Mammoth Book of Best New SF 14

by Gardner Dozois

  Jodie had the petition already prepared, and handed over the two memox crystals detailing the case, including the original farmer’s title to the land. Richard, as the claimee, had to sign a host of papers verifying the action.

  “Any idea when the case will be heard?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend.” The clerk’s hand fluttered over the pile of memox crystals and paper folders on his desk. “We have over eight hundred ownership cases filed in this court alone. The local PSP Land Rights allocation committee confiscated a lot of property.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that, but this is land for a commercial venture which will benefit many people in the town. It’ll create jobs, and bring wealth into the area. Surely that warrants some additional attention.”

  “I would say yes,” the clerk murmured diplomatically. “But it’s not up to me.”

  “Nevertheless…I’d be grateful if you could point this out to the powers that be.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  When they were back outside in the scorching sunlight Jodie frowned. “That was sailing close to the wind. You don’t do backroom deals in a civic office.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind. And you should remember that we need that leisure complex; your partnership will scoop up a big fee for steering it through the legal stages.”

  “I am aware of basic marketplace economics, thank you.”

  “Good. There’s a lot of new industry moving into town right now. That means wealthy educated people looking for somewhere to relax, and prepared to pay for the privilege. Rutland Water is a fabulous commercial resource, which is tragically underused. Can you believe there’s only three hotels on the shore?”

  Jodie nudged him softly. He looked around to see a bicycle entering the castle hall grounds. It was Andy Broady peddling heavily, his ruddy young face glistening with sweat. Richard almost laughed out loud. Even in this weather the kibbutzniks still wore their thick dark dungarees.

  Andy dismounted and leaned the bike against a wall. It was an ancient contraption of black steel tubes, with a wicker basket on the front of broad handlebars. The County Museum would be proud to possess a specimen like it.

  Richard gave him a pleasant nod. Andy glared back furiously. For a moment Richard thought he might stalk over and swing a punch. Eventually, he pulled a bundle of papers out of the basket and made for the hall doors.

  “My relocation offer stands,” Richard said. “There’s no need for either of us to go through this. It is my land.”

  “My father died this morning,” Andy said. His voice was close to choking.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Richard said.

  “Accident, my arse!”

  Richard kept his voice neutral. “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen, you.” Andy took a pace toward them, his finger raised. “Twenty years he worked that land. He kept the faith and taught it to all of us. God rewarded our labors with enough fruit and crops to feed ourselves. It’s our home! We won’t give it up.”

  “With all respect to your father, God didn’t give you that land. The PSP did. They stole it from a family who were farming it a lot longer than twenty years, and didn’t pay a penny in compensation. What kind of justice is that?”

  “It’s ours!” Andy was close to tears. “I’ve spent my life there.”

  Richard nearly said, Time to move on, then, but kept his sarcasm in check. It wouldn’t do to get involved in a public fracas with some half-wit farm boy. Besides, the oaf was built like a combine harvester—solid power in a huge squat body. They stared at each other for a moment, then Andy hurried inside, rubbing the crucifix stitched to the front of his dungarees.

  “Filing their counter claim, no doubt,” Jodie said. “They’ll appeal for post-acquisition compensation, you know. It’s what I’d do in their situation.”

  “Fat lot of good that’ll do them. I have full title.”

  “You’ll have to let me see the plans for this leisure complex sometime. It must be quite something.”

  “It’s a work of art. Most aesthetic.”

  “You mean, profitable.”

  He laughed. “What else?”

  Alan O’Hagen had booked a table at the back of the Lord Nelson, where they were afforded some privacy. Richard enjoyed the small restaurant; it had tasteful antique decor, efficient service, and an excellent seafood menu. His ex-wife had always badgered him to take her, but he never had the money in those days. Now she was no longer a burden to him with her absurd middle-class a-fair-day’s-work for-a-fair-day’s-pay ethic. Nothing worthwhile in this world came fair. The young waitress gave him a respectful smile as he came in. Success was the most succulent dish.

  O’Hagen was waiting for him. Richard ordered a bottle of Australian Chardonnay from the wine list, almost the most expensive available. It was unusual for a client to buy him a meal, especially at this stage, and it made him wonder what kind of proposal O’Hagen was going to make.

  “I want to take Zone 35,” O’Hagen said. “However, I may have one small problem which I was wondering if you could help me with.”

  “Go on,” Richard said. This was the part he enjoyed the most—the part, different every time, which had to be settled to make it all fall into place.

  “The industrial unit will cost about half a million New Sterling to build and equip,” O’Hagen said. “Firedrake is a viable concern, but I’m not going to get the capital backing from a bank to build a whole warehouse and mailing outfit from scratch. Not with that to offer as collateral on the deal.”

  “Firedrake can’t be your only concern, surely?”

  “It’s not. But the kind of imports I’ve been dealing with in the past don’t lend themselves to close examination. Besides, there’s none of that money left.”

  “I see.”

