The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “They were.” Caryl had a distant look in her eyes.

  “And then your adopted family in Atalaya, wiped out by the High Shenh of the Universe because they were just too nice.”

  “Yes, that too, but I think I am in a different universe here. My parents may still be alive in this reality.”

  “And so might you be,” said Tom, “in a different body of course. Suppose you are still alive in this universe and you meet yourself… and then you don’t get on with each other. Worse still, if you have been killed here, your parents know you’re dead, and then you turn up ‘bulky as existence’, whining about puddings, what are they going to think; how are they going to react, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’d like to think they’d be pleased to get their daughter back…”

  “Or someone quite like her. You don’t need to go. Please stay.”

  “I’ve got to go and find out; it’s my destiny.”

  “Then I’ll come too. I can leave everything here in Amber’s hands.”

  “You can’t.”

  “You don’t think your parents would approve of me then?”

  “No, it is that vision. You will die if you leave this place. I don’t believe Vac has neutralised the last of the ‘insurgents’.”

  “How do you know it isn’t this place you saw in your vision?” said Tom, whining slightly.

  “It was pouring with rain;” said Caryl, “rain like you’ve never seen in your life; rain like we never get here. I know it’s off-world somewhere, and that’s why you mustn’t come.”

  “So, what’s the weather like on your new home planet?”

  “No idea; I haven’t found it yet, but I’ve got to look; I’ll ask questions. Someone must know. I’ll start with the people at channel 176. I might have to get a job there if they won’t tell me anything to start with.”

  “You’d be a natural.” Tom clawed for another excuse to delay her. “But I need you,” he conceded. “I can’t live without you.”

  “You can actually.”

  “How?”

  “Do you really love me?”

  “Of course,” said Tom, letting his gaze run slowly down the length of her toned body.

  “Not only lust, then,” she said, letting go of his member.

  “Of course not,” he said, guiding her hand back again.

  “I think it is,” she said. “Remember this scent?” She flicked her hair towards him.

  He breathed in the haunting fragrance. “Lovely.”

  “It is a special one made from the pheromones of doku cows. Didn’t you wonder about the effect I had on Errorcode?”

  “I assumed it was your sylph-like beauty and charming personality.”

  “Alas no,” she said, “It was ‘Dokumone Pentothal Number 5’, my favourite. I had to get close enough for the drug to affect him.”

  “So that’s why you always tell the truth to me, even when it hurts,” he ejaculated. “...thank you.”

  “As I’ve said before, it isn’t really very pretty, is it?” She wiped her hand on a tissue. “I can live with what it does, but my rabbit is cuter.”

  “Aren’t they always,” said Tom, “with their little waffly noses…”

  “Yessss, so, if I go away, the scent will fade and you’ll come back to your senses. You’ll be able to think straight then.”

  “You consider me that shallow?”

  “You’re a man aren’t you?”

  “True, but we aren’t all heartless exploiting sex-crazed egotistical maniacs with a preoccupation for round things, or things fitted with round things.”

  “Now you tell me,” she said.

  “I’m not letting you go.”

  “Would you really want to stop me? You didn’t stop me buying that gorgeous expensive handbag the other day. Look, I’ll make you a deal. Do you really want to stay with me, forsaking all others, even Tanda and Suzanne? By the way, are you ever going to get a divorce from the latter?”

  “Of course, I’m waiting for the right opportunity. Once I’m rich I’m sure she’ll agree to a fair settlement.”

  “If she’s sober for long enough.”

  “Is this what it’s all about, really?”

  “No,” said the girl, “and that’s the truth, although I am really peeved that you haven’t divorced her yet.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” said Tom. “Will you stay then?”

  “No. I’m leaving whatever you do.”

  Tom gazed at the beautiful girl beside him. He put his arm around her and held her tightly, his stomach feeling as though it was full of gerbils with jack-hammers. “If that’s your mind made up, what was this deal you were thinking of?”

  Caryl took a breath. “You give me one of the Pig-Uglies and I’ll fly over to channel 176 and make some enquiries.”

  “Is that a long way? We haven’t tested them on long journeys; what will you do to pass the time?”

  “I’ll take my knitting, but that’s not important. Somehow I’ll track down my family, see how they feel about you, check the precipitation levels, and if everything tallies, I’ll send a message and you can meet them and we can settle down and have lots of gorgeous babies in the bosom of familial life.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Tom thoughtfully, “but is there really nothing I can do to make you stay?” He slipped his hand down her belly and she giggled.

  “Don’t start that again. You know I can’t resist.”

  His lips found hers and his hand found what it was searching for. She moaned with pleasure, and they collapsed back on to the cushions to make desperate love until the symbolic fall of darkness.

  * * *

  Tom felt instantly lost after Caryl had left him. She had tried to counter the effects of the perfume by lighting up Skagan cigars to make her breath smell like excrement. It worked to some extent, and after a few days, Tom was able to stay in the same room as her without ripping her clothes off. He took to eating curries to get used to it, and was starting to enjoy his sex life again and forget about Caryl’s threat about leaving, when he awoke one morning to find a note pinned to his ‘Mannequin’s Guide to Sexual Positions’ manual.

