Splicer (6 page)

"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...”

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.

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 accept 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?

NR.

I MEAN I NEED THE MONEY NOW.

I'VE LEARNED ABOUT A CLEVER TRICK WITH A GUITAR STRING. 

DOES JOANNIE LIKE THE GUITAR?

THE TERMINATOR.

Joannie was Rosenblatt's wife. GUITAR STRING? Something about that casual reference to a weapon they had once talked about made his flesh prickle.
He was dealing with a complete psychotic. And he had helped design him.
Rosenblatt stared at the screen dumbly. Saving these files could only incriminate him. He had to erase them - insure they were gone permanently. He looked at the words on the computer screen - they glowed like deadly radioactive bits of unburied madness.

I'M NOT YOUR ENEMY!

NR.

Rosenblatt punched the virtual keys far harder than necessary. Seconds passed without any reply. Rosenblatt rubbed his eyes, heard a distant voice down the hallway.
Madness. He was plugged into someone’s madness
. He pounded the screen with his fist hoping the glass would shatter. Then the letters on the screen jumped.

PROVE IT. WIRE THE MONEY TO MY ACCOUNT

BY TUESDAY NOON. DON'T BE LATE!

Norman thought that was the whole message.  Then...

THIS IS GETTING TO BE A LOT OF FUN.

AND JUST THINK, I LEARNED IT ALL FROM YOU...

THANKS TEACH.

His heart was tripping away in his soft barrel chest like an old diesel engine. He wiped the perspiration away from his forehead and tried to steady his hands.

How had this started? How did I get involved?

The idea had come to Rosenblatt just like all of his other fantasies. And he simply didn't push them away like others might. He learned that letting insistent thoughts in, inviting them to sit down at the next barstool and buying them a cool one, could be appropriate and valuable.

For example, Rosenblatt didn't believe that thinking about adultery was anywhere even close to actually DOING IT. And he didn't believe that dwelling on the idea of harshly pushing his curvy secretary to the floor of the sales office, tearing her clothes away and giving her a tongue bath was improper - or would lead to the act itself. The ideas came. He entertained them. They were gone. No harm done.

In the same way, last year, Rosenblatt began to see Ludd's death as a possibility, his murder as a justified act - only in his thoughts, of course. The concept, rough-hewn as it was, gave him certain contentment. He saw other benefits unfold. His staff would be happier. They liked him better than Ludd; he didn't drive them incessantly. He usually went home at 5 o'clock. Ludd was usually the last to leave. Ludd often pulled all-nighters. With Ludd gone
GeneFab
could be sold, likely at its peak value. After all, how long would it be before a dozen clones of their products, hastily assembled in Taiwan or Sri Lanka, blew a hole through their market share? Ludd refused to see this. He was ignoring history.

They talked about selling. Actually, Rosenblatt talked about selling, Ludd just nodded abstractly.
The time wasn't right. When The Splicer is functional. When hell gets astro-turf.

How do people do it?
thought Rosenblatt. With his salary and dividends he made over a million last year. How did the average Joe survive on fifty thou? What did he do with his money? He bought some land, a couple of mutual funds, went on a couple of trips to the Keys, paid a fortune in taxes. He needed
real
money. If he was going to be able to set up his wife and kids and then play house in Florida with a harem of nubile gold diggers, he needed serious cash. Ten million, maybe more. Then he began to no longer dream of having Ludd killed - he started to see it as a gnawing imperative.

And now that it was done, how did he stop the machinery?