The Mediator Pattern Read online
The Mediator Pattern
by J.D. Lee
Artwork by J.D. Lee
Edited by Julane Marx
Cover Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Cover Image courtesy of Nick Coombs / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
[email protected]
www.Trueleefiction.com
Copyright © 2012 Truelee Fiction
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1497302358
ISBN-10: 1497302358
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
This book is for the universe.
It is for my friends and my family.
If I have them, my foes and my enemies.
All of you who exist here.
All of you who have left.
Even those who come and go.
Everything that is or ever will be
or hasn't had the guts to exist.
This book, The Mediator Pattern,
is for all of it.
Table of Contents
Chapter I ................ 1
Chapter II ................ 10
Chapter III................ 23
Chapter IV ................ 25
Chapter V ................ 35
Chapter VI ................ 41
Chapter VII ............... 48
Chapter VIII............... 55
Chapter IX ................ 57
Chapter X ................ 66
Chapter XI ................ 73
Chapter XII................ 77
Chapter XIII............... 83
Chapter XIV................ 91
Chapter XV ................ 98
Chapter XVI................ 105
Chapter XVII............... 113
Acknowledgments............ 118
The Mediator Pattern
Chapter I
Harsh rays of light jabbed at the jumbled mess of sheets. A hand darted out from the pile and hovered over the digital alarm clock atop the cardboard box beside the bed. The hand, anticipating the rude scream, silenced the shrill beep as soon as it started. Marcus Metiline, pulling a mashed cigarette from a crumpled pack on the floor, rose from the mattress, dragging his feet and tucking in his shirt as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
Reaching the doorway, he stood and watched himself in the mirror as he straightened the cigarette and brought it to his lips. He patted his pants for a light. From his right pocket, he pulled a matchbook. Seven matches remained. Marcus ripped a match from the book and lit it. Fire illuminated his reflection as his lungs filled with smoke.
Exhaling, Marcus shook out the match and approached the pedestal sink. He rested his elbows heavily against it and examined the already healing cut above his eye. Dim rays of light scrawled across the shadows on his face. The glow of his cigarette burned, emphasizing his round cheeks, deep eye sockets, and two-day stubble with each long drag.
Marcus groaned. He wasn’t an old man, but he wasn’t young anymore either. He mashed the smoldering cigarette butt into the puddle of water in the sink bowl left by the leaky faucet and pooled by the clogged drain. Patting his swollen, lacerated brow with a dab of dripping water, he stepped back from the mirror and yanked his coat from the hook on the bathroom door.
He emerged from the bathroom. His gray trousers clashed with his one-size-too-small, brown coat. He rolled his sleeves and wore his coat open. His socks peeked out, showing just a bit below the cuff. His black shoes were scuffed and worn, in terrible need of a polish. In contrast, his buckle sparkled and glinted in the light, prominent along his waistline.
Marcus moved toward the bed and bent down to retrieve the crumpled pack of smokes from off the floor. A ringing and humming initiated behind him. The telltale sound of a message from the corporation’s standard-issue fax machine sitting half cocked upon his small writing desk.
Marcus had been expecting this message. This meant his assignment was to begin soon.
Standing at the fax machine, a boxy metal device with paper sticking out from one end and a telephone and dial pad upon its face, he removed another cigarette from his pack and lit it, this time from the box of strike-anywhere matches upon the desk. The machine began to pull the paper into itself, feasting on the wood pulp. The buzzing of tiny machine parts could be heard coming from within its hull. The bottom end began to eject the once blank paper with clear, well defined, typeset letters upon it. Marcus snatched the paper from the device.
ATTENTION MR. MARCUS METILINE
Your clearance arrangements have been made and you are scheduled to meet with Mr. Colin Belis, CEO of The Belis Corporation, this afternoon. You will have a seventy-two-hour security clearance in order to meet with Mr. Belis personally. If you need more time, further clearance will be required. Please keep your portable fax machine nearby as we may need to contact you again.
- The Inner Office of Colin Belis, The Belis Corporation
Marcus Metiline crumpled the note and tossed it on the floor. He took deep successive drags off his cigarette as he made his way across the room to the cabinet in the corner. He reached in and removed a small device with a cumbersome wheel of glossy paper affixed to one end.
Civilian portable fax machine, Marcus thought to himself. “What will they come up with next?” he asked aloud to no one.
Colin Belis, Marcus pondered, such a powerful man. It’s been years since we've seen him. The radio stopped reporting on him and The Belis Corporation. He mulled over the implications of such a meeting. No one outside of his inner office is allowed within two thousand feet of him, and he’s requested a personal meeting with me. This must be good. If nothin’ else, it should pay well.
Marcus attached the porta-fax machine to his belt, snatched up a spare roll of the glossy paper, threw it in his briefcase and left the apartment, latching the door behind him.
