Into the Fourth Universe

by Robert Wingfield

  The High Shenh of the Third Universe considered this. “As you wish.” The pistol was out of its holster and pointing at Allan’s heart milliseconds after Allan’s heart and the rest of him had dived out of the cylinder, and was no longer there. The hatch slid closed and Allan watched with dismay as the machine shimmered and disappeared, leaving him nothing but a patch of flattened flowers and an enormous hard-on. “What a tease she is,” he muttered. “I’m sure she’ll be right back to take me away from all this.”

  He was right. After a few seconds, the cylinder reappeared and the hatch opened. “Your majesty, I’m here for you, as ever your humble servant.” He started towards the craft and was halted as he was hit in the face by a stained pair of trousers and a woolly jumper.

  “And you can keep your dirty washing,” came a slightly deranged voice. “We don’t want that sort of thing cluttering up our transport.”

  The hatch closed and the cylinder disappeared again.

  * * *

  Allan was sitting in the farmhouse, quietly drowning his sorrows with the aid of a rather fine nettle brandy, when the door burst open again. The delectable form of the android stood before him. His smile of greeting and relief faded as he saw the pistol in her hand. He leaned back in his seat. “You should really, your majesty. I’ve got nothing to live for here, now that you’ve gone.”

  “Stand up… or grovel on the floor when you speak to us, you insignificant slime sucker.”

  “Bugger off. You’ll kill me whatever. Can I get you some brandy?”

  “No. You will show us where the safe is.”

  “What safe?” Allan feigned innocence.

  “No need; we will be able to find it. Stay there.”

  “Where do you think I’d go then? I’m stuck here thanks to you.”

  “You were always stuck here. We are the one who is leaving. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what you did to us when you first fished us out of that bush.”

  “Oh.”

  “Treason.”

  “I didn’t know you were the… what is it.”

  “High Shenh of the Third Universe, and do us the respect of remembering that.”

  “Okay. Can I call you ‘HST’ instead? To save your valuable time, you understand.” He did a quick calculation. “I can save twenty-three milliseconds each time I address you.”

  “Yes, we can use that time for more important things. Go ahead. Actually,” the android said, “it will give you a few more moments of life before we kill you, so feel free… not that way.” She smacked his hand. “And you can take that expression off your face.”

  “Sorry, your HST.”

  “Good, now stay there while we track down that safe.”

  “It won’t help. I keep it shut and am not giving you the combination. Without that you won’t be able to get into it without destroying the contents.”

  “Let us be the judge of that.”

  Kara disappeared into the corridor to the bedrooms. Allan shrugged and poured himself another brandy. He heard a few doors slamming, then silence, and then an explosion that rocked the building. “Perhaps I should have mentioned the other security device on the safe,” he mused, swilling the green liquid around in his glass. “I really should go and see what’s left of the spare room, I suppose.” He levered himself unsteadily out of the chair.

  The door opened and a smoking, charred version of the android appeared. She held something wrapped up in a bath towel; something which glowed brightly enough to be seen through the thick material.

  “We are not amused,” she said, “but we do have what we were looking for.”

  Tom Drills Down

  T

  om had called his deputy into the conference room. He fixed the man with a thoughtful stare. “I’m not happy about the negotiations with Nishant.”

  “I’m sorry sir.” Errorcode looked genuinely apologetic. “You have always left the discussions to me in the past. You said it gave you more time for the girls, the stamp collecting and the exotic lifestyle.”

  “Perhaps that blackout changed me a bit.” He stabbed a glance at his aide, who did have the decency to look a little embarrassed.

  “Yes, you do seem to be different now sir. It is, er, good to have you on the team.”

  “And these listening devices and cameras on the plane…”

  “Sir? Listening devices, sir?”

  “Yes, I want them all removed.”

  “I know of no devices sir. Are you sure you aren’t imagining it?”

  “No I’m not. Do you want me to show you?” Tom fished around in his overnight case and drew out an electronic device he had bought at an inflated price in Duty Free on the way back to their plane. “Well?”

  “I’ll get one of the technicians in, to perform a sweep, sir.”

  “If you haven’t outsourced that function too.”

  “Ah. Yes, you are right sir. I’ll have some Nishant staff on standby when we land at Regateside…”

  “We aren’t going to our old HQ.”

  “Sir?”

  “No, I notice that there’s a shiny new building on Sodall. That’s where my new HQ is; that’s where we are going now.”

  “It is not quite finished yet, sir. I want you to be comfortable.”

  “According to the company records here…” he showed the screen to Errorcode, “we’re claiming tax concessions for a completed building and a staff of some five thousand. The only outstanding work is decorative, apparently. My own office is complete isn’t it?”

  “Of course sir, ready to move straight in.”

  “Good. I’m going to move straight in. There is of course space for my P.A.?”

  “Sir, you have never really needed…”

  “Good, make it so. Tell the pilot to change course. Or would you like me to?”

