The Management Style of the Supreme Beings

by Tom Holt

  Jersey stared at her for a moment. Then he said, “So you don’t want me to rescue you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not coming.”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” Jersey wiggled his left foot, which had gone to sleep. “You really think you’d be better off staying here than coming with me?”

  “I’m convinced of it,” she said.

  “Right.” He tried shuffling back, but his shoulders were stuck against the shaft wall. “That’s that, then.”

  “I hope you’re not terribly disappointed.”

  “Mind out.” He shuffled forward until his lower half was through the hole in the wall, then dropped to the floor. His foot hurt terribly because of the pins and needles. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not stopping. I couldn’t turn round in there—it was too tight.”

  “I quite understand, Would you like a glass of water or anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you need to use the bathroom before you go back? There’s one just through there, en suite.”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  He turned, jumped up and hung by his fingertips from the hole where the grille had been. With a tremendous effort he tried to pull himself up, but couldn’t quite make it.

  “Would it be easier if you stood on a chair? I’ve got one here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Standing on the chair, he was able to stuff his torso through the hole, but his hips got stuck and there was nothing to grab on to and pull himself along. He wriggled out backwards again. “Sorry about this,” he said.

  “It’s perfectly all right. You take all the time you need.”

  This time he bent his knees and sort of sprang off the chair into the hole, which nearly made the difference but not quite. He tore his jacket squirming back out again, and fell off the chair on the way down.

  “I hate to rush you,” she said, “but they’ll be bringing my lunch in about half an hour. It’s probably sort of fish stew. Made with real sort of fish.”

  He took his jacket off, screwed it into a ball and stuffed it into the hole. Then he got back on the chair and bent his knees.

  “Just a moment.”

  Ah, he thought. “What?”

  “Before you go,” she said, “it’s just occurred to me, I came across something that might come in handy for you. You wouldn’t have a bit of paper and a pen, would you?”

  He scowled at her, then fished his jacket out of the ventilation shaft. “Here,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a bit complicated, so I’d better write it down.” She did so. “There. Give that to Santa; he might find it interesting. Right then, off you go.”

  He shoved his jacket back into the hole, clambered up on the chair, then looked round. “You’re sure you don’t want to—?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “See you then.” He bent his knees and dived into the hole, banging his head and skinning his elbows, but found he had just enough traction to get his feet in. He squirmed a few yards, then stopped to catch his breath. Behind him he could hear the grille being jammed back in place.

  It was a long, painful crawl to the junction but he was too preoccupied to notice. By the time he tumbled out of the long, sloping tube that led back to the air duct that led to the freight elevator shaft, he was so thoroughly cocooned in rage and misery that he didn’t see the ten stormtroopers in white plastic armour sitting waiting for him until it was much too late. They gave him a sympathetic grin and helped him to his feet.

  “Women, eh?” one of them said.

  “You what?”

  “We got her cell wired for sound,” the stormtrooper explained. “Sort of like a trap, if you follow me.”

  “Ah.”

  The stormtrooper shook his head. “If you want my opinion,” he said, “you’re better off without. A girl like that, she’d only make your life a misery.”

  “Well—”

  “Talk about ungrateful,” another stormtrooper said, gently twisting his arm behind his back. “A bloke goes out of his way to come and save her, and it’s, Not now, it’s meatloaf on Thursdays.”

  “Sort of fish stew,” the other stormtrooper corrected him. “Sort of meatloaf is Wednesdays.”

  “Whatever. All I’m saying is, you can do better than that.”

  “She’s nothing special to look at, anyhow,” the first stormtrooper said.

  “Could do with losing a few pounds, that’s for sure,” a third stormtrooper put in as he looped a cable tie round Jersey’s wrists. “Just as well she didn’t come down the tunnel with you, she’d have got stuck like a cork.”

  “And attitude.”

  “Makes you feel like rubbish. I couldn’t be doing with that.”

  “You forget about her, chum,” the first stormtrooper said, clouting Jersey between the shoulder blades with a plastic-gauntleted fist. “And even if she didn’t want to be rescued, there was no call to be so snotty about it. A bloke’s got feelings, after all. Nah, you’re better off, definitely.”

  “You’re probably right,” Jersey said sadly. “OK, so what now?”

  “We take you up to the surface and shoot you,” the stormtrooper said cheerfully. “That’ll show her, eh? Bet you she’ll feel a right fool.”

  They climbed a spiral staircase and came out into a small courtyard, where they chained him to a wall. Then they lined up and took aim. “Well,” said the first stormtrooper, “nice meeting you. Chin up. At least it’s not raining.”

  The stormtroopers switched on their optical sights and peered through them. Their fingers tightened on the fire buttons of their blasters. Then there was a bright flash, and they all fell over.

  “I don’t know if that was the stun setting or not,” said a female voice. “It’s not marked in words; there’s just these stupid little pictures which could mean anything.”