  Caryl had gone, leaving him bereft and horny. She had waited until Pete had commissioned a long-range Pig-Ugly, and volunteered to be the test pilot. As head of IC, she outranked him and, ignoring the entreaties and anxieties of the dangers in flying an as-yet untried ship, had departed before Tom could get her locked up.

  Vac and Tanda had already launched the first of the refitted Skagan ships and flown it around the planet, resisting the temptation to try out the armaments that weren’t there. Tom convened a brief meeting, where Errorcode was brought from the Change Control Shed to report on another week of pointless bureaucracy, and after an update from the Magus on the state of Mat production and a nice cup of tea from Mrs Tuesday, he was at a loose end.

  Already the effects of Caryl’s perfume were wearing off, and he had managed to kick his lager habit, returning to the Magus’ bar to try out the latest offerings of ale. He wasn’t really sure about it being made of whale-blubber, or heather, or used engine oil, and vowed to talk to his friend about growing hops and barley in some of the now unused Skagan allotments; he wondered where the Skagans had all gone; there were decidedly fewer of the black-clad troops in evidence around the compound.

  He thought of Kara. Kara, who had always managed to occupy him in times of pleasure famine, albeit keeping him on his toes as she tried to work out how to kill him without contravening her programming. She was however beholden to him. Perhaps she might provide some alternative amusement while he awaited the return of his lost lover.

  He wandered the empty corridors of the main SCT building. Even Mrs Tuesday was busy doing dinner, and not available for idle chit-chat. The company was running nicely without him micromanaging now. People seemed happy and productive in most of the divisions.

  Since Chang
e Management had amalgamated with the Risk Department and now consolidated into a coal-bunker, everything was running smoothly. Finance had their income and expenditure under control as the Magus’ hair product line went global, Research were rolling, producing new ways of integrating the Dokumats into vehicles and white-goods, and were generating a nice side-line in data storage—it had been discovered that individual doku-hairs could hold up to 1 Boggle-byte (Bb) of data each. They were currently working on a 10Bb hair. Tom was thinking of selling it as a service as an alternative to the ‘Cloud’. He wanted to call it ‘The Wig’, but the Magus was a bit sore about the implications, his own application of the hair restorer failing to work on his new shiny cranium after Ramone had been over-enthusiastic with the paintbrush.

  Tom was also surprised that Caryl’s legacy of leaving the staff to produce what they could see was required was working. Rewarding them for the increased profits, not over-supervising and listening to what they were saying, was bringing in more that he would have thought possible. The two girls left running IC were loving their work, and any interviews they now had with staff were normally to force them to have maternity and paternity leave, or to talk them into taking their allotted holidays, or to reduce their working hours back to a normal day. Pete had come to the point where he had to insist on closing the workshops at the end of the shift, otherwise the staff would be there all night too. His main occupation now seemed to be fending off the deluge of job applications from the mainland.

  Tom looked sad. “I’ve managed myself into obsolescence,” he said. “If Vac can sort out the tax situation, we could be a really profitable company and therefore pay off the debts the previous lot left us with.”

  “You could,” said the tea-lady, appearing behind him.

  “Sorry Mrs Tuesday,” he said, jerking out of his daydream. “I didn’t hear you coming without your trolley.”

  “It’s my tea-break,” she said. “I thought I’d go for a stroll. Quiet isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I miss the patter of tiny feet from Change Management, rushing about trying to get requisitions signed. The corridors are empty now.”

  “I heard Mr Errorcode and Mr Gamble from Group Risk aren’t getting on so nicely together. They haven’t touched their buttered scones this morning.”

  “I should go and talk to them.”

  “No problem, would you like me to have a word?”

  “Have you got time, Mrs Tuesday, what with all the catering?”

  “I’ve taken on the room bookings,” she said. “It makes sense to have the room and catering all under the same department, now that Pete has finally managed to decommission the hidden instances of ‘Constrictions’ from the Genuflection Laboratory. It means that the biscuits will turn up at the same time as the room is booked for, rather than the following day like it used to be.”

  “How did Pete manage to shut all that down, let alone find it? I thought Monty was defending it to the last.”

  “He was,” said the tea-lady, “but I gave Pete a bit of a hand with the system; it didn’t like a nice cup of Bovril inside it.”

  “And there are no backups?”

  “Mr Errorcode said that he was an experienced user and therefore didn’t need backups.”

  “Good, so we’ve seen the end of that… at last?”

  “Here, certainly, but I believe there are some of the more primitive planets still using it.”

  “You seem to hear a lot,” said Tom, regarding the little woman in a new light.

  “Surprising what you pick up while folks are drinking their tea,” she said.

  Tom nodded, and then perked up. “I don’t suppose you know where all the security people have gone?”

  “Of course; with the new drives being fitted, they have taken the jobs as test pilots. No end of them have flown off into deep space.”

