The Guy in Second Place

Dedicated to Buzz Aldrin. War hero, test pilot, doctor of engineering, and astronaut. Or as he will always be known, the second man to walk on the Moon.

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Tyler Ford was at work early. He'd been doing that a lot, lately. Not just because the work was interesting and time-consuming, but because the rest of his life was joyless. For a few glorious weeks he'd had a wonderful girlfriend, musical creativity, and The Miracle of the Steady Paycheck all at once. He'd been flying high, which made the breakup -- blunt, humiliating, and from his standpoint out of the blue -- that much harder. Without intending it his fingers slipped into his suit coat pocket, closed around a small envelope that had been left at reception for him weeks ago. There was a platinum and diamond tennis bracelet coiled inside. Give her that, Wendy was honest. About most things anyway.

Dave at the main security station passed him through with a nod. Tyler went for coffee -- Manservant Neville provided expensive blends in all the employee break rooms, one of the thousand details that made him a class act -- and on to his desk. In theory, Tyler acted as 'right hand' and 'attaché' for his billionaire CEO. In practice, it meant anything from doing parts of Neville's secretary's job to playing "suited goon on the left" in an incredible range of business meetings. Which was fair. In the long run Neville wanted Tyler so familiar with his thought processes and his business that Neville could make the basic policy decisions -- like "buy Greenland" -- and leave Tyler to oversee the details. That was going to take a heck of a lot of on-the-job training.

The pile of paper in Tyler's in-box was half an inch thicker than it had been last night. When he logged into his computer, the e-mail box was worse. Neville had been working late again. Tyler still wasn't certain how many hours a day his boss spent on the job. Close to twenty, except when he disappeared a few days at a time with minimal warning. Neville was in his office again already -- or still -- since the door was half open.

His mind elsewhere, Tyler had rescheduled a meeting and skimmed three memos before he noticed a small, square box on his desk between the monitor and the CPU. A sticky note on the outside said good job in Neville's spidery, semi-legible handwriting. Tyler opened it and found a wristwatch inside, chunky matte gold on a leather band. Tyler sighed, shoved the watch in his pocket and went into the main office.

Manservant Neville was typing on his desktop with the speed of a concert pianist; he smiled warmly when his assistant came in. "You found it, then."

"We have to talk." Tyler held up the watch. "This close to calling Human Resources and filing a sexual harassment claim." Not many people were willing to kid the hell out of a billionaire multi-media etc. etc. Tyler was an exception, not least because he genuinely liked his odd, brilliant employer. "I don't need a watch."

"I noticed you don't wear one."

"When I'm being a musician, I don't have to. When I'm being emergency-backup-you, there's a clock on this cell phone."

Neville's smile was amused, a little cynical. "Humor me. The Swiss manufacturer is in talks to merge with one of our subsidiaries; it's no more of a hardship than if one of your artist friends stood you to a Coke." Tyler bristled a little. Neville held up a hand. "No offense meant. You know, and I know, that clothes don't make the man. You'll have to deal with plenty who think otherwise, though. No reason the pricier parts of the protective camouflage have to come at your own expense." Neville shrugged, almost diffident. "I thought you deserved a thank-you for putting in sixteen hours over the weekend. In a row, if memory serves."

Tyler sat down, absently put the watch on. "It would have taken half of that if I'd known what I was doing."

"You'll know next time. I've yet to see you make the same mistake twice." Neville glanced at papers on his desk. "You're making an impression, you know. I've caught three vice-presidents trying to poach you for their own departments, and one executive vice-president trying to get you fired at any cost." Neville shrugged. "He was on my exit list anyway. We can't afford any deadwood when we roll out the firmware upgrades to the U-Masters. And that, my friend, brings us to the socially awkward portion of the morning." Neville looked sympathetic. "I gather that you and Miss Watson have parted company."

"Yeah, we had a difference of opinion." Nearly a month, and it stung like it had happened yesterday. "She wanted to nail her boss, and I didn't want her to." Damn it, that guy was at least thirty, maybe thirty-five. He had no business dating somebody Wendy's age... Tyler yanked his thoughts out of the well-worn path. "I haven't seen her or her friends since."

"That must have hurt. I know you were very close." Neville called up a file on his desktop. "I ask because the company she works for is having some rather peculiar interactions with ours. All the more peculiar because I'm finding it nearly impossible to learn anything about them." His eyes were sympathetic. "I hate to pry, but did she ever talk about work?"

Tyler shrugged. "No more than I did, about here. She had a bad schedule, kind of like mine but without the roof helicopters." Unless that had been an excuse too, to spend more time with that guy. "We were always having to break dates and reschedule. Lacey said international consultants, but I think that meant high-end security guards. Her work uniform sure looked like one. Office in a funny little building uptown."