He shuffled down the long cramped hallway, passing unit after unit of studio-sized apartments. Reaching the exit, he swung open the heavy steel door and descended two flights of concrete stairs, those stairs that always seem to be just a little taller than they should be. He wondered what a child would do faced with these stairs, crawl maybe? He quickly discarded the thought, replacing it with the relief that his apartment complex was an adult-only facility; no one under the age of 21 was allowed on the premises.
Still, he thought, damn these stairs.
He tossed his cigarette in the bronze butt-bucket at the base of the stairs and fiddled with his keys as he began unlocking the three internal deadbolts on the large cage-like door between him and the street.
Now on the sidewalk, Marcus slouched as he fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and once again patted his pants in search of his matches. Finding both, he lit the cigarette and puffed away at it. Five matches remained.
People in suits flooded the sidewalk, moving quickly on their way. A lady in a smart woman’s pant suit waved away Metiline’s smoke as she passed, sneering at him in distaste. Marcus shrugged indifferently. After all, his neighborhood wasn’t one of those smoke-free zones. In fact, he purchased the apartment specifically for that reason—that, and the age requirement.
Marcus pushed his way to the edge of the sidewalk and waved his hand, signaling an approaching taxicab.
An all plastic, translucently white, three-wheeled vehicle silently pulled to the side of the road direc
tly in front of him. The BelisCo emblem was distinctly engraved on the hood of the car, and behind the emblem, the engine could be seen, its pistons pumping silently but with vigor.
The driver reached over and rolled down the passenger window to greet Marcus.
“Sir, this is a non-smoking passenger transport,” he politely informed his fare.
Metiline retorted in disgust, “A non-smoking cab in a smoking zone? I’ll wait for another.”
The window ascended to its closed position and the vehicle drove away. Other than the sound of the thin wheels on the pavement, it ran in complete silence as it melded into a flood of white cabs.
It was ten full minutes before another transport recognized Marcus’s signal. By which time he had already finished his cigarette. The cab halted in front of him and a driver emerged, making his way around the vehicle to assist his fare into the back seat.
Holding the door cordially for Marcus, the cabbie asked, “Where to?”
Marcus grumbled an address to the cabbie and sank into the seat. The man shut the door and returned to his position behind the wheel.
Moments later they stopped in front of a large standalone building with outdoor seating. The sign above the thick-paned glass, double doors read, Cafe Diem: coffee, cannabis, and cigarettes.
Marcus paid the cabbie and exited the vehicle. He watched the cab leave before entering the cafe.
The tables were nearly full with people puffing away on cigars, reefer spliffs, and cigarettes. Only a few folks had coffee at their tables. On one wall, a newly installed, long, glass-topped bar with gold trim and fold out stools extended to the back of the room. Atop the bar, courtesy walls partitioned individual seats. Between each set of occupied partitions could be seen a bundle of cables protruding from the bar’s surface. Above the cable bundles hung a brass bell, and on the wall, a menu was posted, highlighting the available products. Running the length of the bar and repeated to the back of the room, the words fax-bay were etched in cursive.
Marcus made his way to the back corner of the room and found himself a seat at the fax-bay. He set his briefcase down, reached under the bar, and folded out the red leather stool. The cable bundle popped out as the stool locked in place. Marcus took his porta-fax from off his belt and set it on the bar. He plugged the device in and rang the service bell.
It wasn't but a second before a stunning, blonde gal with green eyes came up behind Marcus. She was no more than half his age. She was wearing a skin-tight halter top, patent leather high-heels, and an apron that pressed flat most of the ruffles in her skirt.
“Mr. Metiline!” the young girl exclaimed.
“Hi Stacy,” he replied without turning. “Can I get a cup of coffee, black, a pack of cigarettes, and one of those primo reefer spliffs?”
She nodded.
“Do you want anything in particular?” she asked as she pointed to the menu on the wall.
He turned to her and said, “Surprise me.”
Just then she noticed his swollen brow and the healing cut above his eye. Extending one of her chipped pink nails to his forehead, she lightly touched his wound.
“Mr. Metiline, what happened?”
Marcus thought about it, but realized he had no answer for her. He was known to get into the occasional scuffle and thought nothing of it earlier in the morning, but now, faced with Stacy’s inquiry, he could think of no reason that he was injured, no scuffle, no brawl, nothing. Since the alcohol prohibition last year, a forced sobriety, his memory had been pretty good. His liver too. It struck him as odd that he had no answer for her.
With nothing else in mind, he fabricated a loose story about a disagreement between a door and his face. He didn’t need her, of all people, to think he was getting old, to think he was losing his memory, or even his mind.
“Ah, those pesky doors. You ought to be more careful, Mr. Metiline,” she said with a smile, and turned away to fill his order.
