The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “I can switch on the remote tracking beacon. P17 was fitted with an adaptive neuromorphic processor, so it may have got distracted by a flower show or something. It won’t take long to recall.”

  “Perhaps you can show Mr Singpurvitch here. He is visiting from Nishant, who provide all the material for you to convert into space vehicles. He is interested in seeing how you use his technology.”

  The man at the side of the room stood and bowed. “My pleasure,” he said in a slightly stilted accent. “Pleased I am Singpurvitch, head of development and office dividers at unpretentious Nishant Corporation.”

  Vermicelli held out his hand in greeting but Singpurvitch bowed more deeply. The union leader bowed awkwardly in return and his head hit the now extended hand of the Nishant man. He took it and shook uncomfortably.

  “I here in observation mode, only. Please to ignore.” Singpurvitch sat down again.

  “Is that all?” said Poordraw, standing and shuffling a sheaf of papers on the desk.

  “We haven’t talked about working conditions at all,” said Vermicelli.

  “I thought they were some of the best,” said Welby.

  “And a new leader we have.”

  “Mr Errorcode is doing splendidly. He is always telling us so.”

  “He has appointed a ‘Chief Misery Officer’. We are really confused. Motivation was never a problem at SCT.”

  “The CMO was my idea,” said Poordraw. “I saw that productivity was dropping, and came up with that new post. Mr Errorcode seemed glad to employ a helper. Mr Dullman, originally from the Greedy Universal Taxation System, seems to be doing splendidly.”

  “But people are miserable now. He keeps introducing new rules, and new targets.”

  “With promises of big rewards,” said Poordraw.

  “We have never managed to claim any prize, however hard we try. It is very demoralising.”

  Poordraw stood up, so that he could look down on the union man. “It is a psychological fact, that if you are dejected, seeing other people comfortable makes you even more miserable. Therefore, having a CMO to make the happy people miserable serves to actually lift the average level of morale. You can all be miserable together and therefore take communal comfort in that feeling. It is a superb team-building technique, exclusive to the STOP Corporation. It works perfectly for our car park attendants...”

  “Vehicle Storage Consultants,” put in Welby. “The new title gave them that essential bit of self-importance to ensure they perform their roles to the correct level of pomposity.”

  “It was a good move,” said Fairway.

  There was a sound of furious scribbling from the Nishant man.

  “Is that all?” said Poordraw.

  “No, sir. We now have external contract supervisors, who blame us for any problems, but always claim our successes were entirely down to their great leadership.”

  “And you still do your work? Most commendable. Good staff, great work ethics.” Fairway smiled benevolently.

  “What keeps you going then?” said Welby.

  Vermicelli gave her a sad smile. “It’s the rewards: promotion, vacations, company cars and the key to the executive washroom. Trouble is, whenever we achieve those extended targets, there is always something not quite right, and we get nothing.”

  “I am pleased that Monty’s management choices are being so effective,” said Poordraw. “I wondered if I was right to let him use former senior traffic-wardens—”

  “Transport Advancement Specialists...” put in Welby.

  “—in middle management. It’s all reverse psychology. The idea is to traumatise the workers so they do a great job in defiance.”

  “It’s not working,” said Vermicelli, sweating now. “The engineers are talking about going on strike.”

  “Strike?” Poordraw illustrated the point by bringing his fist down on the table. “Strike? How dare they strike? This company pays over the odds for high quality work.”

  “I’m only saying what the guys feel,” said Vermicelli, twisting the cap nervously. “And what about the redundancies?”

  “There will be no redundancies,” said Poordraw, “and you can all have the holiday you deserve. Once P17 returns, you can reprogram it and start on the next batch of drones. The new batch will be for communication only, I promise. Do you think you can get the guys to show Mx. Singpurvitch around before you go on your break? Goodbye.” He turned away to talk to Fairway.

