“Where? I see no headquarters, only a building site.”
“It is not quite finished, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“The building site, sir; this is Corporate H.Q. and these are the auxiliary buildings. We have to walk from here.”
“Phoist!”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom let Errorcode lead the way. He wished he had a firearm, but that had disappeared while he slept. When he asked, he had been informed that it was a policy of the Island government that no weapons were permitted, and that it would be returned to him upon departure. As they picked their way along the track past the half-finished structures, he noticed there was no actual work going on. “Where are all the builders?”
Errorcode stopped. “We ran out of money, sir. There was a problem with the main processing systems and we have been subject to a large fine by the FCA.”
“FCA?”
“Finding Con-artists Advisory, as I’m sure you know. They found out that we had been mis-selling quantities of dung to people who didn’t really need it.”
“Sorry, I’m still suffering some memory lapses after my blackout. It’s coming back to me though,” he added as he saw the aide’s expression change to one of suspicion. “Do remind me about this dung.” He stepped over a discarded shovel.
Errorcode held back a piece of barbed-wire fence sporting a faded sign labelled ‘Achtung, minen,’ for Tom to pass through. “Apparently there was a cash incentive for our people to reduce the Pangean Dung Mountain,” he continued, “so they were persuading victims, er, customers that instead of the product they wanted to buy, be it a car, washing machine or payment protection insurance, that they really needed extra fertilizer in their gardens. Delivery was free, sir. They loved it. But then the FCA stepped in and told us we shouldn’t be doing that, despite the exceptional rhubarb crop. We are still paying off the debt, refunding the subscriptions.”
“And the dung?”
“We were unable to reclaim it, sir, but at least our object was met. The Mountain is now only a hill. The sewers were blocked though, and this is what put the FSA on to us.”
“Most unfortunate, but that’s by the by now.” Tom shrugged. “Let’s continue. Didn’t I see that we’d reported the building finished, and had moved in? I thought we are claiming tax rebates for the old buildings, which should be empty.”
“We are, sir.”
“Are the old buildings empty?”
“No, sir, but we are in the process of clearing them with each subsequent round of rebalancing.”
“Do we have many instances of layoffs?”
“No, sir, only one.”
“So how are we clearing the buildings, then?”
“We have the same one, but phased over the next five years.”
“I didn’t see anything about that on the company web-site.”
“No, sir, if we told the staff that we were having regular downsizings, they might be a bit demotivated, so we always tell them that the current round will be the last.”
“Surely they’re not all conned by this blatant distortion of the truth are they?”
“Not all, sir, and It may be true that you can't fool all of the people all of the time, but you can fool enough of them to run a large organisation.”
“Sadly, you may be right.” He sighed. “Lead on.”
Stepping around the end of a high wooden fence, they came out of the construction site, and before them stood what might have been an impressive building, had it been complete. To the front, a roadway paved with golden stone swept majestically in a circle round where a beautiful fountain would have been, had it been delivered on time. As it was, water poured out of a shabby piece of green hosepipe into the ornamental pond. Huge fish were conspicuous by their absence; Tom noted only a newt and a pair of sticklebacks bravely forcing their way through the green blanket-weed. He turned his attention to the front entrance as they approached. The portico was designed like a Greek temple after the Ottoman Empire had used it for target practice, and where the Corinthian columns should have been, rusty steel girders awaited a fake marble plaster, which had apparently been delivered to the wrong continent and had set solid before it could be redirected. The rest of the building arced round on either side of them in a variety of states of completion, from a skeleton of corroded girders in one location to what looked almost habitable in another. Tom paused before they approached the main entrance doors, magnificent in polished teak but missing the glass, and the hinges. They were propped slightly open with cement-caked planks.
“And this building; it isn’t finished, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Why does it say it is completed and the project closed?”
“It is our corporate methodology sir.”
“Explain.”
“You have never been interested in this sort of thing before, sir. Are you sure you want to know these petty details?”
“Call me curious if you like, but tell me about this ‘methodology’.”
Errorcode sighed and took a deep breath. “All our projects have a set process to go through. The final stage is where we have the completion date. All our projects always finish on time.”
“And this project is finished?”
“Yes, sir. The completion date is where we actually state we have completed.”
“Whether the work is finished or not?”
“Yes, sir. It makes the management happy, and most of our projects don’t really amount to anything anyway. The time arrives, we say the project is complete, management puts a tick in the box and then everyone forgets about it until some accountant eventually finds it recorded on the books, and commissions a project to decommission it. Decommissioning is of course very quick, which gets our stats up.”
“Of course, however, it would have been nice if this particular one could have been properly finished.”
“We could commission a project to do the final touches I suppose.”
“Have we got any money?”
“Not immediately.” He scratched his head. “We could shut down some more buildings I suppose.”
“Do it. I’ll expect to see work continuing as from tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, show me to my office. I assume it is ready?”
“Oh yes sir. We began there and built everything else out from it, as per your original instructions.”
