Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

July 21, 2024

Sir Cyrius the Serious and the Case of Corporate Espionage

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort moved with an air of solemnity through the glass-paneled labyrinth of Innovatech’s headquarters. The sharp, metallic clang of his polished helmet echoed in the sterile corridors, drawing bemused glances from his colleagues, despite having worked at Innovatech for nearly a decade. His office stood a testament to his unique blend of medieval gravitas and corporate acumen, a fortress of order amidst the chaos of the tech company. Shelves lined with meticulously organized binders detailed campaigns of past seasons, while antique swords hung on the walls, which concerned a few of colleagues in HR but the executives did not seem to care so long as Sir Cyrius performed superbly each quarter.

It was a typical Thursday morning when the emergency meeting was called. The CEO, Jonathan Thorne—known for his graying temples and perpetual look of restrained exasperation from working too many NYT crosswords and late-night, high-stakes black jack tables—paced the front of the conference room, his polished shoes tapping out a staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor. Around the table, executives sipped their artisanal coffees and exchanged worried glances.

The waves of murmuring quieted as Sir Cyrius entered the threshold of the conference room.

“Sir Cyrius,” Thorne began, his voice strained, “we have a mole. Our latest project, the QuantumEncrypt software, has been compromised. Confidential information has been leaked, and I need you to find the culprit.”

Sir Cyrius nodded gravely, his visor clanking shut with the resolute finality of a knight donning his gauntlet. “Fear not, for I shall unearth this perfidious knave and restore honor to our house.”

His first stop was the IT department, a hive of activity where rows of programmers typed away at illuminated keyboards, their faces bathed in the bluish glow of monitors. Gregor, the disgruntled coder, sat at his cubicle fortress, surrounded by a parapet of empty energy drink cans and stacks of outdated coding manuals. Sir Cyrius approached with the air of a medieval inquisitor.

“Gregor,” he intoned, “where were you during the hours of the leak?”

Gregor, bleary-eyed and jittery, looked up. “I was here, working on the backend integration. Check the server logs, you’ll see.”

Sir Cyrius’s investigation confirmed Gregor’s alibi. The logs, precise and unyielding, showed Gregor’s keystrokes meticulously timed to the moment.

Next, Sir Cyrius turned his attention to Martha, the ambitious project manager. Her desk was a battlefield of color-coded sticky notes and meticulously organized project plans.

“Martha,” Sir Cyrius began, “your ambitions are well-known. What say you to these accusations of betrayal?”

Martha leaned back, crossing her arms. “My ambition is here, Cyrius. I’m gunning for that VP position, not some rival company’s table scraps. You can check my correspondence, it’s all above board.”

Sir Cyrius, through a deft inspection of her emails and project timelines, found no evidence of malfeasance. Her ambition, though fierce, was focused inward.

Then there was Hank, the enigmatic janitor, a figure as inscrutable as he was unassuming. Hank’s closet, a sanctuary of cleaning supplies and whispered confidences, seemed an unlikely place for treachery. Yet, Sir Cyrius was thorough.

“Hank,” he said, peering into the dimly lit closet, “what secrets do you hold?”

Hank, with his mop and bucket, looked up with a knowing smile. “Follow the shadows, Sir Cyrius. Sometimes the answers are where you least expect.”

“How cryptic. But I shall, ye sanitation maestro. I will look in each and every nook and cranny of this infernal department until I find the treacherous mole.”

Days turned into nights, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows as Sir Cyrius poured over logs, emails, and security footage. His perseverance finally bore fruit—a security log revealed an anomaly. Someone had accessed the system during the twilight hours, from an unusual place: the CEO’s office.

The climactic confrontation unfolded in the atrium, a battlefield of ergonomic chairs and potted plants. Sir Cyrius, with the fervor of a knight unmasking a traitor in Camelot, presented his findings to the board.

“Jonathan Thorne,” Sir Cyrius declared, his voice resonating through the atrium, “you are the source of this treachery. Your clandestine dealings with our rivals have imperiled our realm.”

