Page 17 of The Revenge Game
It triggers something inside me, and I immediately start to babble like a freshman caught with a fake ID at his first college party.
“I didn’t send that email. I promise I didn’t send it. My computer started misbehaving while I was at my client meeting. It’s having some kind of technological meltdown.”
Of course, when I open it, my computer behaves like the most well-adjusted piece of equipment in existence. The screenis clear, the cursor obedient, everything running like it’s starring in a Microsoft commercial.
Roger watches patiently as I desperately click on different presentations to replicate the same issue with no luck.
“Did you leave your laptop unattended at any point this morning?” he finally asks me.
His words stop my frantic clicking.
“Um, yeah. I mean, I left it in the conference room at United Sports while I grabbed a cup of coffee with the head of procurement.”
Roger’s shoulders relax. “That explains it. Someone must have opened it and sent that email as a prank.”
Pranks do seem to abound in the sporting goods industry. Like last month, when Dave replaced all of Pete’s product samples with children’s versions, and Pete spent an entire presentation trying to demonstrate a tennis racket that was roughly the size of a dinner spoon. Or the time someone switched all the display mannequins’ heads around in the showroom right before the big client from Liverpool arrived.
“Yes, that’s what must have happened,” I say slowly.
Even as I say the words, doubt swirls in my mind. Does that explain what happened during my presentation? Did someone have time to sabotage that as well?
“Lesson learned, eh, sport? Don’t leave your laptop unattended. Meanwhile, compose an all-staff email explaining what happened and apologizing for any trauma inflicted.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” I say.
I walk back to my desk on shaky legs. This is the advantage of working in a company like DTL Enterprises, which has a laid-back, jokey culture. I can only imagine how this incident would’ve played out in corporate America.
I sit at my desk to compose the email, and my computer continues its impeccable behavior.
Hopefully, nothing else will go wrong.
Chapter Six
Andrew
Something about being part of the IT department at DTL Enterprises makes me feel like an anthropologist observing an exotic culture. It’s a culture where the ability to reset a password is treated with the same reverence ancient civilizations gave to fire-making and where the person who remembers to order more printer paper is hailed as a prophetic visionary.
My colleagues are worthy of study in their own right.
Today, Xander slouches at his desk like his spine has gone on strike. He’s wearing the same Dragon’s Sphere T-shirt he’s worn for the past two days, now accessorized with a stain I’m hoping is ketchup, but I fear might be blood.
Meanwhile, Adam looks like he’s auditioning for the role of Corporate IT Drill Sergeant with his precisely ironed shirt and meticulously arranged desk supplies.
So far, Adam has treated me like I’m barely qualified to turn a computer on, let alone fix one.
He’s at my desk now, hovering like a particularly anxious hummingbird.
“Drew.” Adam’s voice carries the same tone teachers use when explaining to kindergarteners why glue isn’t a food group. “I’ve got a slightly tricky one for you. Marketing hasbeen complaining about their social media scheduling platform timing out whenever they try to bulk upload content for multiple brands. Can you check their browser settings? You know how to do that, don’t you?”
“Sure thing,” I say.
I head up to the marketing department, where I’m met by Kieran, who demonstrates the problem they’ve been having.
“Has it always done this?” I ask.
“No, it started about two weeks ago when we added some new client accounts.”
Bingo. The issue is easy to spot—their session tokens are getting mixed up because they’re trying to handle multiple brand logins simultaneously. It’s exactly the kind of problem I anticipated when coding the failsafe, which is why there’s an elegant solution built right into the system.