They picked their way over the paint-pots, planks and rags littering the entrance hallway and up the main oak staircase to the first floor. Another pair of carved teak doors (minus hinges) were propped open, and they slipped carefully past into the main office ante-chamber. Tom looked around in awe. The walls were decorated with murals showing scenes from legend and folklore, including centaurs, angels who were apparently no strangers to a fish supper, and heroic figures slaying dragons. “I presume this will be your office, Amber.” Tom peered through the gap, past the next set of doors into his own sanctum. These doors were propped together and held closed with a loop of rope around the handles. The hinges were already fitted to the door, but there were no holes in the frame. “Monty, please have a drill and screws sent round. I presume we still have nobody to do any actual work?”
“The builders will be back tomorrow sir.”
“And the materials.”
“Regretfully, we are still awaiting delivery.”
“What about these?” Amber had been investigating the drawers in her sumptuous desk while they talked. She held up the missing equipment and hardware.
“That is good, sir. I will get the technician to visit tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll do it myself. What were those things doing in there, Monty?”
“I can only assume they were stored in the desk when the teams were pulled off the project. I was told we were still waiting for them. Apparently this was not the case.”
“Investigate who was lying to you a
nd let me know. At least we can have some privacy now. Give me a hand with these.”
An hour later, both sets of doors were fitted, and Tom flopped down sweating in one of the guest chairs in Amber’s office. “Right, to business... Er, what business is there?”
“Nothing at this stage sir,” said Errorcode, still not the slightest bit ruffled. “I would suggest we get refreshments sent up and you perhaps log in to ‘Constrictions’ and write a ‘SCAM’ for the workforce.”
“SCAM?”
“It stands for Superfluous, Confusing and Misleading, sir. It is like a BLOG, but as per standard corporate policy, is a complete pack of lies.” He paused, regarding the expression on Tom’s face. “I will explain, sir. You see, we originally tried sending out informative material about our plans and achievements, but to our surprise the workforce actually read it and then became unhappy with what we were doing. Telling the truth about what we thought of the staff seemed to upset them for some reason. Rather than accepting it like they always used to do, they started leaking the information to the ‘Daily Outrage’. We apologised and then asked for anonymous feedback as to how we could improve. We don’t get so many of those problems now that all the people who replied anonymously have been streamlined.”
“You mean sacked? That must have cost bags of money, laying off such a load of people.”
“Not really sir. We saved on that too, and that’s where the SCAMs come in. We sent out a set specifically aimed at unsettling the staff, and then followed them up with official policies; you know the sort of thing: tell them that there are going to be no pay rises in the foreseeable future, charge them extra for the pensions that they are already entitled to, increase the retirement age by ten years, and remove any perks they had, without compensation. Oh, and keep the overtime rates pegged at where they were set twenty years ago. It worked a treat. They resigned in their droves.”
“Presumably the people who left, though, were those who could get jobs elsewhere; people who had the knowledge and skills we need to keep the company going; intellectual resources. If we lose them, we lose the heart of the company.”
“They were only technical resources, sir. We have replaced them from Nishant. We understand that the new staff will not immediately have the skills of the leavers, but this is why we employ four Nishant replacements for every internal loss. It works a treat. Mr Nishi says that he can train up Database Administrators, SQL Programmers, BOS7 Operatives and coffee machine repairers in less than an hour.”
“SQL?”
“Serial Quantum Logistics, used for slowing down database operations so that we get time for coffee and a bun.”
Tom nodded. “And BOS?”
“And BOS7 is the Better Operating System that runs all our internal and external systems.”
“From the Nishant Corporation?”
“Oh no sir. BOS7 was bought a long time ago from Spike Electricals. That company has since gone out of business because they stretched too far and diversified into toxic gilts, or poisonous giveaways or something.”
“But we are still using BOS7?”
“Yes sir. There is a start-up company called ‘Prick’ which is mostly ex-Spike technical personnel, and they send out regular updates, which we have to pay for of course.”
“So is BOS7 that unstable?”
“No, sir, it is very stable, but one just has to install updates, as you will appreciate.”
“I’m sure we must.” Tom gave up. “Let’s get those drinks in. I presume there are some staff somewhere who can help.”
“I will call Maliah.”
The Magus Plumbs the Depths
T
he Magus slipped silently through the rooms of the ground floor of the house. He was followed by the snuffling wheezing Charman, who was having trouble getting through the doorways and had to keep sitting down. Eventually he turned to his friend. “Look, Ludwig, why don’t you stay here? I’ll leave you the gun from the back of my belt that isn’t there.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t there.”
“It is now; I bought one in Duty Free as I came in.”
“And what do I do with it?”
“Sit in the hallway, and if anyone appears who isn’t me, ask them what they are doing. If you are not happy with the answer, shoot to kill.”
“I understand, but why would I shoot them?”
“We know this place is being, or has been used by the people who took Rannie’s body.”
“Jah.”