  It took Jersey’s eyes about five seconds to recover from the flash. When he could see again, what he saw was Lucy, with a blaster resting on her shoulder and bits of dust and cobweb in her hair. “Guess what,” she said. “You’ve been rescued.”

  He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a high-pitched squeak. She stepped over a fallen stormtrooper, knelt and retrieved a key from his belt. “Just after you’d gone I noticed this little microphone thing,” she said. “It got dislodged when you kicked the grille out. And I thought, I bet they’ve been listening in, and now they’ll know he’s here and they’ll catch him. So I thought, sod it. It’s not very nice in those ventilation shafts, is it? Though I did not get stuck.” She glared at a fallen stormtrooper, then undid the lock that secured the chain to the wall. “Well, come on,” she said. “I’m guessing the other side of that wall is the south elevation of the main building, but I’ve got a lousy sense of direction.”

  “I thought you said you were going to stay. I thought you said being rescued was pointless.”

  “I’m rescuing you,” she said. “That’s different. Is there a first aid kit on Santa’s sleigh? I took all the skin off my ankle getting through that stupid vent.”

  “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “You’re welcome. Now come on, will you? Where’s this sleigh of yours parked?”

  Her sense of direction was better than she’d given herself credit for. Not long afterwards they were standing on the edge of the septic tank, which was now a quarter full. “You’ll be all right,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t think it’ll come up much above your chin.”

  She turned to go. “You aren’t coming with me?”

  She shook her head. “Not likely. I explained all that.”

  “But—”

  “If I’m quick about it and I don’t waste time standing around chatting, I can probably get back to my cell before they know I’ve been gone. Take care of that piece of paper I gave you. Bye.”

  He took a long stride after her. She turned and shoved him in the chest. He stumbled back, tripped over hi
s feet and toppled into the septic tank. Fortunately, its contents were just buoyant enough to break his fall.

  44

  From Almeria, Kevin took a bus to the French border and then a train to Lyon. He’d just come out of the main station concourse and was looking for somewhere to sit down and have a cup of coffee when the Devil swooped down, caught him up and carried him off to a high mountaintop.

  “Hi, Uncle Nick.”

  “Hi, Kevin.” Uncle Nick put him down, materialised two deckchairs, a thermal jacket and an oxygen mask, and sat down. “How’ve you been keeping?”

  “Oh, fine. You?”

  “Not so bad.”

  “I expect you miss the old man.”

  “Yup. And Jay too, of course.”

  Uncle Nick took a packet of sandwiches and a flask from the inside pocket of his cape. “You OK with the air up here?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Warm enough?”

  “It’s fine.” Kevin looked around. “Say,” he said, “from here you can see all the kingdoms of the Earth.”

  Uncle Nick poured a cup of coffee. “Not quite,” he said. “Burundi’s over that way somewhere, and Nepal’s under that big bank of cloud there.”

  “Isn’t Nepal a republic now?”

  “Constitutional monarchy.” Nick grinned. “Not nearly as many kingdoms as there were last time I was here. I guess you could call that progress.”

  Kevin shrugged. “You could say it’s now all just one big empire. The United States of Venturicorp. Is that your idea of progress?”

  “Your dad once gave me a good piece of advice,” Nick said. “Never discuss politics with family. I got some salt tablets, if you need any.”

  “I think they’re for deserts.”

  “You’re probably right.” He offered Kevin a mug of coffee. “So, is that what all this is about? You want all of this lot?”

  “The geography? No, not particularly.” Kevin frowned. “Uncle Nick, I made a decision that maybe you should know about. I’m not just going to repeat all the stuff Jay did. So the whole temptation bit isn’t really necessary.”

  “Jay’s a great kid,” Nick said, “don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t like Jay was ever going to say yes. With him it was just a formality. And a media circus and a prophecy opportunity. I remember, this whole mountain was crawling with seraphim, setting up microphones, fooling around with lights and reflectors. We had to do the jump-down-and-be-saved-by-angels bit five times before they reckoned it had come out right. You hungry?”

  Kevin sighed. “No,” he said, “and if I was, I wouldn’t turn a stone into bread.”

  “These are Danish salami on rye, and these ones are egg and watercress.”

  “Oh, go on then.” Kevin took a salami sandwich. “How are things Flipside, anyhow?”

  “Fine,” Nick said, then he frowned. “Not so great right now,” he said. “There’s this kid works for me, Bernie Lachuk. Truth is, he’s the one who really runs the place, not me. Anyhow, the Venturis sort of leaned on me to send him on some stunt to trap that idiot who’s been trying to find the jolly fat man, and he’s been gone a long time and I think that maybe he got caught or something. And meanwhile, nobody knows what to do or where to find anything, the Dukes are at each others’ throats all day long, and there’s some girl in Archives who does nothing all day but cry her eyes out. To be honest with you, I’m glad to be out of there for a few hours.”

  “This is great salami.”

  “There’s this amazing little deli in Copenhagen.” Nick pointed. “Just about there. Do yourself a favour next time you’re out that way.”

