Chapter 4: Lock-Out
Return to Chapter 3: Spoiler Alert
Upon entering Plebe Hall, Dontae is dismayed to realize that he's the absolute-last person to arrive at his desk today. Although it's far later than his usual arrival, he's still utterly annoyed by his complete lack of fortune. On most "normal" days, there are plebes sauntering in as late as 9:30AM. But not today. No one called in sick. No one's on vacation. And in the vast hall of low-paid, disrespected, mostly-anonymous plebes, he's somehow the final peon who's managed to come in to work today. The knot in his stomach morphs into a vague sense of nausea.
The desks are aligned like those in a first-year college course. They're neatly organized in columns-and-rows, and their sheer number is daunting. Dontae's never tried to count the number of plebes in the room at any given time, but it's easily more than a hundred.
In front of them all stands Dodger, the manager of the plebe program. He works from an elevated podium that provides purview over all his underlings. Standing desks are positioned to either side of him, each supporting an array of laptops, monitors, and various other electronic gadgets. As luck would have it, Dontae's desk sits almost direclty in front of Dodger.
As Dontae enters the hall, every single plebe stops what they're doing and stares at him as he meekly maneuvers toward his seat. It's as though a MISSING CHILD ALERT just blared across everyone's screen - and Dontae is that missing child. A potent wave of sweat builds upon his brow and begins to soak his armpits. When he reaches his assigned location, Corinne looks up at him with a cheery smile. She sits directly behind him. She's bee-bopping to some joyful, saccharine tune in her headphones. But she slides them off her head as he struggles to surreptitiously slither into his chair.
He leaves his chair cocked at a severe angle so as to properly address her before he dives into his work.
[Dontae]: I was in bed by ten.
She's simultaneously confused - and amused.
[Corinne]: Someone keeping you in bed this morning?
[Dontae]: What?? No! I was here the normal time. When did you get here?
She glances at the clock on her laptop before responding.
[Corinne]: I dunno. I think I've been here about... 45 minutes?
[Dontae]: How'd you get up here?? Like... to the third floor?
[Corinne]: I... took the elevator. Like everyone else. Something wrong??
[Dontae]: I'm fine. Just been an odd morning.
She considers probing him for more detail, but she figures she'll get the full scoop at lunch. So she just shrugs and smiles.
[Corinne]: There's a big new batch'ah spreadsheets on the F: drive. They're all in Cyrillic.
Dontae's annoyed at the joy this seems to spark in her.
[Dontae]: You mean, like... Russian?
[Corinne]: I guess? Hell if I know.
[Dontae]: How the hell are we supposed to fact-check stuff that's in Russian?
She doesn't answer him directly. Instead, she just chuckles and slides her headphones back over her ears. He usually finds her carefree attitude to be amusing. Comforting, even. But on days like today, it just rubs him the wrong way.
The spreadsheets Corinne spoke of are indeed sitting on the F: drive. There are thousands of them. The workflow for Dontae - and indeed, for all of the plebes - is equal parts mind-numbing and soul-crushing.
They all work in an internal portal called Quarry. Quarry grabs the oldest unverified spreadsheet from the shared drive and opens it in a side-by-side comparison tool. On the left is the presumed-good version of the spreadsheet. On the right is the current version plucked off the network. Once a spreadsheet is loaded, they proceed to go through it row-by-row and cell-by-cell. The entire "job" consists or either marking the two cells identical with a green checkmark, or marking them as somehow disparate. If the cells are different, in any way, they're marked with a red X and the plebe is expected to put a series of special symbols on the record that are a shorthand way of describing exactly what is different between the old cell and the new. Once an entire spreadsheet has been checked, it's marked as "verified" (or... not), and a new spreadsheet is plucked from the queue. This is the entirety of what every plebe does - every hour of every day.
Two weeks after Dontae and Corinne joined the program, another plebe somewhere near the back of the hall stood up and exclaimed that all of this "verification" could be easily accomplished with a rudimentary computer program. He even announced that he'd be very happy to write that program for the company. Thirty minutes after that outburst, the rebellious and exasperated plebe was escorted from the building and never seen again.