The CEO’s face twisted from feigned confusion to thinly veiled malice. The evidence was irrefutable, his clandestine emails and late-night system accesses laid bare. He had been selling Innovatech’s secrets to the highest bidder, jeopardizing the very foundation of the company.

Thorne, cornered and exposed, offered no defense. The board swiftly removed him from his position, the whispers of his betrayal echoing through the atrium. Sir Cyrius, though weary from his quest, stood tall, his honor and the company’s integrity intact.

As dawn broke over the city, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort returned to his office. The first light of morning filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow on his meticulously ordered desk. The modern world, with its tangled web of digital and bureaucratic challenges, had been no match for his resolve.

With a final glance at the orderly chaos of his office, Sir Cyrius donned his helmet once more. The battle had been won, but he knew more challenges awaited. Stepping into the new day, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead, his seriousness and dedication unwavering.

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July 10, 2024

Sir Cyrius of the Serious Sort and the Corporate Meeting

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort stood before the full-length mirror in his office, meticulously adjusting his tie. The room around him was a veritable fortress of modern corporate paraphernalia: framed motivational posters adorned the walls, their platitudes masked as wisdom; the desk, a monolithic slab of mahogany, bore the scars of countless meetings, each nick and scratch a testament to battles fought and won. He waited patiently in stoic silence by the desk, sitting in his ergonomic office chair.

Ready to fight. Ready to conquer, he told himself.

Today held the weight of destiny. The meeting that loomed ahead was no ordinary gathering of minds; it was a council of war, a confluence of critical decision-makers whose decrees would shape the very future of the company. Or so Sir Cyrius believed.

He donned his helmet, its visor clanging shut with a decisive finality. The faint scent of polished metal and old leather filled his nostrils, grounding him in the gravity of the moment. He picked up his leather-bound notebook—a tome of strategies and counter-strategies, of financial forecasts and market analyses. Each page was meticulously annotated in his precise, angular handwriting.

He strode to the door, the click of his polished loafers echoing in the silent corridor. As he approached the conference room, he could hear the murmur of voices within, a low hum of anticipation. The door, a barrier between the mundane and the monumental, swung open with a creak. He stepped inside.

The room was a stark contrast to his expectations. His colleagues—Diane from HR, Steve from Marketing, and Hilda from IT—sat around the table, their postures relaxed, their expressions betraying no hint of the import of the occasion. They exchanged pleasantries, sipped coffee from disposable cups, and shuffled papers with an air of casual disinterest.

Sir Cyrius took his seat at the head of the table, his notebook thudding onto the polished surface. He cleared his throat, a sound that reverberated through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice a measured blend of authority and gravitas, as if he were talking to an auditorium of thousands rather than a party of three barely awake coworkers, “we are gathered here to discuss matters of utmost importance. The future of our company hinges on the decisions we make today.”

Diane glanced up from her phone, her brow furrowed in mild confusion. “Right, Cyrius,” she said, her tone placating, “but first, can we go over the quarterly team-building budget?”

“It is Sir…Sir Cyrius,” he corrected.

“Yes, well, can we please get on with the meeting without too much interruption?”

Unperturbed, Sir Cyrius pressed on. “Indeed, Diane, but let us not lose sight of the larger battle at hand. Our market position is under siege. We must fortify our defenses and launch a decisive counteroffensive.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure thing, Sir Cyrius. But before we dive into that, we really need to finalize the plans for the company picnic.”

Sir Cyrius nodded, his visor dipping in solemn agreement. “Very well. But remember, every move we make, no matter how small, contributes to the greater strategy. The picnic, too, must be seen as a maneuver in our campaign to strengthen company morale and solidarity.”

Hilda, adjusting her glasses, chimed in. “I’ve got the IT report ready. No major issues, just a few updates needed. Should take ten minutes tops.”

Sir Cyrius listened intently, his mind whirring with the possibilities. Each report, each budget item, was a piece of the grander puzzle. “Excellent. Ensure those updates are implemented posthaste. We cannot afford any vulnerabilities.”

