I left the office. Rosby still wasn’t looking at me; maybe she was considering that she’d put the wrong romper into the race. No matter. I had a plan and that made me happy. For now, I was the one driving events rather than being whipped on by others.
Standing by the main entrance, I gazed absently across the empty car park. A very nice glider crossed towards me. When it stopped, five people got out, none of whom looked like the figure I’d spoken to earlier … which was not a surprise, since it was a construct, designed to shield the real faces listening to the call. Unsurprisingly, they were all Naturals. What was surprising was how the family resemblance spread between them. I’d stood on a nerve all right. I had the majority owners from the founding family of the company come see if I was bluffing or if I was about to save their skins and money.
We skipped introductions as I opened the doors and ushered them inside, three females and two males sharing the same eye gray colour and energetic confidence. I led them to the lift and we descended in silence, which was maintained until they sighted the hot box. I deliberately stood several feet away from them, so all I heard was subdued murmuring that stopped as one of the females approached and held out a hand. She was my height, with a round cheerful face and slim figure that didn’t look like it had been corrected. As we shook hands, she introduced herself. “I’m Saba Magellen and am very interested in the excess capacity you spoke of.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” I responded with a quick smile. “I have a simple proposition. I need full-depth catering for 370 families in an assembled eating space, run continuously for three shifts a day, every day of the year. You’ll have similar access to the box for all your staff, live and re-animated, and transport will be provided to collect them from the basement of the central warehouse, as well as return them on a schedule provided by you. No paperwork, no cash, and you get three days advance service as a down payment. A like-for-like trade. We’re ready to start as soon as you have staff to be washed.”
She didn’t blink or hesitate, “Do you have transport ready now?”
I told her I did and with that, the trade was sealed. I’d have the eating space assembled and running in three days and she’d have the first crew in the box within the hour. The rest of the clones nodded and smiled, and we left in silence that continued until they got back into the glider and departed.
I went back down and gave the IPS waiting in the drain-bus the address for the collection, and it drove off. Now, it was a matter of waiting for the space and the food to arrive before I could take the next step.
I lost the next three days to paperwork. The Knob had believed that if he ignored it, it would cease to matter. Rosby assured me that auditors wouldn’t share that view.
She worked at an extraordinary rate, constantly finding missing information and ensuring that finished product was circulated properly. This was no mean feat as she was in a struggle with every other marginal section, all of whom saw salvation in the defeat of others. It was a zero-sum game; there’d be winners and losers, and everyone knew the stakes.
Signing, stamping, formatting, backdating, and polishing turds by the dozen for 16 hours a day helped time to pass. There was no pressure to attend the UPCR meeting from either side, to my relief. Allson Gala’s visit had a none-too subtle agenda. We were part of his empire and he was sizing up potential losses and how to manage results. He wouldn’t assist in any way. If we made it past the winning line, he’d accept congratulations on our behalf, with becoming modesty. If we looked like we were irretrievable, the’d cut us out before the axe fell from elsewhere. Cleaning your own house was greatly favoured over being written up in an audit report.
I did get to walk every day and saw that construction was taking place in a previously idle space near the staff entrance. The eating space was being assembled. On the third day, it was ready to open. The company had done a very nice job. It was full of little niches and booths that didn’t make it look like a public dining room. Time to spread the word.
Mass-produced (affordable) food was created with processes driven by magic and allowed for a controlled scale that couldn’t be achieved otherwise. Plants and animals were grown to maturity under controlled conditions that ensured consistent maximum disease-free yield. All to the good and utter necessity of feeding the population on a non-fertile planet like Mengchi, The planet was devastated during the war, compounded later by a disastrous misjudgment. We were all crowded into the remaining, viable 20%, which meant that living space tended to crowd out growing space. The solution: ultra-productive, sky-high food farms.
The problem for bottle-born lifeforms was the residual sensitivity to magic, which meant we could taste the taint in farm food. We spent our lives eating food that never quite tasted right. There was a saying that a Bottle-Born would be your slave for life for a slice of natural bread. I was going to find out if that was true or, at least, if I could receive vastly increased productivity for untainted food.
At the office, I requested Rosby collect the living staff at the shift change down at the disaster assembly point. I went there and stood on a table, and put a broadcast charm around my neck. The staff filed in and when everyone was waiting for the latest round on management nonsense, I got started.
“A new eating room has just opened by the staff entrance and will operate around the clock. All staff members and their first and second-degree relatives are free to use it. It’s being run by the Tallester Group, which some of you may know are the largest catering company on Mengchi. There’s no charge for the food or limit on what anyone may eat at a sitting nor on the number of sittings anyone can have. The price for this facility is that every shift meets every shift target in full. Targets were posted as I’ve been speaking. These targets are high; if we fail to meet them, we’ll be dissolved and reallocated to activities that are guaranteed to be considerably more unpleasant than the current work. For this shift change, and this shift change only, there will be a 60-minute delay so that everyone can try out the eating hall and test the accuracy of my statements. Please go and eat.”
The assembly area emptied faster than it had filled; within a moment, there was only myself still on the table and Rosby looking at me with a strange smile.
