The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Are there any actual real trees in this forest?” muttered Tom as Kara slipped away into the undergrowth.

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” said a Rhododendron beside him.

  There was a scuffle from where Kara thought the shot originated and she reappeared, holding a small, dark-haired woman by the scruff of her neck. “Look who I found,” she said.

  “I don’t recognise her.”

  “I do; I worked with her; Agent Binscrotbingleblogfootlebucketwanker (also no relation) a.k.a. Forty-seven, a.k.a. ‘ζ’, a.k.a. Temporary Intern, of the TCA.”

  “You can call me Zeta,” said the struggling woman. “Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand to Tom, who shook it automatically.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” he said, pulling away self-consciously.

  “Sort of,” said Zeta.

  “Are you or aren’t you?” Kara shook her prisoner.

  “She is; I saw it,” accused a nearby blackberry bush.

  “Shut it,” said Kara.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” said the bush. “I used to own a chain of department stores you know. We had branches everywhere.”

  Kara ignored the comment and shook her captive again. “Speak. Are you trying to kill us, and why? Tell me or I’ll tie you to that thorny shrub and leave you there.”

  “It would be nice to have someone to talk to,” said the bush. “It’s been a long time since I volunteered for ‘Escape to the Country’.”

  “I’ll speak,” said Zeta. “Please don’t throw me in the briar patch.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” said Tom kindly. “Tell us what your mission is and I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  “Don’t tell them anything,” said the blackberry bush. “Leave her here.”

  “You’ll let me go if I tell you?” said Zeta.

  “If you stop trying to kill us,” said Tom.

  “Okay, deal.” The woman took a breath. “As you guessed, I’m working for the TCA.” Tom nodded. “They have sent me to kill Agent Tay.”

  “I suspected,” said Kara. “But why? I retired a while ago after many years of active service.”

  “The pension,” said Zeta.

  “It’s a good one,” said Kara.

  “With the final salary agreement and the number of years’ work you’ve done, it’s a fortune.”

  “Of course, I need to be a girl of independent means.”

  “But it's crippling the department. We can’t afford to pay anyone’s salaries, let alone give our leader, the Imperator, his inflated bonuses for being a fat arsehole and doing fuck-all.”

  “You sound as though you aren’t very happy where you are,” said Tom. “Can I offer you a job with SCT? We can use people who are good with crossbows in our dealings with the Gutter Press.”

  “I could do something about improving your image,” said Zeta thoughtfully. “I’m good with publicity.”

  “Good, the job is yours. Send off your resignation to the TCA by text and report to SCT Island. Take this prologue as your introduction.” He handed over a reference document. “I think you can let her go now, Kara.”

  “You sure?”

  “I can tell a loyal employee when I see one.”

  Kara released the limp woman and she dropped on her knees into the carpet of soggy fallen leaves.

  “I’m so grateful,” she said, kissing Tom’s feet, and throwing small stones where he was about to stand. “I’d do anything for you. Here is something to keep your shoes out of the mud.”

  “You don't need to gravel,” he said. “Off you go. Kara and I have things to discuss.”

  * * *

  “Looks like we have a ready workforce here,” said Kara as they helped another captive out of the foliage binding him. There was a small army of released game-show contestants following them now.

  “I’m not sure I want a load of criminals in my organisation,” said Tom, “except in Finance and Sales,” he added, “where it is essential, but I don’t think I can employ them all.”

  “I’m sure we can sort something out,” said Kara. “We should get somewhere to dry out.” She consulted the Splat-nav. “Over there, is a safe haven for fugitives like us: a wild place. It’s called Duck-Town.”

  “Duck Town?”

  “A bit like Dodge City, only wetter.”

  “It would be.”

  * * *

  Dried and warm in a hotel bar in town, Tom flicked through the sheaf of papers from the soggy folder. He spread out a few of the more relevant pages on the table and put his finger on a name. Kara whistled. “It seems like the code-name, ‘Old Bear and Friends’, crops up quite often in the text. I wonder who that is. I can see that the bonuses and pension plans are phenomenal, as is the job description.”

  “Yes, I’d like you to read the job description,” said Tom, “It might give us a clue as to who ‘Old Bear and Friends’ is.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes please.”

  “If you aren’t going to get bored,” said Kara, picking up the document.

  “Of course not,” said Tom. “This is essential research.”

  “Fair enough,” said Kara. She read:

  “Cyclic Imperator Job Responsibilities: Develops unclear direction of the organization by providing ambiguous projections and leadership services; prepares bonus plans and confuses staff...”

  “Bored now,36” said Tom, “but does that remind you of anyone?”

  “I’m groping for a name,” said Kara.

  “Any good at anagrams?”

  “Old Bear and Friends?” Her prosityser ran through the possibilities. “Ah, if you hadn’t pointed it out… Are you going to say the name out loud?”

  “He might suddenly appear and be nasty to us.”

  “Only if you say his name three times; go on, risk it.”

  “Ferdinand Badloser,” said Tom. He looked round furtively, but fortunately there was no sign of the former leader of SCT. “I thought he was dead. We know who we’re up against at least.”

  “You know who ‘you’ are up against,” said Kara.