As the meeting wore on, it became clear that the gravity Sir Cyrius attributed to the proceedings was not universally shared. His colleagues, while diligent and professional, treated the agenda with a level of casual detachment that belied the stakes he perceived. They discussed the minutiae of office life—supply orders, upcoming birthdays, and parking space allocations—with a lightness that seemed almost heretical to Sir Cyrius’s serious sensibilities, especially since he was of a Serious Sort.

Yet, as the hour drew to a close and his colleagues began to disperse, Sir Cyrius remained undaunted. For in his mind, every decision, every action, was part of a grander narrative, a tale of corporate valor and strategic brilliance. He rose from his seat, gathered his notebook, and nodded to his departing comrades.

“Remember,” he intoned, “we are the guardians of this company’s future. Let us conduct ourselves with the seriousness our mission demands.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort felt a surge of resolve. The battle, as he saw it, was far from over. And he, its steadfast knight, would continue to fight with every ounce of his considerable seriousness and valor.

Onward, Sir Cyrius recited. For the future. As bright and serious as it shall be!

July 9, 2024

Sir Cyrius’ Commute

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort found himself ensnared in the labyrinthine clutches of the city’s morning traffic. The clatter of honking horns and the ceaseless hum of engines surrounded him, a cacophony of the modern world’s unending hurry. His steed, a sleek black sedan with the nobility of German engineering, idled impatiently beneath him. Cyrius’s grip on the steering wheel was firm, his gloved fingers drumming a steady, measured beat to a song he did not know he knew.

Through the narrow slit of his helmet’s visor, he surveyed the scene before him: an endless queue of vehicles stretching into the horizon, a serpentine beast of steel and rubber. To his right, a minivan emblazoned with a gaudy decal advertising a local pest control service. To his left, a diminutive hatchback, its rear plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming a hodgepodge of political allegiances and half-baked witticisms. Cyrius’s jaw tightened beneath his visor. Sweat began to pool around the neck of his knight’s helmet.

With a measured exhalation, he addressed his steed, “We shall advance, noble friend, and reclaim our rightful place upon this thoroughfare.” He pressed down on the accelerator, nudging the sedan forward by mere inches, a knight’s charge stymied by the ignoble realities of urban gridlock.

The seconds stretched into minutes, each tick of the clock a reminder of his encroaching tardiness. He felt the stirrings of a battle-hardened resolve; it was time to employ more assertive tactics. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled his intention to change lanes. The hatchback beside him, oblivious or perhaps simply indifferent, remained steadfast in its position. Cyrius’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his visor.

“Very well,” he muttered, “if they will not yield, then we shall force their hand.” He edged his steed forward, the sedan’s bumper mere centimeters from the hatchback’s rear. The driver, a young woman engrossed in her smartphone, remained blissfully unaware of the impending incursion. Cyrius gave a sharp blast of his horn, a call to arms. The woman started, her eyes wide as she glanced in her rearview mirror. With a sigh of resignation, she inched her vehicle forward, granting Cyrius the narrowest of openings.

Triumphant, he eased his steed into the coveted space, a small but significant victory. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before turning his attention to the next obstacle: a hulking SUV directly ahead, its rear window emblazoned with a decal proclaiming the driver’s allegiance to a nearby CrossFit gym. Cyrius regarded the SUV with a mixture of disdain and determination.

Once more, he signaled his intention to overtake. The SUV, however, appeared resolute, its driver a burly man with the neck of a bull and the disposition of an irate badger. Cyrius, undeterred, edged his sedan closer, his horn issuing a peremptory command. The SUV’s driver glanced in his rearview mirror, his expression a mask of incredulity and irritation. For a moment, it seemed as though a confrontation might ensue, a clash of modern-day titans upon the battlefield of the freeway.

But then, with a huff of resignation, the SUV’s driver yielded, granting Cyrius passage. As he surged forward, Cyrius allowed himself a rare smile. He had navigated the perils of the morning commute with skill and determination, his honor intact and his steed unscathed.

As the traffic began to ease and the city skyline loomed ahead, Cyrius pondered the peculiarities of the city’s landscape.

And so, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort continued on his way, a figure out of time yet undeniably of it. Onward, he mustered his trusty steed of a sedan, onward to work, where there be dragons lurking in corporate offices.