The Machine Elf by Joel Bryant

The Machine Elf by Joel Bryant

Tim, never call him Timothy, was super angry. His rapid and sharp elbowed career progression seemed in jeopardy. There was something majorly wrong with the company’s computer network, it kept crashing, breaking at the most inconvenient moments. The high-ups were not impressed. Productivity was down and the merciless finger of blame was now firmly pointing in Tim’s direction.

Not trusting his staff, Tim had personally intervened, but even he could not resolve the problem, neither could the third-party support, who had informed him that the kit was fine. Despite his protestation, he had been told that additional help had been requested. Tim doubted they would be able to resolve the issue, but he supposed it was extra smart to have a scapegoat available in this sort of situation.

Fuelling Tim’s foul mood was the discovery that his bosses had decided to drag Pete, his old head of networks, out of retirement to hopefully conjure up a solution. Pete had been part of the furniture when Tim had joined the company, and he had extended considerable effort in his forced retirement. Tim considered Pete an obsolete maverick, unable to adhere to his non-negotiable processes and procedures. Even Pete’s crumbled appearance, his frayed trousers, scuffed shoes, and faded polo shirts, deeply irritated him. Think smart, dress smart, that was one of Tim’s favoured corporate mantras.

Tim and Pete were huddled awkwardly together in the main data centre, scrutinising the expensive hardware that Tim had insisted on installing. Tim regarded the old engineer, who was fussing around with his borrowed lap-top, with poorly concealed distaste, and cursed the time he was wasting. Tim liked everything to be fastidiously neat and tied down. No messing about, one touch and it should be done. This was not how the old boy operated, but the network had always behaved when he was in charge, hence his sudden consultation requirement. It would only be a brief hiring as far as Tim was considered, defo. He suspected the issue was caused by Pete’s tinkering anyway, a legacy problem that was not properly documented.

“I’m not sure what you can do to fix this, I really wanted to get an expert,” Tim complained, neglecting to tell Tim that the experts had already drawn a blank.

“Can’t hurt to look Timothy, see if I can work some magic,” said Pete.

Tim sighed softly in irritation, Pete always got his name wrong, but he decided to be the (much) better man and let it pass (for now). Tim sniffed dismissively and moodily eyed the half-drunk can of Coke Pete had left on the floor. It was just asking to be knocked over and there was a strict no food and drink policy in the room, which Pete always used to ignore. Tim bent down to pick up the can, planning to make a deliberate point about its correct disposal. Tidy room, tidy mind, that was another saying he approved of.

“Leave that could you Timothy, I’ll sort it in a bit,” said Pete.

“Make sure you do Peter,” grumbled Tim, fighting the urge to crush the can in his hand and throw it hard at Pete’s head. Tim’s irritation level was rapidly becoming critical, he really shouldn’t have to remind anyone about proper policy, even fools past their sell by date.

Tim checked his smartwatch; he had a meeting scheduled and if he didn’t attend mistakes were sure to be made. With relief, he left the old fossil to his ineffectual pottering. If he was quick, he could also nip into the Marketing department. He liked to flirt with the ladies in Marketing. He was sure several of them fancied him. It would be a tight for time, but he could spare a few minutes to give them a treat and show them some recent selfies of him training hard at the gym.

Pete had been allocated a week to diagnose the network problems and since his involvement it had been working smoothly. Tim was torn. He was relieved that the network was now stable, but he had been enjoying the prospect of announcing Pete’s abject failure. He did love a public shaming of subordinates. He was also super aware that Pete’s success also made him look negligent and ill-informed, which was bad. Tim would need to do something about that, extra pronto.

Late Friday afternoon and Tim had still not received any updates from Pete, not even an email. Thoroughly feed-up with a lack of a progress report, revised support matrix, or a completed action plan, Tim decided to go looking for Pete. He found him in a network hub thoughtfully munching a prawn sandwich. It was double defo time to remind him who the boss was, followed by an instant termination of his services.