  Vermicelli smiled and placed the cap back on the bronze bust of Saint Corbett at the door. “I’ll get right on to it, Mx. Poordraw. Come along, Mx. Singpurvitch. Oh, and the burgers, Mx. Welby?”

  “I will ensure new supplies are provided right away. We do seem to have a small infestation of the beasts at the moment, which will need to be removed.”

  After the door closed behind the union man, Poordraw rubbed his hands together. “I omitted to tell whatever his name was, that the Guacamole Cove holiday facility has not been totally decommissioned. Once they are inside, the Nishant staff can take over the plant. When Singpurvitch has all the command codes, we will be fully prepared to outsource all production.”

  Welby stood up, knocking her champagne mug over. “You didn’t tell me you were outsourcing the work. I thought you said there would be no redundancies.”

  “It was Errorcode’s idea,” said Poordraw, “but I am totally in agreement. Nishant can do the work for half the price, and if we can stand the scheduled, embarrassingly fatal, systems failures, we will be manage reasonably, with no effort at all on our part. We don’t have to worry about loss of face, because we have no competition to lose face to, the punters don’t matter anyway, and we can blame it all on Nishant if there are any legal issues."

  “But do we have to outsource?” said Welby. “We already make enough profit from the parking systems.”

  “We do, but if we want to maintain our income, we need to continue to expand. Hence, we require the extra capital to make something more useful than a drone. We need to move into the rest of the galaxy with long range warships and carpark-forming machines. There are many worlds out there desperate for some order in their vehicle management, and we, the experts, can bring it.”

  “And of course, we can implement traffic restrictions, penalties and fewer holes in the road,” said Fairway. “We already control all the government ministers here. We need to extend that grip to other locations... Is it a problem for you, May Welby?”

  “It may well be.” Welby was scowling. “Have you no consideration for your staff, or your planet?”

  “What benefit would that bring?” Poordraw glared at her. “Have you any complaints about your salary? Do you need a bit more finance for your... fourth yacht, is it?”

  “Fifth, if I was going to buy one. Already I’ve run out of things to add to my collection. The only things I haven’t got, belong to you two.”

  “All’s correct,” said Poordraw. “As minority shareholder, you will have to follow our decisions. I ask again, is it a problem?”

  “No... no problem. Ionly wish you’d listen to my thoughts on treatment of the workforce.”

  “We don’t need to treat them at all, apart from a spell in the Cove. We have outsourced and that’s final. Be grateful we haven’t deported them all to Nishant too.”

  “We wanted to,” said Fairway, “but Nishi refused to take them. He said they took up too much space with their, and I quote, ‘lardy pizza-and-pie bloated arses, pleased to take no offence’. He said he could physically get three of his workers into every gap needed by one of the former SCT people. Talking about SCT, now that you have effectively disbanded the workforce, what do we do with the old facility?”

  Poordraw smiled. “I’m sure we have some biological weapons we can store, or perhaps we can let the military use it for target practise.”

  “Or maybe convert it into an exclusive holiday resort?” said Welby hopefully. “Perhaps expand Guacamole Cove to cover the
whole island and redeploy the SCT people as waiters and cleaning staff?”

  “A good idea about the waiters,” said Fairway, “but we already have a regular supply from Bonigalia. They come over, hidden in container trucks, you know. Very cheap to employ them, and they don’t carry too many lethal diseases.”

  “You may be right,” said Welby, “but we should still offer jobs to our loyal ex-staff... perhaps in vehicle repair and refitting. After the punters use our economy parking facilities, their vehicles are usually in need of some maintenance. We will have our staff on standby to do repairs while they do their shopping. We could even have the car ready for them in exactly the same state as it was when it arrived.”

  “Brilliant,” said Fairway. “And we can get the spares off the people who have wrecked the cars in the first place. A self-perpetuating system. So without the incumbents of the Cove, you are suggesting we turn SCT into a holiday island?”

