The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “That is correct. My designation is DO-A, the prime correspondent for the Outrage group of news outlets.”

  “I am honoured you were able to attend.”

  “Thank you. Mx.. Fairway, is it true that you hold a number of government posts?”

  “I make no secret of the fact that I am the Minister for Vehicle Storage and Holes in the Road.”

  “And are you also the new owner of the ‘Lies of the Planet’, representatives of which I don’t see here?”

  “I think you will find that our editor, Antonia Sternlight, is present. Will you stand up please, Mx.. Sternlight?”

  A tall, flame-haired beauty in the front row stood up and surveyed the audience. One of the runners rushed a microphone into her hand.

  “Thank you,” Antonia said into the receiver. “Yes, I am the new editor for the ‘Lies of the Planet’, the broadcast outlet guaranteed to debunk all the false news and misdirection in the media today. We identify and rectify the fabrications, rebroadcasting the truth, as we see it. We welcome Mx. Fairway, who has kindly stepped in after our last owner was indicted for abandoning his vehicle after a seizure, brought on by the two hundred speed cameras on the Sapristi ring road flashing continuously at one tenth of a second intervals. We have apologised to his widow that the reduction in the speed limit was implemented without any change in signage, and have blamed the sign-writers, who put so many apostrophes in the wrong places that there was no room for the actual information.” She sat down.

  “And Mx. Poordraw, are you also the new Minister for Housing, Recreation and Land Usage?” DO-A persisted.

  “That is true,” said Poordraw, “but of course decisions in government are made entirely without prejudice or coercion, and we are fully open to inspection of any documentation that hasn’t accidentally been pulped by the reclamation company we use. There has been no hint of any scandalous dealings in the house-building sector, or in any of the thousand or so new traffic laws recently passed. Isn’t that right, Mx. Sternlight?”

  Antonia stood up again and tossed her hair. “Absolutely, Mx. Poordraw; our phone-tapping, data punching and document striking operations have revealed only your pure and caring nature. I wrote a report about it in last week’s Lies on Sunday.”

  “And excellent it was,” said Poordraw, smiling at the editor. “I have signed copies to hand out after this meeting to anyone who wants to retain their job. Please form an orderly queue and have your credit cards ready... but on to the main reason for this assembly.” He took both Welby and Fairway by the hand and walked to the front of the stage. “After long negotiations, we have decided to merge all three aspects of the car-parking industry into one major corporation. May, Pietro and I will be the three directors, with me as the Chairman owing to the size of my contribution. TBP, PUSS and CRAP will become the ‘Secure Terrain for Orderly Parking’, or STOP for short.”

  “There are other advantages,” said Fairway, holding his hand up to stifle questions from the auditorium. “Our name is on every road sign, since we abolished the wishy-washy ‘Give Way’ concept. You either have to stop or you don’t; none of this ‘If your age is greater than a certain value, pull out into the oncoming traffic and not bother accelerating’ nonsense. And we save another wad on advertising.... No, DO-A, we didn’t use Nishant for this one, although we did give them a stab at it first, but they were too expensive. We had a work experience schoolgirl, and gave her the task. She did splendidly, I think.”

  Thank you, Pietro,” said Poordraw. He ushered the other two directors back to their seats. There was sporadic applause from the audience. He held up his hands and the room fell silent.

  “I am also announcing that the new STOP will now be venturing into space exploration. There are many alien craft passing our beloved planet. We are building docking facilities, and are moving towards developing our own space fleet, based on technology acquired after the takeover of SCT and their expertise. Mx. Errorcode here is not just our excellent compare, but the new acting head of SCT, taxed with the production of space-capable transports, suitably armed to protect themselves against a pirate menace that has been restricting the off-world deliveries of clothing, footwear, manure and drive components. We hope, some day very soon, to be able to launch the first of our spacecraft and escort vessels. These will patrol our own routes to the supplies of essential components required to build more ships and provide off-world goods and services to our populace. In time we hope to extend our car-parking facilities to other worlds and bring about the magnificent order there, that we have already attained on Sapristi. The work involved will probably create anything up to thirty new jobs across the galaxy, so we are good for employment too.”