  “You’re not coming with me?” Tom’s face fell. He was glad he wasn’t Agent Bott, or the action would have been more serious than a simple expression change.

  “No,” said Kara. “Now that we know the Imperator is Badloser, I dare not stay in one place, otherwise the TCA will eventually track me down. My luck won’t last forever. He won’t give up until he’s reclaimed my pension; he’s a really bad loser, he comes from a noble line of Badlosers. If the TCA have a vision and a goal, they throw their whole resources behind it. One good thing for you…”

  “What would that be?”

  “While they are hunting me, you will be safe. And if they do come after you again…”

  “They will have got you, and I can mourn your passing.”

  “Sadly yes, which is why I’m off exploring new career opportunities.”

  “Which is?”

  “Certainly not. I hate those sort of hats… no, see all these freed people here. They can’t go back into Society, what with their record and personality; there is only one option open to us…”

  “Used car sales?”

  “No, piracy; I’ve already had training and practice, and I love the gear. All I need to do is get a ship, and these will be my crew. I’ve chatted it over with them and they think it’s a great career. There is enough water on this planet to hide in; treasure islands and hidden coves a-plenty. We will have to make sure the treasure chests are waterproof and weighed down properly to save them floating off of course.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What could be better than the romance of the oceans, the slap of the water against the hull, the weight of the statutory albatross around one’s neck...?”

  “I will sponsor you to go out and discover strange new worlds and new civilisations and plunder them for re
sources. We need to make contact with other races and see what we can get off them.”

  “Like the Dokuvirus?”

  “I was thinking more of culture, riches, technology, information and decent ales. There must be places like that, outside of York that is.”

  “York?”

  “It doesn’t exist anymore, after the ‘Northern Wars of Independence’; apparently Yorkshire people thought they lived in ‘God’s own County’. I think God deserted them. The place is now ruled by the Holy Druid Empire, from their capital in Lithuania; all real ale has been replaced with fermented cucumber juice.”

  “Very sad, but can you really let me have a ship?”

  “If you bring back things like potatoes and tobacco and scurvy, no, but any of the others will do.”

  “It’s a deal, m’hearty.” Kara spat into her palm and held it out. Tom used a wet-wipe on it, and nodded in agreement.

  * * *

  The Tax Interview

  Tanda fills in the Tax Office

  Vac modifies the Shunt

  T

  anda and Vac were standing outside a dull grey building. The lower levels were constructed of massive blocks of granite, that as far as they could see had no breaks anywhere. Upwards, the grey colour faded to a lighter shade, as the dirt from the road gave up its attempt to climb any higher, and six rows of regularly spaced narrow windows stretched from end to end. At the corners were small towers; Vac was sure he could see gun-barrels protruding. The front entrance was protected by a portcullis, and a massive wooden door, and in sentry boxes either side of it, bored-looking soldiers lounged, puffing on strange, long-stemmed pipes. A small flat fish hung from a hook over the door.

  “This must be the plaice,” said Tanda.

  Vac removed the fish, using the application of violent bludgeoning.

  “That’s sole destroying,” said his companion. “Is this really the Tax Office?”

  “I think so.” Vac pointed to a sign, which read, ‘General Universal Taxation Service—Smoke, Friend, and Enter.’

  “Cheerful structure,” said Tanda, sarcastically. “I hope the people inside are going to be more friendly.”

  “I like it,” said Vac. “Looks functional; perhaps we should redevelop the village along these lines.”

  “I’ll see if I can get the architect’s number before we leave. Now how do we get in?”

  “Knock perhaps? Look, will you lot please go away.” She turned to address the huge crowd following them. “What are you all doing here anyway?”

  “You are celebrities,” said one of the women in the gathering. “We don’t often see your type here.”

  “And what type would that be?”

  “Slim people.”

  “Look, I can see a knee bone,” shouted someone.

  “And the guy, he only has the one chin—amazing.”

  “Let me pass, I’m a reporter.” A large lady with a camera crew forced her way through the crowd, like a super-tanker ploughing through a raft of plankton. “I will do the interview.”

  “I don’t remember agreeing to an interview,” muttered Tanda.

  “Miss Gray, Miss Gray, can you tell our viewers about your new film?” said the lady, ignoring the comment.

  “What film?” Tanda blinked into the glare from the lighting equipment.

  “You can’t fool us. We know you have been brought in to star in a movie; we haven’t made one of those since we lost our last thespian to that burger advert. Since then, nobody has been pretty enough to advertise anything. Ratings are falling, despite us showing re-runs of ‘Sergeant Wilco’ and ‘Criminal Observances’. Even ‘The Chastisers’ hasn’t been too successful and we are reduced to working on chat shows where people talk about how thin they could be if they made the slightest effort, and game shows where people compete for a chance to fall off a chair.”

  “I feel you might be mistaking us for someone else,” said Tanda. “Vac, what are you doing?”

  “A few pictures,” said her big companion gurning into the sea of cameras and flashing teeth. “Nothing wrong with that is there?”

  “We are supposed to be seeing the taxman,” said Tanda. “Go and ask those men with guns if they will let us in.”