“So, they clocked me and buried me alive, which means that they can’t all be the sort of people you could take home to meet your dear old mum.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My mamma was in the Blair’s Youth Movement, you know.”
The Magus gave a low whistle. “I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t too bad; they were all conscripted.”
“Even so…”
“We learned to live with it, although the compulsory route-march through ‘The Houses of Lying Bastards’ before breakfast every day was a bind.”
“Anyway,” the Magus handed over the firearm and did up his investigator’s coat again. He set his hat more firmly on his head in anticipation of impending violence and felt the encouraging bulge in his coat pocket; he assumed it was his other gun. “I’ll have a look around upstairs. I hope I won’t be long. Please try to keep quiet.”
“I will be wheezing silently, my old friend.”
The Magus stepped carefully up the carpeted stairs leading to the first floor. There was an occasional groan from the treads underfoot, and his friend downstairs, but otherwise the house appeared to be deserted. He peered carefully into the first of the bedrooms. It looked as though it had been used recently; the bed was messed up and the en-suite was still damp from use of the shower. There was a note pinned to the pillow. “Dear Maria,” said the flowery writing. “Sorry we have had to scoot; urgent business, don’t you know. Not sure when we will be back. Use up the cheese in the fridge for us. Toodle pip. Arthur.”
“Missed them, dammit.” The Magus did a quick search of the room, remembering the first rule of investigation—always leave the place as you find it; that way, when the break-in is reported, the authorities can tell if the person who was doing the searching was mindless thug or should be called ‘sir’ when they apprehend him. He found nothing. He repeated the search on the other five bedrooms, the broom cupboard, (there is often someone hiding in the broom cupboard with a cosh) all the bathrooms, toilets, snooker rooms and the marijuana nursery. He discovered no useful clues, that is, excluding occasional notes for the domestic: “Dear Maria, thank you for last night, and yes, it is all mine; I haven’t had it extended. Love Alfred.”: “Dearest Maria, that outfit was wonderful; perhaps you could wear it for me next time? Love Archie.”: “Maria, I’ve just been to the doctor… call me. Algy.”
He made his way back down the stairs, and was instantly challenged.
“Hände hoch!”
“It’s okay, it’s only me.”
“Sorry my friend. I was only being careful.”
“And it would help if you used the common language. They might not have understood if you spoke in Charman. They would have escaped while you are wasting time translating.”
“I will try to remember. Anyway, what did you find upstairs?”
“Nothing.”
“We should be going then.” Gottstein attempted to stand, but was wedged between the arms of the chair. The Magus helped to extract him. The big man dabbed at his face with a red handkerchief. “It seems the trail is cold here. Why not come back to my house for a Schnapps?”
“Wait, what’s this behind your chair?”
“I thought it was draughty.”
“A door. A door leading to...?”
“A cellar. I should have realised that there would be a cellar.” Gottstein looked apologetic.
“No problem. I will investigate down there too. I’ll move
your chair over here so you can guard the top of the stairs in case I disturb anyone.”
The thin slatted door opened easily, and the Magus peered down a set of stone stairs into the darkness below. He operated the light switch. Of course, nothing happened. This was a common feature of cellars; it is the darkest room in the house, so why would anyone make sure there was always a working light-bulb, or even two, in case one failed? He put it down as being one of the fundamental laws of the Universe. He wished he had a torch, and vowed to add that as his first rule of being an investigator, for future reference. Perhaps there would be a light downstairs? He fished his gun out of the coat pocket and made his way downwards into the darkness, listening intently for any sound of breathing, or the safety catches being clicked off a number of pistols. Of the first there was nothing, but the second was quickly realised when the lights were thrown on. The temporarily blinded Investigator was surrounded by what he later discovered to be four men, all with guns trained on him. One waved what smelt like a revolver under his nose. A refined voice addressed him politely. “So Magus, you have found our hideout?”
“Have I? If you say so. How do you know my name?”
“We, er, recognised you from publicity photos. You look almost like the picture, if a bit more hairy.”
“I’d rather you didn’t mention that. I suppose I should have expected to find you somewhere in the house, and been even more suspicious when the light-switch didn’t work.”
“You saw through our ruse with the notes on the beds then? We wanted you to think we had left and then you would leave us alone.”
“I was fooled by the cheese thing. Nobody would ask anyone to eat their cheese unless they were off for a long while.”
“That was Arthur’s idea,” said one of the men. “A good one.”
“Yes, I’m the brains behind this outfit, don’t you know.” The Magus’ eyes had adjusted to the room and he noted the speaker, a tall thin man peering at him through a monocle. He also noted a collection of scientific equipment, benches and some sort of a transmitter. His hope soared as he saw a coffin resting in a far corner. The unmistakeable fragrance of Rannie, shower gel mixed with a faint trace of Glenforbis, filled his nostrils. He was on the right scent. Now, what was that first rule of investigation: no matter what danger you are in, gain the villains’ confidence and they will tell you everything?
Into the Fourth Universe Page 11
