Special Cases

The call came in at 14:37 Station Time, right when I was trying to figure out why my synthetic coffee tasted like burnt hydrocarbon. The holographic display flickered to life, showing Account #ZXQ-9947-SLIME in angry red letters. I should have known. Should have pretended the communication array was down. Should have called in sick with Rigellian flu.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU BIPEDAL WASTE OF CARBON,” the voice crackled through the translator, static mixing with what sounded like the mating call of a constipated whale. “I AM GLORBEX THE MODERATELY TERRIBLE, AND YOUR PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A FINANCIAL INSTITUTION HAS FROZEN MY CREDIT FOR THE SEVENTEENTH TIME THIS CYCLE!”

I pulled up the file. Glorbex. Species: Tentacled Blob-thing from Ultima-556. Occupation: Interdimensional Spice Merchant. Credit Rating: Somewhere between “Questionable” and “Dear God, Why?”

“I understand your frustration, Mr… uh, Glorbex,” I said, trying to sound professional while wondering if this job was really worth the dental benefits. “However, our fraud detection algorithm flagged several unusual purchases on your account.”

“UNUSUAL? UNUSUAL?!” The translator was working overtime now, probably melting from the sheer volume of alien profanity. “I BOUGHT SEVENTEEN TONS OF PAPRIKA! I’M A SPICE MERCHANT! WHAT PART OF ‘SPICE’ DO YOU NOT COMPREHEND WITH YOUR PRIMITIVE NEURAL NETWORKS?”

I scrolled through the security protocol. Page 847 of the manual. Right there in black and white: “For accounts exceeding 500 Universal Credits in spice-related purchases, additional verification may be required.”

“Sir, I need to ask you a few security questions to verify your identity.”

“FINE. FIRE AWAY, FLESH-SACK.”

I cleared my throat. “What is your mother’s maiden name?”

“MY SPECIES REPRODUCES BY BUDDING. WE DON’T HAVE MOTHERS.”

“Ah.” I flipped to the alternative questions. “What was the name of your first pet?”

“WE EAT OUR YOUNG.”

“Right. Um…” More page flipping. “What street did you grow up on?”

“WE LIVE IN AMMONIA CLOUDS, YOU MORON. THERE ARE NO STREETS.”

This was going well. I found subsection 94-C: Emergency Verification Protocols for Non-Humanoid Entities.

“Okay, let’s try this: What is the atomic weight of your homeworld’s primary atmospheric component?”

“AMMONIA IS NH3, MOLECULAR WEIGHT 17.031. NEXT?”

“What is the surface temperature of your species’ preferred mating pools?”

“NEGATIVE 78 DEGREES CELSIUS. IS THIS GOING SOMEWHERE?”

I was sweating now. The manual was running out of standard questions. I flipped to the appendix: “Emergency Protocols for Difficult Cases.”

“Sir, I need you to describe the sound your species makes when experiencing mild indigestion.”

There was a pause. Then: “WHAT?”

“It’s a security question. Please make the sound.”

What came through the translator next could only be described as a fusion of a garbage disposal, a dying accordion, and someone gargling with gravel. The other analysts in the office stopped what they were doing and stared.

“Thank you. Now, can you please recite the first seventeen digits of your social security number?”

“WE DON’T HAVE SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBERS. WE HAVE SLIME IDENTIFICATION MATRICES.”

“Please recite your Slime Identification Matrix.”

He rattled off something that sounded like a computer having a nervous breakdown.

“Now, for final verification, I need you to provide the exact date, time, and location of your last molting.”

“MY LAST WHAT?”

“Molting. Shedding. When you last… renewed your outer membrane?”

“LISTEN, CARBON-BASED LIFE-FORM, I HAVE BEEN PATIENT. I HAVE ANSWERED YOUR IDIOTIC QUESTIONS. I HAVE MADE DIGESTIVE SOUNDS FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT. BUT I DRAW THE LINE AT DISCUSSING MY PERSONAL MOLTING SCHEDULE WITH A STRANGER.”

“Sir, I understand, but without this information, I cannot—”

“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. GET ME YOUR SUPERVISOR.”

I looked around the office. My supervisor was currently in a meeting titled “Optimizing Customer Experience Through Enhanced Verification Protocols.” The irony was not lost on me.

“Sir, my supervisor is unavailable, but I can escalate this to our Special Cases department.”

“SPECIAL CASES?”

“Yes, they handle… unique situations.”

“FINE. TRANSFER ME.”

I put him on hold and buzzed Sarah in Special Cases. “Hey, Sarah? I’ve got a tentacled blob-thing from Ultima-556 who won’t discuss his molting schedule.”

“Is this about the spice purchases?”

“Seventeen tons of paprika.”

“Jesus. Okay, send him over.”

As I prepared to transfer the call, Glorbex’s voice crackled back through: “WAIT. BEFORE YOU TRANSFER ME TO ANOTHER DEPARTMENT OF INCOMPETENCE, TELL ME SOMETHING.”

“Yes, sir?”

“DO YOU PEOPLE ACTUALLY HELP ANYONE, OR IS THIS ENTIRE OPERATION JUST AN ELABORATE PRACTICAL JOKE?”

I stared at my screen, at the seventeen different verification protocols, at the manual that was thicker than a phone book from Old Earth, at the flowchart that looked like a spider web designed by someone on hallucinogens.

“You know what, Glorbex? I’m going to unlock your account right now.”

“YOU… YOU CAN DO THAT?”

“Apparently, yes. I’ve been here three years and I just found the override button.”

There was a moment of silence. Then: “THANK YOU, HUMAN. YOU ARE SLIGHTLY LESS TERRIBLE THAN I INITIALLY BELIEVED.”

The line went dead. I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my synthetic coffee. It still tasted like burnt hydrocarbon, but somehow that seemed appropriate.

My terminal chimed. New message from management: “Reminder: All customer interactions must follow established protocols. No exceptions.”

I looked at the message. Then at the override button. Then at the seventeen other calls blinking in my queue, probably seventeen other aliens with seventeen other impossible security questions.

I reached for the coffee again. It was going to be a long day.

But you know what? At least I wasn’t the guy who had to explain to the Crystalline Entities from Proxima Centauri why their gender-fluid status made it impossible to verify their identity through traditional means.

That was Johnson’s problem.

Poor Johnson.