  O’Hagen leaned over the table. “Look, the thing is this. At the moment Firedrake has a turnover of about 70,000 New Sterling per year. And that’s just with one poxy site and not much advertising. Once my distribution arm is up and running I can expand the product range and the advertising. That’ll start to generate enough income to pay off the kind of loan I’ll need to get it started. I’m this close.”

  “I can see that, but…”

  “Every business faces this point in the early years. It’s a credibility gap, nothing more. I need the banks to take a favorable look at the proposal, that’s all. England’s economy is in a high boom stage right now, and it’s going to last for a decade at least with this new giga-conductor Event Horizon has delivered. There’s so much potential for expansion here, you know that. The banks are desperate for an excuse to invest in our companies.”

  “But have you got any kind of collateral you can offer the bank? Something concrete? Like you say, they’re fairly flexible.”

  “I have one proposition. It’s for you.” He leaned in closer. “Become my partner in Firedrake. I’ll sell you half of the shares.”

  “What?”

  “It’s simple. With your involvement, the bank is bound to approve the loan application. You’re an established businessman; your development company is a success. With that kind of finance behind Firedrake, it couldn’t fail.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my job to sell you part of the precinct, not the other way round. I’m not a buyer, Mr. O’Hagen.”

  “I’m not asking you to buy. I’m even prepared to pay you.”

  Richard carefully poured himself some more Chardonnay. “I don’t follow.”

  “Look, what we’re talking about here is credibility, right? I want financial credibility, and that’s what I’ll pay you for. You take a half share in Firedrake. It’s not worth anything, there are only two shares, and they’re valued at a pound each. I told you, it’s a virtual company. Memory space on a mainframe, that’s all. But if you combine its turnover with your company’s involvement, we’ve got a valid application for an expansion loan. And you get another commercial unit built on the precinct, out of which you make a t
idy profit. Nor will you be liable for Firedrake if—God forbid—it goes down the tube. The distribution operation will be a subsidiary which I own. There’s no risk in it for you.”

  Richard hesitated. The idea almost made sense, and some of the arrangements he’d made on other deals were a lot less orthodox. “If I take a share in Firedrake, the banks will see what you’re doing. That would help your credibility, and it would ruin mine.”

  “Yes. But if you’d taken that half share two years ago they’d be impressed. It would show that you’d been a part of a promising business for a decent period, and were now confident enough in it to expand.”

  “Hmm.” Richard sat back and looked into that impassive face. O’Hagen was earnest, but certainly not pleading. “You mentioned payment. What kind of incentive would I have received to loan you my good name for the past two years?”

  “I have a painting. It’s a McCarthy, worth quite a bit. Not enough to trade in as collateral for a warehouse unit, you understand. But I could loan you that until Firedrake was earning enough to pay you back.”

  “How much is a bit?”

  “Find the right collector, you should be able to get 20,000 for it.”

  Richard weighed it up. Twenty thousand for using his name and reputation to lever a loan from a bank for a deal in which he would profit. And costing one tiny blemish in record-keeping, a one-pound share and two years. To massage that kind of data you didn’t even need to be an accountant…let alone a creative one. “I’d want to see Firedrake’s accounts before I go any further,” he said cautiously.

  For the first time, there was a display of emotion on Alan O’Hagen’s face as his lips moved into a small smile. “Come to my office tomorrow. My accountant will go over them with you.”

  Thistlemore Wood was a district on Peterborough’s western sprawl, part of the industrial expansion which had turned the city into a commercial powerhouse in the post-Warning years. To south was an old park, now hosting an estate of hemispherical apartment blocks, silvery crescents rising up out of the grassland. The road Richard eased the Merc along was lined by closely planted maeosopis trees, their long branches curving into an arboreal arch above him. He had to slow on the edge of Thistlemore because a converter crew was at work on the road. Smoke was venting out of their big remoulder vehicle as it chewed up the cinder flecks the track was made from. An endless sheet of smooth thermo-hardened cellulose was extruded from its rear, a dark protective coating which sealed the raw earth away from pounding tires and searing sunlight. The crew diverted Richard around the vehicle, keeping him off the freshly laid surface. A couple of rickshaws came the other way, their riders clamping cloths over their noses as the smoke gushed around them.

  The block where O’Hagen rented office space for Firedrake was eight stories high, its exterior white marble and copper glass. Satellite uplink antennae squatted on the roof inside their weather domes; an indicator of just how much data traffic the building handled. Richard pulled up in the visitors’ car park, then took the lift to the sixth floor.

  Firedrake had one employee. Apparently she did everything in the office: personal assistant, receptionist, site maintenance, made tea and coffee, handled communications. Like O’Hagen, she wasn’t what Richard was expecting, but for very different reasons. She was small, though he quickly redefined that as compact. He didn’t think she’d take very kindly to people who called her small. Every look was menacing, as if she were eyeing him up for a fight…a physical one. Her dress had short sleeves, showing arms scuffed with what looked like knife scars, and a tattoo: closed fist gripping a thorn cross, blood dripping.