  “Have any returned?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Oh dear, does that mean the ships have blown up and killed them all?”

  “We would have known,” said the tea-lady. “I’ve heard reports that they are interviewing pilots of other ships to see if they are interested in converting their own vessels. There are accounts of the alien ships being so pleased with the attention, that they are handing over a lot of their cargo to our people.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear; I do hope they aren’t making a nuisance of themselves.”

  “I’m sure they’re not,” said Mrs Tuesday, patting his hand reassuringly. “Was there anything else you wanted or can I get back to writing my thesis on the ‘Relationship between tea brewing times and the development of the birthing stirrup’?”

  “Yes, there is something else,” mused Tom. “I don’t suppose you know where Tanda is, do you?”

  “She is in the detention centre, with the prisoners.”

  “My Phoist, what’s she done? Who’s locked her up?”

  “She’s not locked up; I believe she is doing the interrogations. Vac handed over the job of Chief of Security when he left.”

  “Without my approval?”

  “He didn’t want to bother you, I believe; kindness himself that Mr Vac.” She simpered.

  “Do you like him now? I’ll put in a good word for you when he comes back.”

  “I already had a Valentine card,” she said. “Only one I’ve ever had. Fair made my day it did.”

  “That was nice,” said Tom. “I wonder what made him do that.”

  “I got him his own special mug for the tea,” she said. “It's a big one.” Her eyes misted over.

  “It would be,” said Tom.

  Detention

  Kara checks out Equipment

  The Secret of Guacamole Cove

  K

  ara put her hands up. “I’ll come quietly.”

  “You’re spoiling my fun, surrendering,” said the voice. “Kara Tay; I thought it was you. You can put your hands down.”

  “Are you going to shoot me for resisting arrest?”

  “Are you going to resist?”

  “I know that voice.” Kara turned slowly and a smile spread across her features. “Tanda! What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Great to see you again, Doll,” said Tanda, who knew all about Kara’s internal structure and history. “I thought you were busy being the Empress of the Universe or something.”

  “I’m better now,” said Kara, reaching out to give Tanda a hug. “Oh, sorry, you probably want to start with the Skagan traditional greeting.” She bent to remove the panties that weren’t there.

  “We’re over that,” said Tanda. “It was taking too much time. We have other things to do these days, rather than shagging and eating.”

  “Shame,” said Kara wistfully.

  “So what are you doing here in our high security secret location that even the CEO doesn’t know anything about? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that; it’s supposed to be a secret.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” said Kara. “You can rely on my discretion.”

  “I’m sure I can, but the Process Manual says that you should be taken for interrogation to find out what you do know.”

  “Lead on,” said Kara.

  “I will, if I can remember the way through the minefield.”

  * * *

  Kara was blindfold and strapped, naked to an iron chair. Electrodes had been attached to her nipples, her foot was in a pan of water over a burner, and a rather unpleasant-looking rotating dildo was menacing her genitalia. A large unbelievably handsome man, stripped to the waist and wielding a whip stood beside her. He idly draped it over her legs. “Right, I’ll only ask this once again,” he said.

  “You haven’t asked anything yet,” said Kara. “What do you want to know?”

  The man stood back. “Um, I hadn't thought of any actual questions yet. Usually, the subjects deny everything and refuse to talk, which gives me time to think up something; or better still they tell me everything, in the ho
pe I will forget to turn the burner on under the pan.”

  “I wish you would,” said Kara. “My foot is freezing.”

  “Damn, did I forget again?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s a relief; I’m already on an action plan to improve my techniques, so I don’t want any more slipups to be reported.”

  “You were going to ask me some questions,” said Kara. “Perhaps I could suggest a few? Would that help?”

  “I’d be so grateful,” said the man. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You could ask me what I was doing on the clifftop.”

  “Good idea,” said the man. “What were you doing on the clifftop?”

  “I was working out how to get into the building,” said Kara. “Now, what about asking me why?”

  “Yeah, right, er, why?”

  “Because I think you may be illegally holding two agents of the Temporal Conduct Authority here, and that’s bad.”

  “It is?”

  “Very bad; you see, the TCA never gives up. If they lose one agent, they will send someone to look for them, and continue sending more people until everyone is either free or dead. The TCA motto is ‘Never leave an agent, arthropod, mechanical totty or mechanoid behind.’”

  “I thought it was ‘Si irrumabo cum Tempus, Nos irrumabimus Te,’” said the man.

  “That’s the other motto,” said Kara. “Nobody could pronounce it properly, let alone understand what it means.”

  “If you fuck with time, we fuck with you,” said the man, “It’s easy; did it in First Year at Fight School.”

  “Right,” said Kara, “What else do you want to know?”

  “No idea,” said the man. “Can I start torturing you while I think of something?”

  “What about thinking of letting me go, preferably after the bit with the dildo and the electrodes of course?”

  “Not sure,” said the man. “I’ve a feeling I should be asking you something else.”

  “Would I like a coffee? Was that it?”