Marcus watched as she sauntered toward the double doors embedded on the back wall. Her long legs went on forever, eventually meeting with the shadows of her ruffled skirt. Even beneath those ruffles, he could still make out the plump, roundness of her ass. He wasn’t usually the type to stare, but he knew Stacy and he liked Stacy.
As she disappeared behind the swinging doors, Marcus turned back to his fax device.
A moment later, a slender, young hand placed a cup of black coffee in front of Marcus, the BelisCo emblem plainly stamped on the thick plastic cup. He turned to Stacy and she handed him a pack of cigarettes, the pack also sporting the BelisCo branding. He tore into the wrapping and brought a cigarette to his lips. Stacy extended a light. She lit it, and he puffed away with deep drags.
She smiled and said, “It’s my break time, mind if I sit with you?”
She didn't wait for an answer. She fished two reefer spliffs from the pocket in her apron and handed one to Marcus. The other, she brought to her soft, red lips.
“Sure.”
A vague smile played across his mouth as Marcus unfolded the barstool beside him and Stacy took a seat.
She noticed the fax device and asked him when he had gotten it.
“Two days ago,“ he said, “I can't afford these damn things. It's on loan for a job.”
Marcus took a gulp of the coffee and said, “This one might actually pay off. It’s through BelisCo. In fact, I’m meeting with Colin Belis himself this afternoon.”
Stacy’s eyes widened, “What job does he have for you?”
She anticipated his answer with large, childlike eyes. Something behind those eyes just lit up sometimes. She still had that spark, that fire of life, the glint of wonder. Marcus envied that about her.
He spoke into his coffee, “Well, if they hired me, it's gotta be a patent dispute.”
“Duh,” Stacy mocked. “Do you know what kinda patent?”
“Find that out today I s’pose.”
Stacy chuckled and said, “Well, that makes sense. I know you’ll do great.”
With absolute sincerity, she added, “You’re the best patent mediator I know.”
She paused, then giggling, “After all, you’re the only patent mediator I know.”
Just then his porta-fax began humming and beeping as the paper wheel turned and fed the device. A message presented itself from the other end.
ATTENTION MR. METILINE
THE CONVERSATION YOU ARE HAVING
VIOLATES OUR AGREEMENT.
IF YOU CONTINUE THERE WILL BE
CONSEQUENCES.
PROPRIETARY INFORMATION.
CEASE AND DESIST.
Passing between Marcus and the message he received, before he had the chance to ponder the espionage required for such a message, was Stacy’s slender young hand placing a cup of black coffee in front of him, the same black coffee with the same BelisCo emblem plainly stamped on its thick, plastic cup. He turned to Stacy and she handed him a pack of cigarettes.
“It’s my break time...”
She broke off, seeing the contorted look of concern and confusion on his face.
She asked, “Is everything okay Mr. Metiline?”
Marcus looked back toward his fax to find the message no longer protruding from its base.
Something lingering in the back of his mind, something more ominous than the threatening warning he received—or didn't receive— compelled him to gather his things and leave the cafe. He hurriedly unplugged his porta-fax, fumbling with the cables.
Finally detaching the device, he turned to Stacy, “I’ve gotta go.”
He clipped the fax to his belt, snatched up his briefcase, and turned to leave, his coffee untouched. Stacy extended her hand, gently grabbing Marcus’s shoulder. He turned to face her.
“For later”, she said, sliding a spliff into his coat pocket and patting his lapel gently.
He forced a weak smile in an attempt to show her that everything was okay. She knew it wasn’t. He quickly made his way to the front doors and pushed his way through them.
He grumbled his destination to the driver, thinking intently as he seated himself in the backseat of the transport. Once they arrived at the main entrance of The Belis Corporation headquarters, Marcus Metiline’s mind had forgotten entirely of the eerie déjà vu he had experienced back at the cafe, and only a distant fleeting sense of unease persisted.
Marcus now stood before an imposing metallic building that jutted harshly into the clouds. As far as he could see, to either side of him, the steely walls of BelisCo lined the sidewalk, extending for miles down the street. The sheer size of the building was impressive to Marcus. He wondered how Belis was able to sneak this modern day Tower of Babel past God. As he looked for the entrance, he realized that there were no seams; no doors, no windows, no entrance, and no exit. There was only the massive slick metallic wall, spread in all directions but down.
Then he spotted a single red button, just below what he assumed to be the address; a single digit, a person-sized 1 etched into the metal. As he approached the comparatively minuscule button, his reflection flickered and danced and stretched and contracted until the florid glow of the button sat centered upon his distorted face. To the side and a bit below the button, almost too small to read, were the words, Loitering Is an Executable Offense.
Marcus knew that, even in his own neighborhood, although it wasn’t typically enforced. He knew though that this particular law would be strictly upheld in this zone.
He firmly flattened the palm of his hand against the red button. A small, rectangular section of wall silently melted away to reveal the black vinyl mesh of a speaker. A female voice spoke clearly through the mesh.
The Mediator Pattern