"That address is one of the few solid facts we do have," Neville said. "They wanted to hire you at one point, before we met."

"Yeah, but I'd missed the interview. One of those head injury things from when I got mugged by Mexican wrestlers. That was the day I met Wendy, come to think of it. I went to the building later, talked to some old secretary who looked like she bit the heads off Rottweilers. They'd already filled the job. With Wendy, I guess."

"That mugging incident ... was Miss Watson present when you were attacked?"

"No idea. She never said so, I figure she would have mentioned." Tyler tried to keep his tone light, as if discussing Wendy didn't hurt.

Neville looked pained. "I ask because ... well, there's no delicate way to put this. She was a suspect in a major arson investigation. A gas explosion at another of her temporary jobs, a few months before you met. A butane lighter belonging to her was found at the point of ignition."

"That would be the only memento left behind after her father's DC-3 tragically crashed under as-yet-unexplained and mysterious circumstances," Tyler said. "When she was fourteen. She carries it all the time, but she'd never start a fire."

"The only evidence against her was circumstantial -- but the investigation was dropped with a speed that was suspicious in itself. I think the police were pressured."

Tyler felt vaguely protective. "Is it her company you're interested in, or Wendy?"

"Her company. But your Wendy is the only person associated with it who has ... well, any public record. Birth certificate, employment history, known address." Neville slid a photograph across the table. Tyler gritted his teeth; that guy, crossing a sidewalk someplace, a low-quality image that had probably come from a security camera. "We can't even pin down his name," the CEO said.

Tyler stopped, blinked. Thought again. "Now that you mention it, I didn't get a name either. It was all 'boss' from her, 'Wendy's boss' from Lacey." Or 'sexy boss.' He'd thought Lacey was the one carrying a torch for that guy, until everything crashed down at once.

Manservant Neville shifted forward in his seat. "I'll level with you, Tyler; I'm concerned. All that secrecy can't be good. My own suspicion is that 'international consulting' is a polite term for industrial espionage, possibly with sabotage to order as a sideline."

Tyler fingered the bracelet in his pocket. "No. I can't imagine her doing that."

"Again, there are no tactful words ... you didn't imagine her betraying your relationship either."

"No." Tyler's fist clenched in the pocket. "Look, I don't see how this could be connected. She and I got together weeks before I'd even heard of you and this job. And the fact they wanted to hire me is actually in their favor; I'm no spy guy."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Tyler," Neville said gently. "You're decisive, observant, mentally adaptable, calm under stress ... after all, I hired you myself. Who knows who or what you'd be by now if you'd taken that job months ago."

Tyler shook his head. "I'm not real happy with Wendy, but she's no crook."

"She might have become involved in something untoward without realizing it. As I say, we aren't worried about her; we're worried about her employers." Neville tapped the photograph. "Especially him. Any facts you have, even impressions ... I can hire investigative teams, but they need a starting point. The smallest detail could be key."

Tyler had fantasized about winning her back. Maybe he'd purely by accident, no stalking, run across them in a restaurant. He'd get there just as that guy was being mean to Wendy, like belittling her paintings or her art-college degree. And then Tyler would step in and ...

He'd never been able to make that daydream work out. For one thing, 'that guy' was polite to a fault. The few times Tyler had seen him, dropping Wendy off or picking her up for work, he'd called both Tyler and Noser 'mister' in all seriousness. As far as going beyond angry words, that guy was a lot big... a lot taller than Tyler. And the way he carried himself...

"That's it," Tyler said. "I was an Army brat, I saw Special Forces around sometimes. It's not 'look at me, I can beat up anybody in sight,' not the ones that were any good. Just waiting, real still until there's some reason to move. Like that. Wendy said ... not Army. SEALs, she said once he was in Navy SEALs. The Gulf, I think."

"That would describe a fairly large set of men, but not an infinite one," said Neville. "Good work as always, Tyler. Go about your business, let things ferment -- tell me if any other facts float to the surface. I'm sorry I had to bring up such uncomfortable matters with you."

"No sweat, boss," Tyler said absently. He adjusted the new watch a bit. It was comfortable. He'd probably decide to wear it all the time.

Back at his desk, Tyler called up a computerized map of Wendy's neighborhood and cross-matched it with real estate listings. He was in luck. The building across the street, facing her sublet's balcony and windows, was for sale. He set the process in motion for FATBOY to acquire it, and then turned to a 'spy gear' website.

