Page 6 of Fallen Stars

Had they, they would’ve had answers much sooner. There would’ve been less death on their hands.

Live and learn, I suppose.

A knock on my closed office door steals my attention and I growl. Tymber never knocks. He always shoots a text or an IM if he needs something.

“What?” I bark out.

The door slowly opens and a newer employee pokes their head inside. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. West. It’s just…”

When they don’t continue, I peer up from my screens and take in their worried expression. “What?”

They cringe. “I think the server is broken.”

Not fucking possible.

My molars gnash together and I audibly exhale. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

They are obviously unaware the servers we use are in the cloud. Yes, in some undisclosed remote location, there are physical machines running, processing, and storing all our data. In a server farm. In a controlled environment capable of handling our programs and networks.

And last I checked, we have more than enough storage and security to meet our needs.

I shove my chair back, rise from my seat, swipe up my phone, and head for the door. “Show me.”

They lead me to their desk and show me how the account they’re working on continues to crash.

Eyes scanning the screen, I find the problem before I reach the bottom. The crashes have nothing to do with servers. They have nothing to do with machines at all. No, the issue is one-hundred-percent user error.

Which irritates me more.

I point out the issue, tell them a resolution, and then remind them of the reference manuals we have readily available for all employees.

Sheepish expression in place, they thank me.

I don’t let it pass so easily. I don’t have the time, patience, or money to deal with incompetent people. Were this a basic job that didn’t require intelligence, I wouldn’t give a shit.

But it’s not.

We deal with private information and people’s safety. Blood, sweat, frustration, and several years of planning built this company. Pleading with and schmoozing high-end clients for years to gain trust was far from easy. But eventually, we won them over and rightfully earned their confidence.

After all the work Tymber and I have put into the business, the last thing this company needs is for shit to go haywire, information to leak, and to be hit with millions of dollars in lawsuits.

I’m not an asshole. But I refuse to put up with incompetence.

“I’m s-sorry, Mr. West. I’ll d-do better.”

Yeah, you will. Or I’ll fire your ass. That’s what I want to say.

Instead, I give a gentle dip of my chin. “See that you do.”

As I turn back for my office, I spot Tymber on the opposite side of the open floor plan. He lifts his chin in way of greeting, then tips his head toward the conference room.

I love what I do, I love running this business with my friend, but damn do I loathe the meetings and office politics. Just let me sit in front of my computer and do what I do best—research and code.

“Wanted to talk with you first.” Tymber closes the door as I pass.

“What’s up?”

Tymber pulls out a chair and sits. Folding my arms over my chest, I stand near the head of the table.

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