“You’re not hungry?” I asked as I jumped from the table and took off the charm.
“Starving, as it happens, for answers and food. How did you do this? The cost is more than can be hidden and when word gets out and the food stops, there’ll be twice the trouble than if it had never been.”
“Let’s sample the wares in the food hall and I’ll feed your curiosity at the same time. It’ll be good to have someone to show off to.”
6
Rosby and I sat in a quiet corner with laden trays in front of us, the smell mouthwatering. Until you put food into your mouth, there was no knowing, but in this case the knowing was truly wonderful. Every morsel tasted of food, no taint of magic. We ate in silence until we’d cleared the plates and our trays had been removed. Facing each other over glasses of spring water, Rosby indicated with a wave of a hand that it was time I satisfied her other hunger.
“About six months ago, I was browsing the lines, looking for nothing in particular, when I came across a report on the Curse of the Natural Farm. Frankly, I thought it was a story about farming Naturals, so I was a bit intrigued. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, but it was interesting nevertheless. There are 20,000 hectares of uncontaminated land about 500 kilometers northwest of the city, which had been a country estate at one time. Now it’s the sole source of naturally grown food. It’s far enough away from the city to escape the pressure to maximize output and fills a need for natural products that citizens are willing to pay for.”
Rosby appeared sincerely interested, so I happily continued. “The Standing Committee awarded the contract to run this estate to catering companies that also have ongoing management stakes in a forced farm operation. They want managed food growth industry experience and commercial trading expertise wh
en handling the estate.
“It’s a big deal. The potential profits from the estate easily overshadow the returns from the forced farms and the contract is seen as a mark that the company’s the best in the industry. According to the report, the contracts always followed the same pattern. The first two years would be fabulously profitable and the following three would incur increasing costs that would finally reduce operations to a loss by the close of the contract. The existing contract holder always had first refusal on the next award and, to date, no one had ever held the contract for two consecutive terms. Plenty of companies had held it more than once, though, and a few have held it multiple times, always with gaps of no less than 15 years between awards. None of the companies involved were willing to talk about the contract, and neither was the Standing Committee, all for reasons of ‘commercial sensitivity’. The writers explained that the Committee needed to have the land farmed. Food and revenue were always important, and the companies wanted initial profits and prestige, so they mutually agreed to bury the problems. So, the Curse of the Natural Farm has become a subdued legend in the industry.
“Still, the writers were intrigued enough to research and estimate the problem. They learned the roots of said problem. The estate’s located out in the Ribbed Band, so forget mass automation. There has to be a very high proportion of non-machine labour. Growing the workforce in a farm for a five-year contract isn’t cost effective, so a different plan has been informally put in place. The Standing Committee provides the company with an allocation of IPS labour to work the estate and support the automated infrastructure. The only problem is that the natural environment wears out the IPSs at a higher-than-average rate.”
“Fascinating,” Rosby murmured, leaning forward, her eyes never leaving mine.(Flattery works)
I nodded absently. “The replacement formula is set at the average wear-down rate, so for the first two years, the IPS labour force turns over nicely, and productivity and profits are high. Then, the waer down rate starts to exceed the replacement rate and the supply starts to slow down. The productivity starts to fall and more has to be done by less IPS bodies, thus leading to a higher wear-down rate. The spiral continues for the balance of the contract. Productivity remains level enough to pay the Standing Committee fees, while actual realizable profit falls to minimal levels. If you renew the contract, you don’t receive a re-set on your labour terms; it’s a continuation.
“A nice piece of work, I enjoyed how they’d drawn the story together without thinking further. I also knew we had a serious hot box. I’d been detailed to clean it my first week here all information without purpose. Then you put me in a body clamp which was when I realized that someone had food and a problem and I had a hot box and a problem. It seemed possible that we could provide solutions for each other.”
I paused to take a breath and put my concluding thoughts into place, which prompted Rosby to gesture impatiently for me to continue.
“The hot box we have boosts the IPS recovery by ten, which makes a standard average replacement rate a very comfortable supply. I needed to get the staff here to work and food was—is—the quickest way to motivate them. The Tallaster Group is two-and-a-half years into the contract and has a strong desire to avoid the curse. Their other enterprises won’t easily absorb the strain from the contract, another handy item from the report. So, in this case, one plus one equals four.”
I sat back. As I’d told the story I’d been leaning closer. If I hadn’t sat back and relieved the pressure on my work suit at waist level, I’d probably have cut my hard-on in two via an inconvenient fold that had trapped it.
Rosby was suitably impressed and a little worried. “How long can you hold this up? Sooner or later, word of this will leak and it will be taken over by another, and we’ll be squeezed out. Taking away something is always much more trouble than never giving it.”
“That’s a very accurate summary of the position and I look forward to seeing how you resolve it.”
“Me solve it? What are you talking about? This is your idea!” Rosby looked very unhappy.
“How could I solve it? I know nothing and nobody. You, on the other hand, are as wired in as possible, without being actual infrastructure. You’re the only person who could solve the problem of ensuring that this process continues uninterrupted, so that we retain production at non-threatening levels. To level up, you threw me into this blood lake and now you get to keep me and everyone else afloat. I can’t do it by myself and neither can you, but we might be able to do it together.”
