framed," said Ludd's puffy-faced partner.

  "Yeah? By who?" asked Grieves.

  "By Rusty"

  "Just because he tried to break your nose once?"

  "Who cares about that. Where do you think we got the serial numbers for your office equipment?"

  Grieves' look was full of high-octane anger. "From that two faced bitch Marcy you sent down to spy on me."

  "That was a cover. Rusty invited her,” he lied.

  Grieves shrugged. "So who cares? A lot of good knowing that does me now."

  "Then you don't know?"

  "Know what, for Christ's sake. Does it look like I get out much anymore?"

  "That Rusty's out on the street trying to sell your program?"

  Grieves shook his head. "I erased it all. Burned the hard copy. It's gone." It was Rosenblatt's turn to be speechless. This was not going as planned. He was stricken. If this was true, then GeneFab could very well be finished. There was no time to rebuild.

  Rosenblatt had planned from day one to cash in on GeneFab as quickly as possible. His idea was to build sales and get a good head of PR steam going, release a couple of new beta products, then go public. A few years later they would sell their stock and reap millions.

  Rosenblatt could then move to Fort Lauderdale, buy all the young tanned bouncing flesh he could handle, 24 hours a day. But he wasn't going to get any of that salt-water taffy unless he was real bloody rich. All you had to do was look at him to figure that out. Without money, no one would be interested in him.

  The big sell-off was his fantasy - pure and simple. He wasn't going to let it go.

  "Are you sure you deleted everything?" Rosenblatt forced a smile when he said this. He wanted to appear knowing. Grieves was off in thought.

  "It's possible. It's totally possible. That prick. He steals my software and then frames me and now he's out looking for the highest bidder. Christ I'm an idiot!"

  "You could write it again."

  "Fuck off, Rosenblatt. I'm tired of being your guinea pig."

  "What are you going to do when you get out?"

  "Pick up that mad affair with Katy Perry. Get back to the yacht in St. Thomas. It needs a new coat of paint."

  Rosenblatt looked lost for a second. Grieves made him feel that he was talking to someone who spoke a different language. "I'll give you a million for the code," he said. Grieves' head popped up hard. Why was it that what he wrote before and received a few thousand a month for, was now worth a small fortune? It made him want to wrap his hands around that balloon neck and squeeze until it popped. That final look of surprise on this idiot’s face would be almost worth another twenty years in here. Almost, but not quite.

  He hissed at Rosenblatt, his eyes bulging. "You really think I'm an idiot. I'm giving blowjobs in here for two bits. That and a rusty razor blade held to my balls if I don't do a good job. Sure, I could stand on principle and refuse, but I'd be standing a little lighter on my feet, if you get my drift."

  Rosenblatt felt like he was going to be sick right there on the flimsy metal table. He choked it back.

  "And you come in here and offer me a million bucks? Wake up. A thousand bucks is a fortune in here. A thousand bucks would buy me nights I could sleep through without a Gillette held to my dick." Grieves coughed and looked over at the guard who was picking his nose. "Rosenblatt? You look sick. Good. Enjoy it."

  Grieves got up to leave.

  "It's yours," snapped Rosenblatt, his face down. "It's yours."

  "What's mine?"

  "Sit down. Do you want it now? The thousand, do you want it now?"

  Grieves let out a lungful of air. "What do I have to...”

&n
bsp; Rosenblatt's face was marble-colored, things were moving under the puffy jaw-line. "No strings attached. How do I get it to you?"

  "When you leave, ask the guard. They have a process for transferring funds to inmates. Is this kosher?"

  "In return, I just want you to think about it. Think about writing the code and what you could do with a million bucks."

  "Thinking I can do. I've got lots of time for that." But thinking wouldn't make him feel any better about the Splicer.

  Grieves agreed. He was offered a computer to use during the day that Rosenblatt donated to the prison. He idly worked on rebuilding the code for ten months. It was tough. There was no equipment available to feedback or test it on. And Grieves clearly wasn't as sharp as he used to be. He would stare at the screen for hours. But it was really all just for show anyway.

  They released Grieves on good behavior on his 18th month. He told Rosenblatt he still didn't have code finished, but this didn't concern Grieves as much as he thought it might. The money had bought him some peace in prison. They still stared and pushed, made obscene comments. But one thousand dollars placed judiciously had kept them away from him.

  Rosenblatt was beginning to think that the software would never be completed on time. Then Grieves disappeared. A private detective, hired by GeneFab, tracked him down to the West coast.

  Rosenblatt flew there immediately, his high priced detective agency providing the necessary information. Grieves seemed hardly surprised when he picked up the phone and was greeted by a voice from the past that refused to let go. The next day, Rosenblatt found himself walking along a pebbly coastline, the glass and steel of downtown Vancouver behind his back. A pale crab scrambled across the rocks in front of him. The wet air smelled of rotting seaweed and fish carcasses. Seated ahead of him on a park bench on the barren beach was a man in a corduroy coat - his long hair whipping in the damp wind. He held a Styrofoam coffee cup to his lips.

  "I thought this was Lotus land. It smells like a swamp," grumbled Rosenblatt.

  "Beats four walls and a leaky toilet," answered Grieves.

  Rosenblatt sniffed into the wind and sat.

  "So, I'm honored. You've come two thousand miles," said Grieves.

  Rosenblatt looked at the programmer. There was a circle of sand on his cheek, like he had been sleeping on the beach.

  "No! I am not finished the freaking program. Do you know how the big guys do it? Like Microsoft? They hire an army of young eager beavers; pay them lots of money and tons of free pizza. Five years later, it's done. I'm frankly humbled by the magic of it."

  Rosenblatt looked defeated. "I'm beginning to think this thing could only happen once. You know, like the passing of a comet? Now it's gone and we'll never find it again."

