Clear Your Cache

Vic knew he was in trouble long before he reached the door of the conference room. Referred to as the fish bowl, the room had its origins as a monstrous saltwater aquarium. One could imagine wealthy patrons swimming with exotic fish to ease a variety of ailments. Now a gleaming table and wide assortment of castoff office chairs were easily visible through the greenish glass walls. Any therapeutic quality of the space had long since been scoured away by the unhealthy glow of too many fluorescent lights.

Seated at the head of the table, and staring with a mixture of perturbation and dismay at the tardy Vic Vrehmyahov, was Elon Beaverton. Elon was the associate director of the division’s Customer User Support Services Group. Nothing and no one was ever good enough for Elon. He seemed to take personal affront to any meeting invitation he received.

As he struggled to open the heavy glass door, Vic could only imagine how much more delightful Elon would be after being kept waiting.

“Victor, so good of you to join us,” Elon said in a tone that managed to communicate exactly the opposite. “You know Bethany,” a slight tip of the head in the web designer’s direction. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Manager Feltzer? She is in charge of the division’s Digital Instructor-led Training and Self Education Systems.”

Turning to address the other woman at the table, he produced an apologetic expression. “Darlene, this is Victor Vrehmyahov. He is late.”

Terse pleasantries were exchanged. Then Elon brought everyone up to speed on The Issue. Darlene was being subjected to digital terrorism, so to speak. She noticed some of her training materials were missing the day after she posted them. She and Bethany had exchanged a volley of messages that proved Darlene was the only person who could not see the online training, and it only happened when she used Firefox.

“Tell us, Victor,” Elon said. “How is it that our vital training systems are so insecure?”

Vic felt the frenzied wolves of adrenaline circling his brain. “Elon, you cannot possibly believe this is a problem with the servers. It has to be a problem with the browser. Bethany, tell him it is not a server problem.”

Bethany looked exhausted. The stylish cut of her designer clothes did nothing to distract from the dark circles around her eyes. If anything, the black scarf accentuated the discoloration on her neck rather than hid it. The rumor mill suggested that she was having problems at home. Vic could attest to her coming in with bruises on more than one occasion.

She sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Vic. We tested it on four different computers. It is not a Firefox problem. It is not a problem with the web pages.” Her phone started pulsing and slowly swirling on the table in front of her. She seemed irritated. Excusing herself, she left Vic with the two managers.

The wolves were closing ranks. Vic could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the distant echo of panic pulsing through his skull. As he started to speak, his mouth felt dry.

“There is a misunderstanding. The thing is,” Vic stated, “if there was a problem with the server, everyone would be seeing the problem.”

“I think you are missing the point, Victor,” Elon interrupted in a tone usually reserved for children and small pets. “This is a targeted attack against Darlene. Of course it is not affecting everyone else. Try to keep up.”

Vic felt the flush creep up his neck and cascade across his face. The warmth contrasted with the coolness of the room’s dry air on his sweaty forehead. He had nothing to say. The people in front of him were crazy. They were managers of technical people and resources. Yet they had no grasp of technology. Their inability to comprehend basic concepts or follow simple logic made them the elite of their kind. He was screwed.

Vic’s heart was racing. Each pulse throbbed in his temples and set his ears ringing. Suddenly he realized the alarms and flashing lights were not in his head. Elon was interrupted by his phone’s insistent ringing. Darlene’s phone followed suit. Through the glass walls, people could be seen locking computers, drawers and doors before heading for the nearest exit.

Several blocks away, Bethany was enjoying the quiet efficiency of the coffee shop. Run by two Swedish brothers, it was the epitome of good design. Minimalism and contemporary style merged with culinary excellence in a way that spoke to the soul of the web designer. She spotted a chair near the gleaming glass and steel fireplace. Almost immediately she could feel the tension leaving her neck and shoulders as she sank into its simple curves of white leather and maple.

Her attention was caught by the cheerful chime of her pad. Resting it on her lap, she tapped the softly glowing button that told her she was connected to the Internet. For the next half hour, she repeatedly watched the footage of Darlene walking into her office and screaming at the ball of fire on her desk. Investigators would later discover the remains of a stuffed fox with a metal scroll in its mouth. Engraved on the scroll were the words “Clear. Your. Cache. Moron.”

Bethany made a few notes about which tools she would need for the next phase of her work with the Feltzer woman. The metal ducting had left a nasty bruise. She knew the bruises were starting to cause talk. Talk drew unwanted attention and made her evening job more difficult.

A few quick taps on the pad put everything in order, just in time for her second espresso. She settled back in the chair and started going through the first set of news releases about the mysterious arson at 615 Locust.