By nine-thirty, Dontae has settled into his mindless daily routine. The data that he's contantly "verifying" typically means nothing to him at all. Some of it is in foreign languages. Much of it consists of raw numbers that are meaningless without some broader context. Even when it consists of nominally "English" values - those values typically comprise obstuse abbreviations and industrial codes that he can't hope to understand. If he think about it too hard, it tends to drive him insane. So he doesn't think about it. At all. He just looks at the contents of the cells on the left side of the screen, compares them to the contents on the right side of the screen, and marks his notes accordingly. In this fashion, he's chugging along as usual when he notices the notification icon blinking in his Holla app.
[Codex]: You're in the wrong place.
He stares at the screen for a moment. He's not entirely sure what to do with this message.
[Dontae]: I think you may have messaged the wrong person?
[Codex]: I assume I'm messaging Dontae Shukara?
[Dontae]: Yes.
[Codex]: Then I'm messaging the right person.
[Dontae]: But I always sit here. No one's told me to move.
[Codex]: I'm not talking about your SEAT.
He surveys the room around him. No one else is paying him any attention. Everyone else is mindlessly clacking away on their keyboards.
[Dontae]: And who ARE you, exactly?
[Dontae]: Yes, I can see that.
[Codex]: Then why did you ask?
He repeats his visual survey of the room, which makes him feel rather silly. There's still no one who acknowledges him in any way.
[Dontae]: Where are you? Can you SEE me right now?
[Codex]: Not in any way that you would understand it.
[Dontae]: Then how can you know if I'm in the wrong place?
[Dontae]: Of course.
[Codex]: Then you're in the wrong place.
[Dodger]: Down-tah!!!
Dodger's biting shriek pierces the hall. It stops every plebe from their clickety-clacking. Whenever he pulls a plebe up to the podium, it's never a fun experience. Dontae's never been hauled to the front before, but he's seen it happen to others. And no one cherishes the event.
Nevertheless, in this strangest of moments, he's almost relieved to have the diversion. For the time being, he'd rather deal with Dodger than try to further assess who this "Codex" character is, or why he cares about his whereabouts.
As Dontae makes his way to the podium, Corinne flashes him a silent "What the hell?" look, but he just shrugs. He tries to walk confidently toward Dodger, but he's plagued by the knowledge that he's skulking his way toward the front of the room.
Dodger has a series of spreadsheets up on his screens. The podium is littered with empty water bottles. A half-full vessel is in his right hand - a hand that displays a noticeable and consistent shaking. He waits impatiently for Dontae to position himself where he can see Dodger's screens.
[Dodger]: Down-tah, what is this??
[Dontae]: Actually, sir, it's pronounced don-tay.
[Dodger]: As if I care. What is this??
Dodger speaks in a chaotic range of sing-songy words, random shrieks, and quiet tones that have no connection to the subject matter he's discussing. It produces an extremely unsettling effect in all who have the misfortune of speaking with him.
Dontae spends a few moments inspecting the onscreen data. He recognizes it as a spreadsheet that he verified - months ago. He also recognizes the overpowering aroma of vodka clinging to Dodger like a fog.
There are two cells highlighted on Dodger's screens. The left contains the following random-looking bit of data:
014f5f03-f387-4aa4-8593-27a8cf932bbe
The right contains this similar bit of data, along with the green checkmark that was previously placed there by Dontae:
014f5f03-f387-4aa4—8593-27a8cf932bbe
[Dontae]: They look like goo-idd's, sir.
The simplistic explanation jolts Dodger into a fresh shriek.
[Dodger]: What??? What the hell are you talking about?
[Dontae]: G.U.I.D.'s. Globally-Unique Identifiers.
[Dodger]: No, you fart-nozzle! I'm not asking what kind of data is in these cells!
[Dontae]: I'm sorry, I thought you asked-
[Dodger]: I'm talking about the checkmark. You verified these cells as identical.
Dontae squints as he re-inspects the data onscreen. He needs his reading glasses and begins fumbling through his pockets for them - only to realize that he's left them at his desk. He contemplates whether it's in his best interest to retrieve them, but Dodger continues his tirade before he can make any attempt to do so.
[Dodger]: Do these values look identical to you?!
[Dontae]: To be honest, sir, as far as I can see without my glasses, they do-
[Dodger]: THEY ARE NOT I-DEN-TIC-AL!
Dodger's eruption launches a fine mist of vodka onto his screens. Some of it falls directly on Dontae's face.
Dontae makes a show of re-inspecting the data, knowing that it's fruitless without his reading glasses.