  "Your new found grasp of reality is very refreshing. I guess this means I'm out of a job."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Grieves sat and sipped. "I figure once someone gets this Splicer thing going, or anything close to it, some loony will hit the frappe button and we'll all be screwed anyway. What's the point of worrying?"

  "I don't think it's going to be that easy."

  "Interesting turn of phrase. I hope you're right."

  "And if it doesn't happen for, oh - ten years, then it won't have the same … impact?"

  "Your confidence is overwhelming me."

  "You still haven't answered the question," said Rosenblatt.

  "I'd tell you to fuck off again, but it hasn't worked in the past so why start now."

  "You're a felon - on parole. A... a programmer who's lost his edge. You used to be the best. Nobody was faster at churning out code. You were the Lance Armstrong of the Java world." Grieves smirked at the irony of the comparison.

  "I worked sixteen hours a day. It wasn't all sleight of hand."

  "You could swallow a lot of that bullshit if you could do it sitting in your beach house in the Caribbean - the world’s fastest computer at your side - a beautiful house guest and a fat bank account."

  "Norman, I can't finish the program. Stop torturing me - and yourself.”

  "What did you learn in prison besides how to make a knife out of a belt buckle?"

  "Actually, I missed that class," said Grieves.

  "How about murder?"

  Grieves turned his sun burnt face to Rosenblatt, a slack smile just forming. "Who have you got in mind?"

  "Ludd. Once he's gone, I can sell the damned company and get out."

  Grieves stood up. "Christ, this is sick. You and your partner railroaded me to jail full of righteous indignation because I erased your precious video game from hell - and now we're talking like two old buds about killing him! Do I look like an assassin? Please go away."

  Grieves turned and hurried away along the shoreline, tossing his coffee cup into the tidewater. Rosenblatt stumbled up behind him on the rocky surface of the seashore and caught him by the sleeve.

  "I think it's sweet," he said.

  Grieves looked back at Rosenblatt and laughed. "What? I told you to leave me alone."

  "The idea. Revenge. Revenge could be sweet."

  "Christ. And when you're in the chair and they drop those gas pellets into the tank, they say it smells like cinnamon."

  "Ludd set you up. Rusty carried it through. You get rid of Ludd - frame Redfield with the murder. You get justice, revenge, and a few million dollars."

  "And how much do you get?"

  "So we're basically down to how much?"

  "If I could kill anyone right now, Rosenblatt, which I doubt, you would be my first choice." Rosenblatt, for just a moment believed Grieves and stepped back. Grieves kept on walking, his head full of new ideas.

  :

  Those ideas were still there, swirling around in the semi-dream state of a highly developed brain, its owner now prone on a concrete floor, a patch of fresh urine forming and spreading on his filthy sleeping bag.

  CHAPTER 12

  Rosenblatt rubbed his eyes hard with his thumb and index finger. It was almost seven o'clock at night, it was Sunday, and the paperwork wasn't going away. He never worked Sundays before Ludd had died. Damn, I want to be over this business. This charade.

  He sat at his desk, several folders on his lap and to his right. His eyes weren't just swimming in his head - they were doing the Australian crawl.

  GeneFab had orders for hundreds of machines that didn't exist yet. The company had received and spent millions in deposits, many from buyers who would never accept the conventional idea of Chapter 11, if that's what it came down to. They had their own version of Chapter 11 ... and it started with your knees.

  Rosenblatt was starting to think about taking a chunk of cash and disappearing. But he was smart enough to know they would never let him get away with it. He was dealing with people who specialized in hunting and gathering. Ludd once called them killing machines. How did we ever get in bed with these people?

  That left the other possibility.

  Rosenblatt was never a brave man. He could try killing himself before someone else did; maximize his life insurance and leave something for his family. But faced with a decision like that, he would prefer to just, you know, wait. Who would mourn me? he wondered, as if that had anything to do with his problem. Who indeed? If he could just press a button and in some instant and mess-free manner end his pain, he would do it without hesitation. Was this bravery? He liked to think it was.

  Into his musings intruded a sharp sound. Three short beeps emitted from his tablet. He turned automatically and swiped his chubby fingers across the screen. Three short beeps meant express mail. He could answer it now or wait, but he needed a diversion from the endless queue of contracts, proposals, financial statements and death fantasies.

  The screen cleared, hesitated, then Rosenblatt sat up ramrod straight. The screen read:

  Express Mail: FROM THE TERMINATOR!

  "Christ!" grunted Rosenblatt under his breath. He twisted his neck around to check the office door. It was closed. He reached over to acce
pt the message and then stopped, his fingers just microns above the scratchproof glass surface.

  He couldn't refuse the message. It would just sit there calling out to him until he accepted it, locking out the other functions of the computer. This wasn’t conventional email. This was some intrusion trick that had infinite patience - would sit there for days, weeks, centuries if necessary.

  How does the bastard get into my system like that?

  He had just installed an industrial firewall system that cost over eighty thousand dollars designed to beef up security and keep hackers out of his hair. But this guy just sailed right past it like it never existed. He pressed a key and the screen filled with rows of text.

  I'M STILL HERE. I'M STILL WAITING.

  YOU NEED TO ANSWER THIS MESSAGE NOW!

  THE TERMINATOR.

  Rosenblatt rubbed his jowls, and then typed carefully.

  IT'S GOING TO TAKE LONGER THAN EXPECTED

  DUE TO THE HOLD UP ON THE SALE.

  NR

  He had changed his password and the system password every day for a week. But it wasn't working. Grieves kept getting through.

  I COULD CARE LESS. YOU HAVE RESOURCES.

  I'M NOT WAITING ANYMORE.

  THE TERMINATOR.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?