Tim appeared absorbed in his own thoughts, listening to the happy hum of the electrics and smooth whirr of the switch fans. The hardware sounded content and perfectly tuned.

“I know you don’t understand correct process, but I thought we’d scheduled a hand-over plan, before you finish Peter,” Tim barked.

” Not sure about finish, looks like we’re dealing with an ongoing problem,” Pete responded, brushing some crumbs of his worn fleece, and placing the half-eaten packet of sandwiches on the floor by the switch racking. Tim thought this might happen, deadwood pushing their luck. Not on his watch, no sir.

“Look, it would probably blow your tiny mind, but I need definite answers. I have responsibilities and execs to keep happy,” he growled. Weeks of churning frustration and bruising anxiety now rapidly reaching a rolling boil of rage. He had been under a lot of strain latterly and had suffered several sleepless nights. The burden of leadership was a heavy one, it was fortunate that Tim was the boss, anyone else would have been crushed by the pressure.

“That is exactly what I’m trying to do,” Pete said.

“And how are you doing that by stuffing your face and leaving crap everywhere?” Tim snapped.

“Not crap, Timothy, offerings. A splash of left-over coke is a gift for the network gremlins. I found out years ago it was their favourite. And a donated bit of sandwich is always welcomed by the bugs and the glitches,” Pete replied.

Tim had heard enough. He was not a man willing to accept mockery from an underling. His pent-up anger finally broke free from his weary, fraying control. He swung a fist wildly at Pete’s head, he was sure it would only take one punch to make his brutal point.  However, the old man must have been anticipating a violent reaction. With perfect timing, he lithely slipped out of the path of the strike. Instead, Tim’s hand smashed into the metal frame hosting the network switches.

Tim had struck with full force, and the blow had smashed several knuckles, tearing away the skin. Blood streamed heavily down his hand to pool on the floor. The jolt of pain and the transformation of his hand to bloody burger meat, turned Tim from rampaging aggressor into broken, sagging casualty. This was super bad. He felt desperately unsteady, the ground shifting underneath him like the surface of trampoline being traversed by a staggering drunk. Tim staggered forward to steady himself on the wall, mis-judged the distance, stepped heavily on the discarded prawn sandwich and crashed to the floor, bouncing his head on the way down on the increasingly battered metal racking.

“I was looking forward to that sandwich,” said Pete.

He always suspected Timothy would never make his own retirement, he was too brittle and tightly wound. Pete was a little different, he was a machine elf, and they knew how to adapt. Once they would have been seen as someone that had been touched by the divine; a shaman who communicated with the spirits, an oracle that spoke for the gods. But everyone needs to move with the times, and technology was the new religion, and sometimes the new magic. That intense guy at work that always knows how to fix your computer, the introverted lady that compiles the hardest code in a software company, there’s a distinct possibility they are machine elves. Generally, they exist on beige food and carbonated fizzy drinks, and converse in arcane techno babble. Not all of them had a rapport with the creatures that now lived in the new technology, but Pete did, he was a bug whisperer.

Pete regarded the crumbled body on the floor, oozing gore but no longer twitching.

“It’s a bit old school Timothy, but a blood sacrifice will certainly pacify the gremlins for a long time,” Pete observed.

Timothy’s death was a puzzle, eventually explained as a stress related heart attack or some form of seizure. His injuries must have been caused by his impact with the racking as he collapsed. His funeral was not that well attended, but Pete felt compelled to go. The ceremony was subdued, but at least it ran on time, which is what Timothy would have wanted. Pete particularly enjoyed the buffet at the wake. He helped himself to two large plates and careful wrapped up some excellent sausage rolls in a napkin as an offering for the creatures that lived in the network. They were probably well sated, but who doesn’t like a sausage roll with their can of Coke? The gremlins would, defo.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Joel Bryant 2025

Image Source: Enzo Tommasi from Unsplash