  After he’d given his name she reluctantly pressed her intercom button. “Mr. Townsend to see you,” she growled.

  “Thank you, Suzi,” O’Hagen answered. “Send him in, please.”

  Her thumb jabbed at a door. “In there.”

  Richard went past her and found himself in Alan O’Hagen’s office. “That’s some secretary you’ve got there.”

  “She’s cheap,” O’Hagen replied with a grin. “She’s also surprisingly efficient. And I don’t get too many unwanted visitors barging in.”

  “I can imagine,” Richard muttered.

  O’Hagen indicated a woman who was standing at the side of his desk. “My accountant, Mrs. Jane Adams.”

  She gave Richard a curt nod. Her appearance was comfortable after the girl outside; she was in her late forties, dressed in a business suit, with white hair tidied in a neat short style.

  “I understand you intend to invest in Firedrake,” she said.

  “That’s what I’m here to decide.”

  “Very well.” She gave O’Hagen a disapproving look. “I’m not sure I should be endorsing this kind of action.”

  “Jane, neither of us is getting any younger. If Firedrake works out the way we expect we’ll have a decent nest-egg to sell to some kombinate or media prince. Hell, even Richard here might buy me out.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we,” Richard said. “If I could see the accounts.”

  With one last reluctant look at O’Hagen, Mrs. Adams handed Richard a pair of memox crystals. “They’re completely up to date,” she said.

  He put the first crystal into the slot on his cybofax and began scrolling down the columns of figures. O’Hagen had been optimistic rather than honest when he said the company’s turnover was 70,000. This year was barely over sixty, and the year before scraped in at fifty. But it was an upward trend.

  “I’ve already identified several new software products I’d like Firedrake to promote,” O’Hagen was saying. “I should be able to sign exclusivity rights for the English market on the back of this expansion project.”

  “May I see the painting, please?” Richard asked.

  “Sure.” O’Hagen picked up a slim kelpboard-wrapped package from behind his desk. Richard had been expecting something larger. This was barely forty centimeters high, thirty wide. He slipped the thin kelpboard from the front. “What is it?” he asked. The painting was mostly sky sliced by a line of white cloud, with the mound of a hill rising out of the lower right corner. Hanging in the air like some bizarre obsidian dagger was an alien spaceship, or possibly an airborne neolithic monument.

  “View of a Hill and Clouds,” O’Hagen said contentedly. “Remarkable, isn’t it? It’s from McCarthy’s earlier phase, before he moved from oils to refractive sculpting.”

  “I see.” Richard pulled the kelpboard wrapping back on. “I’d like to get it valued.”

  “Of course.” O’Hagen smiled.

  Richard took the painting to the Sotheby’s office in Stamford on his way back from Thistlemore Wood. The assistant was appreciative when Richard told her he wanted it valued for his house-insurance policy. She took her time, checking its authenticity before giving him an estimate. Eighteen thousand New Sterling. Once again Mr. Alan O’Hagen was being financially optimistic. But all things considered, it wasn’t a bad price for endorsing the Zone 35 development.

  “I think we have an agreement,” he told O’Hagen over the phone the next day.

  There was a chuckle from the earpiece. “I thought you’d be able to appreciate a good deal. I’ll get the paperwork over to you right away.”

  “Very well. I’ll notify the precinct’s banking consortium that I have another client.”

  Suzi turned up mid-afternoon carrying a small leather satchel. She opened it to produce a thin folder. There were two partnership agreement contracts to sign, both dated two years previously; even his signature counter-witness was filled in and dated. Mrs. Adams, he noted.

  “It says here my partner in Firedrake is Newton Holdings,” Richard said.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I thought it was held by Mr. O’Hagen.”

  “Newton belongs to him; it does his imports. You want to call him?”

  He couldn’t meet her impatient antagonistic stare. “No.” He signed the partnership contracts.

  “Mr. O’Hagen said t
o say you can owe him the pound for the share,” Suzi said. She gathered up one copy of the contract and handed him a share certificate with his name on it: again dated two years ago.

  “Tell him that’s very generous of him.”

  She scowled and marched out of the office. Richard glanced over the certificate again, then locked it and the partnership agreement in the wall safe.

  Richard was having breakfast the next morning when the police arrived, hammering so hard on the door he thought they were trying to smash it down. He opened the door wearing just his dressing gown, blinking…partly from confusion at the team of eight armed uniformed officers standing on his front lawn, and partly at the bright morning sunlight.

  The person knocking aggressively on his paintwork identified herself as Detective Amanda Patterson, holding her police card out for him to verify.

  He didn’t bother to show it to his cybofax. “I don’t doubt who you are,” he murmured. Three cars were parked on the street outside, their blue lights flashing insistently. Neighbors were pressed up against windows watching the drama. A Globecast camera crew lurked at the end of the drive, pointing their fat black lenses at him.

  “Richard Townsend?” the detective demanded.

  He put on a smile as polite as circumstances would allow. “Guilty of that, at least.”

  “Would you please accompany me to the station, sir. I have some questions for you.”