  He paused for effect, but the auditorium was silent.

  “If you insist,” he said. “I will share the last of our developments with you.”

  There was half-hearted nodding from some of the workers in the audience, but he continued enthusiastically.

  “We are perfecting a range of ‘killer peacekeepers, a range of war drones, known as the P series. These are connected through the Galactinet of Doobries, but will operate independently. Once programmed with a target, they will be relentless in its destruction. We have already launched the first. Even now, P1 is roaming the skies, tracking down escaped criminals.”

  “Why do we need robots to do that?” asked DO-A “Surely we have military and civilians who would be glad to do those jobs. It would also bring in the human element rather than leaving a robot to mindlessly follow its programming?”

  “And what’s wrong with email,” came a voice from the back.

  “I’m afraid all our military is tied up spying on the civilian population for any sign of subversive activity, and of course analysing itself for any sign of internal corruption. They have no time for anything else, like warmongering or defence, or even answering mail. We have reached the stage where we are now sending surveillance jobs offshore, hence the need to create robots to do all the work that nobody here has time to do.”

  “You have answers for everything.” said DO-A.

  “Of course. Everything is covered.”

  “Then with permission, I will quote you on that.”

  “I look forward to seeing tomorrow’s copy,” said Poordraw. “Are there any questions from the floor?” He scowled around at the audience, daring anyone to move.

  A small, stocky man stood up. The microphone was placed in his hand. He blew on it to see if it was working, as is traditional. “This merger, does it mean there will be redundancies?”

  Poordraw muttered to one of his stewards on the stage. The woman shook her head. “Do you have a name?” he asked out loud.

  “Mycroft Vermicelli, head of information technology and now leader of the Union for what used to be TBP.”

  “I thought we had outsourced technology.”

  “You did, but I was retained because of my special skills.”

  “And what skills do you have?”

  “The ability to switch the systems off and on again, locally. The Nishant engineers were taking too long to get here after our new emir banned all overseas personnel from being residents, unless they were paying the foreign workers’ tax. In the case of Nishant, that tax exceeded their wages paid at source, so none of them would volunteer.”

  “Preposterous. Have we not also sent the systems overseas?”

  “Yes, but they came back, after the emir said it was a security risk having vital data out of the country.”

  “But we moved everything offshore so we could outsource our redundancies at no cost to ourselves.”

  “It was a good plan,” said Vermicelli with a smile, “but we reckoned without the general feeling of the working man.”

  “Who is this man? I’ll have him fired.”

  “There are more than one of them. In fact there are lots. In the last election, they felt they were being ignored, so the protest vote won the day, even though it was overtu
rned after the fourteenth re-vote.”

  “I know that, but it shouldn’t affect our plans. The Sapristi strike force will be created and we will protect our trade routes. Is that all?”

  “You didn’t say anything about redundancies, as work is de-duplicated across the three organisations.”

  “I didn’t, did I? Thank you, everyone, for attending. Form an orderly queue on the way out, and I will meet with each and every one of you...” he paused, stabbed an meaningful glance at Vermicelli, and then addressed the rest of the auditorium, “over the course of the next few weeks, to answer any personal questions you may have.”

  Fortune

  In which football isn’t played

  T

  om had completed his inspection of the ex Fukeds Belle, now refitted as the Fortune. He was disappointed to see that most of the fittings had been removed, and those that remained were somewhat stained and unsavoury. The loading bay was spotless though, and AstroTurf had been laid in the centre, with goalposts at either end.

  “That’s nice,” he thought, “we can have a kick-about later, if I can find a ball and someone to play against.”