Rosby smiled fleetingly and touched my hand, which had the same impact as being brushed with a nerve-stick (the blockers I ate as part of my breakfast kept it down to a tolerable minimum). “Nice play. I wasn’t sure if you had it in you, but you were the only one available and you’ve done it. There’s no way I’m giving up this food for anyone.”
She stood and left the eating area, and I stayed for another hour while the reaction slowly wound down. As I was about to leave my contact charm jangled. I didn’t recognize the caller ID and answered in neutral mode. We’d be able to talk, but no system or location data would be exchanged.
“A very good afternoon to you Mr. Mansard.” The voice was confidential and inviting, and breathed an unforced intimacy between people who didn’t know each other. “I hope I’m not calling at an awkward time.”
“No not at all”
“I’m glad. I won’t take much of your time. We have an acquaintance in common, Lincoln Bluefin, she has done security work for us. She mentioned that you’d be a suitable person to include in the planning of a new health related project. Would you be free to attend a planning meeting tonight? Lincoln will be there and it really would be most convenient for everyone if you could attend. I can assure you that it will be a mutually beneficial meeting. I’ll slide you the location details.”
“I’d be glad to attend,” I replied, and with that the call was severed and a note delivered. Someone was using Lincoln to get to me; if they could put a grip on Lincoln, then I had every reason to be horribly scared, which I was. I thought it likely that the lifeform I’d seen the night of the rally was involved. He looked like the managerial type, not staff, and I’d definitely gotten a call from staff. Suddenly, I was furious. All the rage I tightly held about placing those I cared deeply about in danger filled my entire body. No running this time, I’d have to deal with this directly and headed up to my office to consider exactly how I’d do so.
When I entered, Rosby was standing next to what looked like a very large upright snow-white worm. The worm had wide, nearly circular feet and its body seemed to be a stack of fat and rather wrinkly white circular tubes. Its round bald head rested on a beanstalk of a neck, emerging from the middle of the topmost tube. Big ocean-blue eyes blinked slowly behind large magnifying glasses that appeared to be a feature of the face rather than an addition. It had a small narrow nose, a wide blubbery mouth, and thin arms that connected to the tube below the head. The worm wore a book bag—jammed full of books—with a long strap diagonally slung over the body at the neck. The creature was surprisingly strong to carry it so effortlessly.
Rosby gestured the worm. “This is Aikon, our information specialist.”
Information specialists were usually referred to as BookWorms, a name I’d thought to be a reference to their work. Now I saw the real reason and words flew out before I could stop them. “What heartless fuckwit thought this was funny? They’ll pay in full measure when they have to explain the day the hammer falls. Lanken will shed no tears for them.” There were times when the knowledge that we were merely clay in the hands of stupid Naturals was too much to bear.
Aikon bowed his head a little and, after looking at Rosby, left the room. The backwash from the rage caught me full on. I’d insulted a lifeform to its face and demonstrated that cruelty really was universal. I turned to Rosby to explain and stopped at the expression on her face. Sporting a huge smile, she was obviously entertained.
“Y
ou have no idea, do you?” She shook her head and laughed. “I should worry about you, I really should. You’re going to be quite the box of surprises. I hope you’ve nothing you want to keep hidden, because your life is an open book now. Of course, that’s the usual trade-off isn’t it: privacy or security? If you want security, you have to give up some privacy. For the kind of security you now have, I guess it comes with no privacy at all.”
“Rosby, what are you talking about?”
She looked at me in surprise. Thankfully, the depth of the shock I had after she’d spoken was enough to make me appear calm. I’d been waiting for this for ten years and was as unprepared as if I’d never given it thought when it actually happened.
Rosby peered more closely. “You should sit down. This may take a bit.” She waited till I was sitting behind the desk before she, too, sat down. “The information specialists are Intercessionists.”
With that, I saw the breadth and depth of the new hole I’d thrown myself into. No one had any idea of the religious belief patterns of bottle-born lifeforms in their native states and contexts. All lifeforms now believed in Lanken the Blind, weaver of the great web that connected all living creatures together. In the name of justice Lanken cries tears for the terror and horror of our lives, each tear collected and placed in a balance against those who caused them to be shed. The judgment of Lanken will take place when the web is finally unraveled and it would be a full measure of the weight of her tears and then it would be the time for others to cry.
Intercessionists had added another layer to the mix. For them Lanken was both blind and deaf, and it was only when their situation was recognized by another and that other demanded justice on their behalf, that Lanken would see them and cry the tears that would grant them their due on that last day. Whoever interceded on their behalf got the eternal loyalty and devotion of the group. The flaw in this plan was apparent to everyone, so a qualification was included in the fine print. The intercession had to be entirely genuine and made without thought or hope of future reward. It had to be honest and selfless, which ruled out it ever happening. Until it did, it took something extra to beat the odds and the absurdity to successfully fuck yourself.
Bottle Born Blues Page 7