---

When Tyler was out of earshot, Manservant Neville spoke into his phone headset. "Tag one of the more freethinking souls in the computer division, Cora. I want into classified Pentagon personnel records. Basic data on all Navy SEALs in the last fifteen years who aren't still on active duty. Cull it down to white males over six feet tall and match to this photograph." A few brisk keystrokes. "Don't omit subjects listed as dead. When you have a match, I want everything. Down to the number of dental fillings and who he took to the high school prom." Neville listened. "Yes, terribly tedious. That, if I may say, is why I pay them. Split the job across several of our bright boys if you think it best. Buy an Xbox or some such for whoever gives me a name."

---

Tyler signed out a company car. His own had been pretty well-known in this neighborhood. His new business card and FATBOY corporate line of credit got him access to the building by six that night. The owners of the spy store, for the same reason, had been falling all over themselves to provide whatever he wanted. The next-door building -- a warehouse that had never been converted to illegal sublets or anything else lucrative -- was virtually an empty shell. But the power was on. A partial loft on Wendy's side of the building let him overlook her windows from about ten feet higher and fifty feet of horizontal distance. He rigged all his new equipment and waited for something interesting.

It was an Art Crawl night. Tyler remembered they'd been planning one for about this time, back when he was still part of Wendy's life. At the moment he could only see Lacey inside the sublet. She was wearing underwear and a long t-shirt, mixing up something in the kitchen. Organic vegan cruelty-free dip to go with organic vegan cruelty-free raw vegetables, Tyler was prepared to bet. He scanned the living room in more detail. He'd missed it the first time, looking for people instead of things, but there were two -- no, three -- paintings on display he'd never seen before. In Wendy's hand.

His stomach churned. I haven't written a note or word of music since you left me; I guess you're taking it better. You would. If anything her brush strokes were more decisive, her color choices richer and deeper. One image was an abstract scarlet slash with two sets of predatory eyes lurking in the background. The second showed an explosion of light coming out of a tall, blue, rectangular box or cabinet. The third was a spiky, multi-legged alien that somehow looked friendly and even endearing against a mossy green forest.

The apartment door came open. Tyler braced himself, but it wasn't Wendy. Noser, guitar in hand, came up behind Lacey and began nuzzling her neck. No reason people who ARE single and available shouldn't get together. Tyler watched anyway, and took a few still photos for practice.

The sublet, and its neighbors, kept filling up as the sun went down and Art Crawl grew. Wendy was one of the last to arrive, not the first. She wore a vivid gold pantsuit that left her arms bare. Along with her work-provided watch, of course. That guy hovered at her elbow. It took Tyler a minute to realize he wasn't in the rent-a-cop uniform this time but a sweater and slacks of similar military-muted colors. Tyler couldn't have cared less, though he did note the absence of the whatever-it-was gun.

They weren't holding hands or touching each other every few seconds, the way Wendy and Tyler had done. At first he was relieved to see that. But the longer he watched, the more the knot tightened in his stomach. Wendy didn't behave like the younger trophy-Twinkie to a strangely warped (he'd have to be warped, right?) and intimidating older guy. She was poised, confident, smiling. And while that guy was far from the life of the party, Art Crawl seemed to like him all right. He traded a word or two with almost everyone present. At one point he said something with a straight face that got an open laugh from Noser. The only person who steered clear of That Guy was Pip, and he never liked anyone.

Tyler felt like he was crawling on broken glass, admitting it even to himself, but Wendy looked better than she ever had before. Like there was nothing she couldn't handle. Her skin practically glowed with energy and muscle tone; she looked sleek. No, worse. Satisfied. Tyler turned a little, never taking his eyes from Art Crawl, and punched the wall beside the window. It didn't help. He could have picked up the conversation with a parabolic mike, even recorded it, but this was about all the information he could handle.

That guy left around midnight, alone, in the clunky-ugly black sedan with the odd vanity plates. Tyler thought about following, but he wasn't sure how to do it without being seen. He didn't need to do anything else tonight; there was always tomorrow.

---

A nervous computer drone, jittering with caffeine overload and fatigue, brought a thick stack of papers to the CEO's office just after one in the morning. The very first sheet, a page scanned from a high school yearbook, told Neville he was on the right track. "Hello Clarence," he said mildly, and began to read.

---

By public reputation, FATBOY had some of the best computer systems in the world. In private truth they were even better, more subtle and advanced than the strictly-human state of the art. But they weren't the only ones. At a dozen points on the web, data ghosts reported that someone was looking at specific scattered, obscure pieces of information. At their home base a more sophisticated program counted up the hits, noted their common point of origin, and called for fully sentient help.

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