  The Officers’ Disarray and galley were reasonably intact. The latter looked as though it could do with a good cleaning. Apparently lady football players were not the neatest cooks, or that is what Groat said when challenged on the subject, although Tom noticed that he wouldn’t quite look him in the eye.

  “We haven’t anything left to eat except eggs? We have no water and the only liquids available are unused bottles of kitchen cleaner and the ‘Nishifiddich’ supply?”

  “Good for sterilising?” suggested Spigot.

  “We need provisions and possibly some new clothes. We all have suffered, being jammed into the Pig-Ugly. Do we have any currency aboard?” Tom regarded the rest of the ‘crew’. Pete turned his pockets out and was only able to provide a few tokens for the coffee machine at SCT. Suzanne refused to open her bag, and the Magus offered his Genuine-Pint Club membership card.

  “There is still a chance we could win a year’s supply of ale,” he said. “If we can get a Galactinet connection to log in.”

  “And the nearest inhabited world?” said Tom.

  “Apart from Sapristi, and the word, inhabited, is somewhat of a generous description,” said the Magus, consulting his j-Pad, “it looks like my old home, Glenforbis, would be the place to go.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Given a following solar wind and no diversion for meteor storms, and trusting that the engines keep working without spare dokumats and hexacat whiskers... about three weeks.”

  “Three weeks without water or food?”

  “Talking about hexacat whiskers,” said Suzanne. “Where is Cat?”

  “Phoist, I must have left him in the Pig-Ugly.” The Magus looked guilty.

  “Go and let him out then. Not that there’s much for him to eat here, apart from smelly fish, but the car must be looking a bit ragged inside now. You know what he’s like with cushions.”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “I’ll go and do it,” said Suzanne. “You lot chat among yourselves and work out how we are going to eat.”

  “There is something we can do,” said Groat, watching Suzanne’s lithe figure as it disappeared through the hatchway. “We’re rigged out as a pirate ship, and now Pete has fixed the weapons, we could go and take what we need.”

  “Aye, that we could,” said the Magus with a glint in his eye. “I could stop shaving properly and revert to my original pseudonym, ‘Neckbeard’. I was quite the thing in my day, what with Kara playing the role of ‘Ruth’. We would have to do it without her this time, and can be more brutal.”

  “Yes, where is Kara?”

  “She went off for pizza and we haven’t seen her since,” said Pete.

  “Typical,” said Tom. “I expect she’ll turn up when my life is in mortal danger. She usually does.”

  “That’s kind of her,” said Pete.

  “Not really, she only comes to gloat, and hope I die horribly. She’s programmed not to kill me, but could be permitted to stand back and watch someone else do it. I think she managed to bypass her guilt processors, or they forgot to reconnect them at the last service.”

  “Can we do it without Ruth, then?” said Groat eagerly.

  “I suppose so,” said Tom, “for survival reasons only, but we will be gentle with anyone we catch. Any other ideas?”

  “We could give receipts,” said the Magus. “Coming back to my old pirate motto, ‘We pay for what we take and we take what we can’t pay for.’ People could then come back to us and claim their dues, once we regain control of SCT.”

  “And we could introduce a loyalty scheme,” said Spigot. “For regular victims. I can work on that.”

  “And I’ll control the weapons,” said Pete. “I can rig them up as a ‘first person shooter’. It’ll be fun and I won’t feel any guilt at wantonly destroying things.”

  “Heave to, my lungies,” said Spigot. “I thought Mr $mith (sic) was strictly opposed to mindless violence.”

  “Ar, that I am,” said Tom. “There is to be no unnecessary violence and even fewer unnecessary nautical references like ‘hearties’ and the more vocal ‘lungies’. This might be called a ‘ship’ but that is where its resemblance to a vessel designed to buffet its way through watery oceans, propelled by wind in a vast amount of canvas, ends. I will not have all that ballyhoo in what is essentially a big bus.”

  “We could be polite pirates,” said the Magus, slowly. “Perhaps ask nicely and see what happens?”