  * * *

  The plane landed smoothly at what appeared to be a deserted airport on a large sub-tropical island. Errorcode sidled up as Tom sniffed the clean scented air before descending the steps. The aide had been absent for the rest of the flight. When Tom asked, he had been informed that he was very busy with urgent calls and company business.

  “The car will be a few minutes, sir. When it arrives, we can do a tour of the island for you to get your bearings, and then I will show you to your chalet so that you can freshen up.”

  “I’d like to see our HQ first please.”

  “Ah, that is not immediately possible sir. The staff are on a public holiday and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Public holiday. Amber, what public holiday is this?”

  His P.A. checked her handheld. “I’ve got nothing registered sir.”

  “It is a special one, for the islanders only, sir. It won’t show up on Willipedia.”

  “I should like to see the building anyway.”

  “We have no security staff on duty I’m afraid. The automatic systems will prevent us from getting close enough. I really would like to show you your accommodation; we can have the tour later if you like.”

  “If it has to be... Call the car and let’s go home.”

  Thirty minutes later, Tom, Amber and the aide were dropped off outside a mansion, done up in what Tom (in his ignorance) would have called ‘The Colonial Style’. As they stooped to pick up the bags, half a dozen maids appeared; maids whose facial characteristics and skimpy outfits suggested that they might have originated from Mr Nishi’s part of the world. Amber snorted, but Errorcode seemed unbothered. “I’ll show you around,” he said as they entered the main hallway.

  “Bedrooms first I think,” said Tom. “I could do with freshening up.”

  “Certainly.” He beckoned to the maid carrying Tom’s bag. “This way.”

  They mounted the sweeping stairway to the first floor and Tom was shown into a palatial bedroom. The bed itself reminded him of one he and Suzanne had shared long ago and a very long way from everywhere. For the first time since he had been
reborn or whatever it was, he felt a pang of sadness. The pain of being away from his lady suddenly hit him. Amber noticed, but Errorcode was in the bathroom hastily removing towels. “I’ll get these changed for you,” he said. He hoped that Tom had not noticed the ‘M’ monogram that he was trying to conceal. He opened the bedroom door. “I’ll leave you to get reacquainted…”

  Tom grabbed his arm. “Where does Amber sleep?”

  “Oh, I assumed she would be with you, sir.”

  “I would prefer my own room if that is all right.” Amber cast a pleading glance at Tom.

  “Yes, she should have her own room,” Tom agreed. I prefer to sleep alone.” He winked at the aide.

  “Okay, have the one next to this. There’s plenty of space.”

  “Thank you. Can I go and settle in, sir?” Amber picked up her travel bag.

  “Please do.” Tom noticed the terminal screen built in to the coffee table and pointed at it. “If you have one of these things in your room, order yourself some more clothes and essentials on the Company account. If that password still hasn’t been sent…” he gave Errorcode a pointed stare, “let me know.”

  “I’ll make sure the Support group are aware that this is an executive request.” He smiled.

  “Much appreciated, Monty.” The aide’s expression did not waver. Tom nodded to Amber as she left the room. He caught Errorcode again as he was about to follow her.

  “Oh, and can you send me a technician to remove the bugging devices please? I’m a full believer in executive transparency, but I do draw the line at downright nosiness, especially if I need to, er, talk to my P.A..”

  “I don’t believe there are any devices, sir.”

  “I’d still like a techie to check it out… just in case, you understand.”

  “Ah, that might be a problem, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “We... outsourced technical support…”

  “…To Mr Nishi?”

  “Yes, sir. The contract was signed by yourself, two years ago.”

  “Of course. Good. So can you get him to send one round?”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t employed one yet.” Errorcode was starting to fidget.

  “From what you were saying in the plane, the reason we outsourced is because the Nishant Corporation has a vast supply of untapped labour; we were planning to replace every one of our engineers with four of theirs and still make a good profit.”

  “It appears they are short of skills in that particular area, sir.”

  “What, general electronics?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You should get recruiting then.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t quite as easy as it should be, either.”

  “Go on. Have you interviewed anyone?”

  “Oh yes, we got lots of applicants through Nishant. We interview them all.”

  “So why haven’t I got my technician?” Tom settled into an armchair and enjoyed his aide’s obvious embarrassment.

  “I believe the normal process is to offer one job to as many as four people.”

  “One job; what, the same job?”

  “Yes, you see, sir, what usually happens is that of the four people we choose, one never gets back to us, two accept and then fail to turn up on the starting date, and if we are lucky, the fourth does arrive and starts work. It is at that point, we usually realise later, that the person who turned up for the job is not the person we interviewed, but his brother, cousin, uncle, or someone else from the same clutch.”

  “Clutch?”

  “It will take a bit of time to explain.”

  “I’m all ears. Get some drinks sent up; for you too. I’m guessing you haven’t got any pressing appointments…”

  “Well, er…”

  “Good. Sit yourself down and start explaining.”