[Dontae]: Oh, yessss... I do think I see what you're-
[Dodger]: The first value contains only dashes. The second value contains an em dash!
Dontae seriously considers telling Dodger that all of this "verification" could be easily accomplished with a rudimentary computer program, and that he'd be very happy to write the program for the company. Before he can sort through all the permutations of his impending unemployment, Dodger continues with his tirade.
[Dodger]: Do you have any idea what happens if these different values are verified as being identical??
Considering that this particular spreadsheet was "verified" by Dontae months ago, he strongly suspects that the correct answer is, "Absolutely nothing." But he assumes such a reply would not go over well.
[Dontae]: Honestly, sir... No, I don't actually understand what happens if these spreadsheets are accidently marked as "identical".
They both stand at the podium in silence for an uncomfortably-long moment. Dodger seems to be awaiting some additional reply from Dontae, but Dontae is powerless to provide the answer.
[Dontae]: Well... are you going to tell me??
[Dodger]: Tell you what???
[Dontae]: What happens. If... non-identical spreadsheets are marked as "identical".
[Dodger]: How the hell should I know? I was hoping that you could tell me!
[Dontae]: Oh, well then... no. I don't actually know.
Dodger releases an overly-long sigh and takes a huge swig from his "water" bottle. The shaking in his hand seems to have calmed. Somewhat. Dontae's admission has somehow defeated Dodger, and his shoulders slump.
[Dodger]: This'd all be so much easier if they'd just let me fire you, like I asked.
[Dontae]: What?? You've tried to fire me?!
[Dodger]: Not you, specifically. Just... [waving toward everyone seated in the hall] the whole damn lotta you. You're one of the least-problematic ones here. So I wouldn't try to fire just you. Not yet, anyway.
[Dontae]: Umm... thanks?
[Dodger]: You're welcome.
[Dontae]: I'm very sorry, sir. This won't happen again.
[Dodger]: Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just... don't let it happen again.
Dodger waves his arms in the international symbol for "get out of my hair". Dontae turns to head back to his seat as Dodger speaks again.
[Dodger]: Oh, hey... down-tah.
[Dontae]: Yes?
[Dodger]: What in the hell is a wyvern, anyway?
The illogical query gives Dontae pause. He feels he should proceed with caution.
[Dontae]: I'm afraid I don't understand. Was "wyvern" a value on one of my spreadsheets?
[Dodger]: Huh?? Why would "wyvern" be anywhere inside a corporate spreadsheet?
[Dontae]: I... don't honestly know. I just couldn't figure out why you were asking-
[Dodger]: But you've heard of something called a "wyvern" before, yeah?
[Dontae]: Well... sure.
[Dodger]: So what is it?!
[Dontae]: It's a... mythological beast. Basically, like a dragon. But smaller.
[Dodger]: Hmm... very interesting.
[Dontae]: Why do you ask?
[Dodger]: Fadyrin uncovered the secret to conjuring wyverns last night. It was apparently a really big deal. But I couldn't figure out why anyone would care.
A subtle but distinct shudder builds inside Dontae. A thousand screaming, raging responses flash through his brain, but he can't bring himself to unleash any of them. He's afraid he may start crying.
[Dontae]: Principle of Conquest. Yes. I'm aware of the show.
[Dodger]: You've got the look of one of those fantasy dorks. I figured you'd know all about wyverns.
Dontae turns again to head back to his desk.
[Dodger]: You should really check that show out. I think it'd be right up your alley.
[Dontae]: Uh-huh.
He returns to his desk and makes a point to ignore Corinne's smug grin. He tries to get back into a groove with his spreadsheets, but his mind is besieged by disturbingly-graphic fantasies of murdering Dodger, and Emanuel, and anyone else who has the nerve to blurt out another critical detail of the season finale before he has a chance to watch it tonight.
For the next couple of hours, he tries to verify as many spreadsheets as possible. But he's bogged down in his attempts because he keeps thinking that he sees the name of key characters and locations from Principle of Conquest embedded randomly in the cells. These always "clear up" after doing a double- or triple-take. But it definitely slows his progress.
Just before noon, he finishes up another spreadsheet and goes to the grab the latest one off the F: drive. But when he tries to peruse the files on the F: drive, the F: drive is no longer there.