  “I would accept that,” said Tom, nodding. “Right, we have a plan. Groat, go back to the cockpit and set a course for Glenforbis. If you see any other spacecraft on the way, move to intercept but leave me to do the talking. Spigot, the engines, Pete, the guns and Magus...?”

  “I’ll work on the flag.”

  “Spacecraft ahoy,” came Groat’s voice though the communications speakers. Tom joined him in the cockpit.

  “The place is full of chickens,” he said.

  “I know. They seem to like it here. Can’t eat them, being strictly vegetarian, but I like a nice egg for breakfast.”

  “Right, perhaps you can find somewhere else to keep them, and I warned you about that nautical stuff. We aren’t at sea, except perhaps in the concept of ‘all at sea’, so why are you defying my orders?”

  “I’m not,” said Groat. “I meant that the cargo craft over there is named Ahoy.”

  “Right,” said Tom. “Give me the communicator. Pete, are you ready in case we have any trouble?”

  “Ready,” came Pete’s voice, along with a sound of electronic missiles hitting electronic planes on his games console.

  “Spigot? We might need to get away in a hurry.”

  “Ready and waiting,” said Spigot. “I’ve got Suzanne and Cat here with me. We got him out. He’s not happy, but the mess he made of the upholstery has actually improved the look of the vehicle.”

  “Good. Magus?”

  “Raising the flag,” said the Magus from somewhere else on board.

  “Then move to intercept please, Mister Groat.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Enough.”

  “No, I mean I am using both eyes to control our course correction.”

  “Right. Switch me through to ‘transmit’ and I’ll have a chat with them.” Tom cleared his throat and blew on the microphone a few times. “Is it working?”

  “Stop shouting,” came a voice. “And all the microphone blowing is getting on our nerves.”

  “Apologies,” said Tom. “Attention freighter, Ahoy. We would be grateful if you would allow us to share your cargo. We are in need of provisions. Alas we cannot pay, the cheque from my uncle is still in the post, but we can give you a receipt with which you can claim compensation for any inconvenience. What do you say?”

  “Bugger you,” cam
e the reply. “We ain’t sharing any of our cargo with the likes of you, in a ship so ugly you made me lose my breakfast.”

  “But we are desperate for food and water. We can trade. Do you like eggs?”

  “I told you I’d lost my breakfast. Bugger off and leave us be.”

  “Right you are,” said Tom. “We will perhaps ask the next craft that comes along.”

  “What?” Groat swivelled in his seat and regarded Tom with derision. “You’re giving up. What sort of pirate does that?”

  “Our sort,” said Tom. “I told you: no violence.”

  “Give me the speaker. I’ll see if I can make them reconsider.”

  “If you think you can,” said Tom. “Don’t be rude, though.”

  “I won’t,” said Groat with a smile. “Attention ship, Ahoy, stop your engines and prepare to be boarded. We are armed and deadly.”

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  “Blood-spiller Death-hacker Groat.”

  “So what? We ain’t impressed by titles.”

  “I hadn't finished. Blood-spiller Death-hacker Groat, Third order of the Second Trimester of Skagos, leaders of oppression and shaggers extraordinaire.”

  “Did you say Skagos?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you be a Skagan?”

  “That I would be.”

  “Then we may have a deal. Do you have any Skagan women on the ship?”

  “Yes, we always carry one for emergencies.”

  “Then we would love to meet her, in exchange for a proportion of our cargo of course. What do you need?”

  “Food, water and clothing, would be sufficient.”

  “We have some we can spare. Trouble is, the clothing is a special order from a unique and stylish supplier, mostly in tweed and tartan. We can do you a few outfits, I suppose. How desperate are you?”

  “Ruthlessly desperate,” said Groat. “Dangerously desperate. Hungrily desperate.”

  “You said you had eggs to trade?”

  “And a rather nice Nishifiddich spirit,” said Tom.

  “Then we can exchange. Send over your woman to collect the goods.”