  “We really do need one,” said Welby. “Since we paved over the mainland and built new roads and affordable housing, that nobody can afford without selling their organs to the health service, we need somewhere for people to get away to, apart from the lower classes of course; we don’t want those sort of people hooting and roaring while decent folks try to drink enough to make themselves sick. We could use holidays to improve motivation in the workforce by running monthly competitions, and awarding breaks to whoever brings in the most revenue from traffic fines.”

  “And of course, the winning operatives will be allowed to nominate their supervisors to come with them,” said Poordraw thoughtfully, “and those supervisors can nominate their leaders, right up to the top of the tree, us. That way at least one of us would be guaranteed a holiday every month. What better motivation? A great idea. May, please start the building work on the island, and make sure there is a large car park, and perhaps even a nice bridge from the mainland, if you can find some material to build it that doesn’t dissolve in the floating toxic waste.”

  Neckbeard

  In which Kara gets some shoes

  O

  nce the danger from P17 was over, and the safety circuits in the advised that it was convenient to return, Kara materialised the cylinder back in the hold.

  “Are we safe now?” She poked her head out of the hatch.

  “I think so," said Tom over the communications system. “P17 has decided it’s in love with you, and promises not to blow itself up. Shall I let it back inside?”

  “Please do," said the tinny voice of the drone. “My only desire now is to serve the delectable hybrid known as Kara-Tay. Would that be her enchanting presence I now detect?”

  “Is it?” said Tom.

  “I suppose so,” said Kara, stepping carefully over the doku-pats. “Let it in, but P17…”

  “Yes, my darling?”

  “I want you to keep out of my way. You can park in the hold, but don’t get frightening the doku. There’s enough mess in here already.”

  “Your wish is my command. I will be merely grateful to remain within proximity of your greatness.”

  “Fine," said Kara. “Let it in, Two-Dan, and you lot can get back to work, instead of blighting the inside of my cylinder with your lewd behaviour.”

  Groat and Spigot managed with difficulty to unbuckle the extra-safety belts in the cylinder and returned to their usual stations.

  “Where to now, captain?” Groat was in the cockpit, staring at the controls as though he’d never seen them before.

  “I guess back to Skagos for restocking,” said Tom. “Set a course.”

  “What course?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Your home, if you like.”

  “I can always find my way there,” said Groat. “It’s the Call.”

  Once back in orbit around the Skagan planet, Tom asked about taking the Bereavement Notable as a bargaining tool in his conversations with STOP, concerning the unfairness of the parking premiums. However, following concerns from the newly-born Skagans that the planet-killer might be used for violent ends, he was denied access. The new generation of Skagans seemed to have become milder, and valued nature, education and being indignant, over their parents’ favoured pastimes of sex and war. Pete was not happy either, as Tanda’s younger sister, Moonbeam, seemed to prefer gazing into the heavens and discussing quantum physics, rather than developing her sexual prowess with him. When she told him that she might be sensitive to the radiation from his games console, he finally gave up, and joined the Magus, Groat, Spigot, and Kara to re-crew the Fortune. Tom had persuaded the others to stay on, with promises of ale, violence, poetry evenings and shoe raids respectively.

  Kara still was reluctant, even with the assurance of infinite footwear, but when Tom suggested it would be very dangerous, and she might witness his demise without any effort on her part, she agreed to go along. She made sure that Arianne’s cylinder was ready for immediate take-off in the cargo hold, so that she could make a quick exit when the inevitable happened. There was no way, she reasoned, that Tom’s crusade around the galaxy could ever succeed, so the chances of his demise were greatly increased. As far as the rest of the crew were concerned, the cylinder was an escape ship. All but Tom and Groat were also convinced that the venture was doomed, and they shuddered when they heard the message from Groat over the intercom...

  “Sail ahead! Clear the decks and prepare for engagement.”

  “I thought I told you about those nautical references.”

  “Captain, do I need to tell you the name of the vessel we are about to attack?” Groat sniggered. “Oh, and the decking in the cargo hold is covered with doku-dung again and needs a hose-down… and I’ve asked Spigot to marry me, so we’ll be needing to make the nibbles for a party after this incident.”