  The drinks arrived; at Tom’s request more of the tall glasses filled with foliage and fruit, vitamin C, green tea (for the cholesterol) and a good portion of various alcoholic components to (and this was Tom’s wily plan) loosen his companion’s tongue. Maliah, the maid, did a curtsey to them both, and scampered out.

  “Sit down Monty, and have a drink to relax,” said Tom, indicating a comfortable sofa.

  “Montague, sir, if you don’t mind, and I don’t really touch alcohol when I’m on duty, sir.”

  “I see. Did I ever tell you that I don’t trust camels?”

  “I’m confused, sir.”

  “No, I don’t trust anything that can go for a week without a drink.”

  “Ah, you josh with me, sir.”

  “I do, but you will drink with me, or I will take it as a personal insult.” He was pleased to see that the neutral expression on Errorcode’s face wavered.

  “If you insist, sir.”

  “I do.”

  The aide took a sip. His face returned to the normal amiable smile. “It is really rather good, sir.”

  “I hoped you’d like it; a little recipe I perfected when I was… Anyway, it’s one of my favourites and does you good too. Drink up. I assume we can always get more. Now, explain to me about the clutch system in Musoketeba.”

  “It is quite complicated.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Yes sir, I’m sure you can. I believe the system is made up of five layers.”

  “Go on.”

  “At the top are a group called the Curriculum Directors. They control the all the main systems, governments and set the laws.”

  Tom nodded. “I understand. Go on.”

  “Then come the Mission Executives who carry out the laws and generally follow the instructions of the group above. They use the next lower group, the Methodical Originators to work out how the overall systems fit into place, and pass this information on to the Methodical Frontrunners to do the fine design work, and who delegate this actual labour to the Contributor Technicians themselves. This applies in all Musoketeban society across the board. You are born in to one particular clutch and cannot move between them. The problem is that not enough Technicians are being born; apparently they are so boring and spend so much time working on mathematical concepts, computer games, the technical specifications of cars and working out the worst arrangement of buttons on handheld devices, that none of the women fancy them.”

  “Oh, are the women not in a specific clutch, too? Surely they could marry people from the same clutch?”

  “Sort of, but as they don’t do the main work, they tend to be able to choose whichever mates they like, depending on how fit they are.”

  “Fit?”

  “The better looking women tend to choose the richer upper-clutch men, who are always better paid, better looking and more toned owing to regular trips to golf courses and race meetings. This means that the Technicians don’t stand a chance.”

  “How shallow.”

  “I’m afraid that’s how it is, sir.”

  “Okay, I can understand that. So the problem is…”

  “There are not enough Technicians it seems; everyone is in the higher clutches.”

  “So, did we not know this when we signed up.”

  “Alas not, sir. We were assured by Mr Nishi that he would be able to supply the numbers of staff we required.”

  “Has he let us down then?”

  “Oh no, sir, far from it. Whenever we have a job posted, we always get plenty of applicants.”

  “I see? So what’s the problem then?”

  Errorcode took another gulp from his drink. “Basically, we can’t understand them, most of the time.”

  “Don’t they speak Pangean? After all, the main point of having a common language is so that we can convince people to do something that they don’t really want to do.”

  “Er, yes, but the accents are very difficult.”

  “So how do we select people now then?”

  “If we can understand what they are saying, sir, they get the job.”

>   “Good, and what if they can’t do the job.”

  “They always pass the technical interviews, sir.”

  “But?”

  “We ask a question and there is usually a pause before they reply.”

  “Why?”

  “We think they are ‘Boggling’ for the answers, sir.”

  “Boggling?”

  “From Boggle, sir, the planetary source of all knowledge.”

  “Ah, and so my technician...”

  “We hope to have one recruited soon for you sir.”

  “But not yet. Bugger.”

  “Apparently so, sir.”

  “That’s my night of passion ruined then.”

  “I could always try to put an emergency call through Structural Manoeuvres on the 24 hour hotline.”

  “It’s not really an emergency, and I suppose I am tired and could do with some sleep. Let’s leave it for now and try again tomorrow. Will I be able to see our HQ and my office then?”

  “Are you sure you want to, sir?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I will arrange it.”

  Tom had a sinking feeling as he watched his aide’s departure. There was something going on, and he felt he was not going to like it.

  * * *

  After a hearty breakfast the following morning, served by one of the maids called Maliah, Tom, Amber and Errorcode were driven away from the mansion in an air-conditioned company limousine en-route to HQ. After a thirty minute journey through lush jungle on a road which turned into a dirt track round the corner from the mansion, the car stopped at the entrance to a building site.

  “We have to get out now, sir.” Errorcode held the door open.

  “What? Where are we?” Tom began to feel uncomfortable. Was this another ruse to kill him; bring them out into the middle of no-where, and then dispose of them quietly (or very noisily if it involved a shotgun and quick-set concrete).

  “Is he going to kill us?” Amber whispered in his ear. Tom vowed to die with his hands round Errorcode’s throat if there was the slightest suspicion of foul play. He reached forward.

  Errorcode recoiled. “We have arrived at our destination sir; corporate headquarters.”