Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(120)

“Stan Brown.”

He knew that name.

Ben had been trying to figure out what had been filling the hard drive of a priority backup server he’d been fine-tuning when he’d discovered a huge block of data, property of one Stan Brown, that turned out to be a collection of every blue film made in the last century as well as carefully organized files of photographs from bestiality to kink and beyond.

Private files on the critical backup servers, which were very expensive real estate in electron land, were prohibited. Pornography at work was a firing offence. There had been a massive firing of people caught just surfing for  p**n  on company computers. The scandal predated Ben, but he’d heard about it from people still traumatized by the winnowing.

So Ben had talked about Stan’s files to the head of security, who wasn’t a total . . . jerk, and they decided, between the two of them that they should just erase it and pretend it had never been there. Save the guy’s job instead of letting some boss look good to his overlords.

“Yes,” said Ben slowly. “I had a good look at those files. I wondered what kind of critical data you could possibly have that was that big. When I saw what it was, I got rid of it.”

“So it was you,” Stan said hotly. “I had to lean on the security guys to give me your name.”

The security guys were probably huddled on the other side of the cubicle wall just to hear the set down Ben gave him. They were in for a disappointment because he couldn’t swear—or he’d lose that scotch—so scaring off stupid people just wasn’t as much fun as usual.

Stan was still twittering on. “Do you know how long it took me to put that collection together? Some of those aren’t available anywhere anymore. You can’t just go around erasing people’s files.”

Ben tapped a little framed certificate on the wall.

“DBA,” he said in case the guy couldn’t read. “I maintain the data systems. I take out things that don’t belong as part of my job description. Porn doesn’t belong. Especially illegal  p**n —and in Washington State, bestiality is illegal ever since that guy died at the sheep farm.”

“Horse farm,” said Lee, the DBA in the next cubicle. “And I think it might just be the act of bestiality that’s good for jail time, not films or photos.”

“You would know,” muttered someone behind his other wall. It sounded like one of the security people. If Ben hadn’t had werewolf ears, he wouldn’t have heard her—or the very quiet snickers that accompanied the remark.

“You had no right,” whined Stan, who wasn’t cursed with Ben’s hearing. “No right to steal my stuff, man. I’m going to go to the police and report it.”

Ben was too bemused to be angry. Was this guy really that dumb? Hadn’t he gotten the same on-hire speech about what was and was not allowed on-site that Ben had?

“I tell you what, Stan,” he said slowly because that was how he talked to people too stupid to live. “Those were on the critical backup server, I still have backups of your files—and will for the next decade, because, hey, critical backup server. You get your supervisor to sign a letter asking me to restore those files—detailing exactly what kind of data we are talking about—and I’ll restore them for you.”

Stan threw out his chest as if he’d won the battle. “I’ll do that.”

When he had left, Fitz, in the cubicle with all the security people, stuck his head over the partition, and said, in awe, “There goes the stupidest man I’ve ever heard. Do you suppose he’ll really try to get a letter?”

“Hey, Ben,” said someone farther down. “Can I get a copy of the backup files?”

“Would you all shut up so I can get some work done?” said Lori, the makeup lady.

•   •   •

Several hours later, it was the smell of coffee that pulled Ben out of electronland. He would have dismissed it—no one brought him coffee—except that Mel was standing, very quietly, on his mat. He made a few changes and buttoned up the database he was working on.

When he turned around, Mel held out a cup of gourmet coffee that hadn’t come out of the company kitchen. Her hand barely shook. He frowned at her and made no move to take it.

“What?” he said.

She set it down on the desk beside him and cleared her throat. “You know I’m married.”

He raised his eyebrow. “I would have propositioned you, but I have a harem at home, and you just wouldn’t fit in.”

Her face flushed. “That’s not what I meant. My husband is overseas for another six months.”

He waited in obvious irritation. Her fluttering and flinching made him want to bite her. His wolf said she was easy prey.

“The coffee is from my husband,” she said, quietly, so no one else would hear her. “I finally figured you out—my husband did, actually—so your snarling isn’t going to make me flinch anymore.”

He tried a subvocal growl, and, by Saint Andrew’s great hairy b . . . balloons, she didn’t back off.

“Duffy got a secretary fired when she turned him down,” Mel told him. “Another girl, who couldn’t afford to lose her job, let him . . . you know.”

Ben tried a raised eyebrow again, but it had noticeably less effect than it had the last time he’d done it to her. No tears. Not even any flinching or cringing.