  Tom’s sigh was audible even through the cheap speakers. “Prepare to fire a warning shot, and this time don’t make it too much of a warning. Pete, are you ready?”

  The muffled pizza-chewing voice of the newly-dubbed ‘weapons officer’ came through. “Ready when you are, captain.”

  “Fire.”

  There was a chuckle from Groat as the doku-shunt discharge took the top fin off the target freighter, Sail Ahead.

  “Oy!” The voice came across space on the ‘pionio’ connection. “Stop knocking bits off my transport. Are you aliens? It would be great if you were... first contact and all that. Phoistin’ ugly ship you’re driving, so you must be aliens. Nobody I know would be seen dead in something like that.”

  “I can always hope,” Tom heard Kara mutter.

  “We are not aliens,” said Tom. “This is the pirate vessel, The Black Empress Kara’s Good Fortune. We have Ruth the pirate queen and Neckbeard, terror of the space lanes, on board.”

  “Hi,” said the Magus. “Good to meet you.”

  “This is Captain Wang of the Federation of Footwear Fitters, or F-oFF to you. We are out of Glenforbis by doku-drive, carrying a consignment of waterproof vegan shoes, made of leather from vegetarian animals, for the people of the Planet Out. If you are aliens, I suspect that the sizes we have on board will be of no interest to you. It is common knowledge that aliens have different shaped feet. A lot of modern shoe-shops do cater for them, though. You might have noticed if you’ve tried to buy a pair recently.”

  “I don’t think we’re aliens,” said Tom. “You say you launched from Glenforbis. You cargo wouldn’t comprise items made of doku-leather?”

  “The very best,” said Wang proudly. “The pelt has been cured under the manure highlands of Politico for a period of two years.”

  “I know that mountain range,” said the Magus. “When the burger wars began, a lot of the by-products of the doku were stored away from harm. Much had been lost, as the burgermeisters fought each other for control of the illegal meat supply, the ‘Burger Wars’ as they were known. My very good friend, Ludwig Gottstein, was sucked into that, as he tried to throw his considerable weight about in the fast food indu
stry. When last I spoke to him about it, he reported that the authorities had all but stamped out the prohibited trade of animal-protein-in-a-bun, but they suspected there were stockpiles of materials still to be discovered. A number of expeditions were made to the mountains, most ending in disaster, as clean air and supplies ran out and the native bearers deserted. Odd that they had to carry the natives. You would have thought the natives would have carried the supplies, like in those old films.”

  “Probably where they went wrong,” said Tom. “I presume you heard that, Captain Wang, because, despite the fact I have the pionio on ‘mute’, no doubt something else in here is picking up our words. What have you got to say about the fact you have contraband aboard?”

  “Yes, we can hear you through the egg poacher,” said Wang. “You should switch it off when not in use; the remains of the last meal will go hard and make it very difficult to clean.”

  “About your goods, Captain?”

  “We bought this consignment in good faith. The sweat-shops of Glenforbis have been working day and night to produce these quality, itch-free, high performance foot embellishments with dissolvable thread for neatness. We are kind to our workers. We give them one day a month off to go to kindergarten or to tend to their invalid mothers.”

  “Commendable,” said Tom. “Now hand the cargo over.”

  “Never!”

  “Neckbeard,” said Tom. “The Flag.”

  “Righto,” said the Magus. There was a metallic squeaking as he wound up the ensign.

  “See that, Captain Wang? Do you know who we are now?”

  There was a pause from the other end of the pionio link and they could hear muffled discussions going on.

  “We don’t believe in piracy,” said Wang eventually. “We only believe in foot embellishment. You will be reported to F-oFF for this, and they will tell you in no uncertain terms what you should do.”

  “It looks like you leave us no choice. Pete, will you target their engines, and stop them running away?”