Suspecting that the drive was somehow disconnected, he attempts to remap his computer to the F: drive. But he receives the following network message: "ACCESS TO F: DRIVE DENIED".
He reboots his computer, suspecting that something has gone wonky with his network permissions - but will be restored when he completes the reboot process. After watching the full reboot process for several minutes, he tries again to connect to the F: drive. Again, he's told: "ACCESS TO F: DRIVE DENIED".
Although she sits directly behind him, he decides to shoot Corinne a message on Holla, to see if she's experiencing any similar issues. That's when he realizes that he can no longer "see" Corinne in Holla. In fact, all of the other plebes, who are normally pre-loaded in his Holla portal as "contacts", are now gone entirely. He doesn't even have a contact for Dodger.
He opens the email panel within Holla and crafts a message to [email protected]. He's about to turn around and look for the visual confirmation that should come over her face when she receives the message - but then the message comes back into his inbox. It's been bounced. A red alert is attached to the message stating: "PLEBES CAN ONLY RECEIVE EMAILS FROM OTHER PLEBES AND THEIR MANAGERS."
Dontae starts to panic.
He tries to open a half dozen other corporate programs that are loaded on his system. He can't access any of them. Except for one... He still has access to Holla, even if most of his contacts have now been deleted. He notices that there's only one contact remaining in his Holla portal.
[Dontae]: What the hell's going on?
[Codex]: I already told you: You're in the wrong place.
Dontae makes his way up to Dodger's podium. It's an action that grabs the attention of many in the room - because plebes almost never approach Dodger unless they're answering one of his screeching summons. Even Dodger looks surprised.
[Dontae]: Did you fire me??
[Dodger]: What are you talking about?
At this point it's clear that Dodger's struggling simply to remain vertical.
[Dontae]: I'm locked out of all our network tools.
[Dodger]: Did you reboot?
[Dontae]: Of course I rebooted!
[Dodger]: Well that's about all I know to do. Maybe... reboot again?
[Dontae]: But you didn't fire me??
[Dodger]: Why would I fire you?
[Dontae]: You already said earlier that you want to fire me!
[Dontae]: So why have I been locked out of the network? What am I supposed to do?
[Dodger]: Maybe someone else has it out for you? Check your employee record.
[Dontae]: My employee record. The one that's in Rabbit Hole, correct?
[Dodger]: That's correct.
[Dontae]: I don't have access to Rabbit Hole anymore!
[Dodger]: Oh... yeah. You have a point. Have you tried rebooting again?
[Dontae]: Can you just pull it up on your system, please?!
Dodger seems rather put-out by the request. He looks at one of his laptops, then at Dontae's frantic expression, then at the laptop again before deciding to acquiesce. Dontae tries to look over his shoulder, but once again he realizes that he's left his reading glasses at his desk. Dodger spends several excruciating minutes searching, reading, and searching again before delivering his verdict.
[Dodger]: Well wudduya know?
[Dontae]: What? What's it say?!
[Dontae]: So that's it, then? I have actually been shit-canned?
Without looking up from his screen, Dodger has switched to his email portal.
[Dodger]: I guess I had an unread email here about you.
[Dontae]: Saying that I've been fired?
[Dodger]: No. It says you've been... promoted.
Dontae would've been less surprised if Dodger informed him that he's been scheduled for gender-reassignment surgery. He's confused. And strangely... aggravated. But his tone turns quiet and contemplative.
[Dontae]: Promoted... to what?
[Dodger]: Says here that you're to be the new manager of the Special Projects team.
[Dontae]: But that doesn't make any sense.
[Dodger]: I know. Who in their right mind would want you as a manager?
[Dontae]: No! I mean... I didn't even apply. No one's interviewed me. No one's even discussed it with me at all.
[Dodger]: I'm just telling you what's in the email. Says you were supposed to report this morning to the security desk to get a new badge.
[Dontae]: How long's that email been in your inbox?
[Dodger]: Mmm... looks like I received it... a week ago.
[Dodger]: Oh, you're welcome!
Dontae walks back to his desk and begins gathering up his laptop and all of his personal affects. Corinne notices the unusual activity and pulls off her headphones.
[Corinne]: Something wrong?
[Dontae]: Something's definitely... strange.
[Corinne]: Talk over lunch?
[Dontae]: Meet me at Sushi Hut.
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