  “Right. Sorry people,” said Vac. “I have to go for an interview now, in the main tax office.”

  “That’s it,” shouted someone (not the same someone as before—it is a big crowd) “The film is about excitement and double-dealing inside our tax collection system; the corridors of power, the forms, the final demands, the repossessions and the rebates; so exciting.”

  “Have you got a title for the film yet?” asked the reporter, shoving a microphone under Vac’s nose.

  “Not really,” said Vac. “Any ideas?”

  The crowd burst with helpful suggestions:

  “How about ‘Frozen—an in-depth look into illegal bank accounts’?”

  “Gone with the Tax Return?”

  “Game of Mergers?”

  “Bureaucrats, the Age of Submission?”

  “Pirates of the Tax Office—Undeclared Gold?”

  “The Starvation Games?”

  “Harry Potter and the Self-Assessment Form?”

  “Greedy system stole all my profits?”

  “That’s not a suitable title for a film,” said the reporter, rounding on the man who made the last suggestion.

  “Bloody isn’t,” agreed the man. “I was only shouting general abuse at the establishment. Did you get it on film? Apparently if enough of us complain about tax collection, we can raise a petition, and the Government have to listen and then think up excuses as to why they aren’t going to do anything about it.”

  “Thank you for that, I expect it will be cut in the edit, but Miss Gray… oh, she’s gone.”

  “Yes, they opened the portcullis, switched off the electric toaster and sneaked inside while you weren’t looking. Told you it was a crap system,” said the man.

  * * *

  Inside the hallowed halls of the tax office, the Skagans’ jackboots echoed ominously as they were led up a long wide corridor. Light eased its way in from high-up windows, illuminating pedestals with brass casts of former Director Generals, all apparently identical in the dim surroundings.

  “Wait here please,” said the dull man who was leading the way.

  They were left beside a poster detailing the values of the taxation service. Tanda idly read to herself:

  “I’m wondering how far we are going to get here,” she said.

  “We’re inside; that’s a start,” said Vac, “And without the use of excessive violence.”

  “I think you’re going soft,” said Tanda.

  “We’ll see,” said Vac, fiddling inside his trousers.

  * * *Tom spoke into the communicator on a direct connection to his headquarters. A rather grainy image of the Magus appeared.

  “Hi buddy,” said Tom. “How’s it happening?”

  “It’s not,” said the Magus glumly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Everyone’s escaped from the detention centre at Guacamole Bay. I’ve looked for them but can’t find them anywhere. Nor can I find any of our security people. I think they may have eloped.”

  “Are they still on the Island?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “That will save some money,” said Tom brightly. “Cheer up; they’ve probably caught a lift back to the mainland on one of those ships we saw. Are those tankers still there?”

  “I’ll check.” There was a short pause. “I can’t see them, but there is a bit of a glow in the harbour.”

  “There you are then,” said Tom. “They’ve gone back to the mainland and are having a party on board. Happy now?”

  “No.”

  “More problems? Ale production down? You can tell me.”

  “Alas, our prototype super-cruiser has been stolen. A couple of the Skagans were supposed to be workin
g on it. Pete found that they were fitting some new device they’d developed, taking the original Skagan blasters and enhancing them with Dokumats.”

  “That’s not good,” said Kara, slipping in beside Tom, and waving a greeting to the Magus. “Those weapons were powerful enough, without putting doku-nology into them.”

  The bald man waved back glumly. “Pete told them to take it out, because you’d be cross, but they refused and took the whole ship instead. The only good thing is that they won’t be able to do much, because it needs a bigger crew to fly properly.”

  “That sounds like mutiny,” said Kara. “Have you been able to do anything about it?”

  “I got Pete to the infirmary; he should be able to walk again in a few weeks, thanks for asking.”

  “Yes, I meant, do anything about retrieving the ship?”

  “Not yet; I’m tracking it; it appears to be coming your way.”

  “That might be bad,” said Tom. “I hope they don’t hold a grudge.”

  “For what?” said Kara. “You’ve been a good boss; never poked their eyes out or forced them to fill in a PDP.”

  “I suppose so,” said Tom, “but it doesn’t alter the fact of a warship loose in the galaxy and piloted by… who are the Skagans that took it?”

  “A couple called Spigot and Groat,” said the Magus. “They’ve been lovers since all time.”

  “I know them,” said Kara. “Not the brightest members of the tribe I’m afraid.”

  “Considering the average intelligence of that community, I am now even more worried,” said Tom. “Oh well. Magus, have you got anything else ready to launch? Kara thinks she might like to become a pirate again. We have a bloodthirsty crew of cutthroats and game-show contestants here already.”

  “Sorry,” said the Magus, “The missing ship is the only one we have until the new supplies of whiskers come in, or Cat grows his back. We have been quoted a six month delivery.”

  “That’s not good enough,” said Tom. “Change our supplier. Kara, add hexacat whiskers and doku to the list of things you are going to be collecting if we can find you a ship.”

  “We do have one of the long-range Pig-Uglies returned. The crew are a sensitive team and were beginning to lose too much weight through continued vomiting. I could use that once I’ve had it cleaned.”