  “You needn’t worry about Bernie,” Kevin said. “He’s fine. Right now he’s playing cards with a bunch of elves. They owe him a considerable sum of money.”

  Nick beamed. “That’s all right, then,” he said. “I’d hate it if anything happened to the kid. He’s bright, that boy. He’s kind of the son I never had, you know?”

  Kevin nodded slowly. “And family’s important,” he said. “But there’s other things that matter even more, Uncle Nick. Was all this the Venturis’ idea?”

  For a moment Nick looked as though he’d been slapped. “I guess I deserved that,” he said. “But when you’re out playing golf somewhere and suddenly you’ve got Snib Venturi on the line saying things like violation of contract terms and aiding and abetting subversive elements, you panic. I panicked,” he corrected. “Kevin, I don’t know whether I’ve done anything wrong or not, according to the treaty, I mean. But I do know that Snib Venturi could make my life very awkward indeed if he wanted to. And the fat jolly man’s nobody’s friend, right?”

  “I seem to remember you quite liked him.”

  Nick grinned. “Yeah, I guess I did. Mostly because he’s a rule-breaker, and professionally speaking I was right behind all that kind of thing. Also he did wonders for gluttony, greed and covetousness in late summer and autumn. And, let’s face it, much as I admire your old man—and Jay too, of course—I won’t pretend I didn’t get a bit of a kick out of seeing him winding them up the way he did. I don’t know, things were a bit more fun when he was around.” He wiped the smile off his face. “But that’s one thing, and getting my charter revoked is another. We definitely do not approve of the fat jolly man. Do we?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I hear what you say,” he said, “and I can understand where you’re coming from. I’m not sure I agree though. I don’t actually like the Venturis very much, and I don’t think they’re the right people to run this world.”

  Nick sighed. “It’s all right for you,” he said. “I know, rocking the boat’s not an issue when you can walk on water. Me, I like a quiet life. And I’ve got billions of souls to think about as well. What’s going to happen to them if Snib Venturi closes us down? Where are they going to go? Who’s going to look after them?”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow. “You know, I never really thought of what you do as looking-after. Interesting perspective.”

  “I have responsibilities, is what I’m saying. I have people depending on me. My claws are tied.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “This goes no further, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then sure, yes, I can’t stand those damn Venturis. They make me sick. All they’re interested in is money. And you know what your old man thought about that. Money is the root of all evil.”

  “Actually, it’s love of money is the—”

  “I’d like nothing better than for the Venturis to piss off back to Andromeda or wherever they came from, and for your dad and Jay to come back, and for everything to be like it was. But that’s not going to happen. So …”

  “Better the Devil you know?”

  “So we sit tight, keep our noses clean, and most of all we do not get involved with dissidents and subversives. OK, Kevin, I know you mean well, but—”

  “Paved with good intentions?”

  “You’re not your brother. You’re not your old man. They never wanted you in the family business, and I agree with them. You’re just not cut out for it, that’s all.”

  Kevin had gone very pale. “I see,” he said. “You think I’m too stupid?”

  “Stupid?” Nick looked blank. “Heck, no. You’re a bright kid, Kevin: you’re imaginative and smart and you got your head screwed on.” He paused then said, “You think that’s why the old man never wanted you in the business?”

  “Well, yes. Wasn’t it?”

  Nick shook his head. “He knows you’re not dumb, and so does Jay.”

  “So why wouldn’t they ever teach me how to do things?”

  Nick sighed. “It’s not because they thought you were stupid,” he said. “Far from it.”

  “Then why, for crying out loud?”

  “It’s a question of temperament,” Nick said slowly. “They feel, and I agree with them, you’re too soft-hearted. You care about people. You’re too much of a nice guy. They reckoned you’d never be able to keep the necessary degree of dist
ance between you and the little people. You’d let yourself get involved, and that’s a bad thing in our line of business, son, a very bad thing. I mean, look at you and this Thorpe guy and his girl. You saw they were in trouble, you rushed in to help. You didn’t stop and think, what are the bigger issues here? Running a world is no job for a bleeding-heart sentimentalist, Kevin. You got to have a ruthless streak. You need to be prepared to smite the cities of the plain, send the flood, cast the goats into the darkness and gnash teeth. You can’t go soft on the livestock, or they’ll never respect you.”

  “But I like them,” Kevin said. “I like them a lot.”

  Nick shook his head. “It won’t do, son. Take it from me. How’d it be if I ran my department that way? There’s loads of people under my care who are really great guys when you get to know them, but do I allow myself to go soft on them? Listen, I got half the great poets and all the great musicians; I got all the charismatic politicians; I got all the best speechmakers and movers and shakers. Given half the chance, I’d take them out for dinner instead of boiling them in molten pitch. But I don’t let myself think that way. You’ve got to be detached, Kevin. You’ve got to be professional.”

  But Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe that’s the whole problem.” He stood up. “I’m not saying I’ve got all the answers, Uncle Nick. I don’t even know if I’ve got some of the questions. All I know is, I’ve got to try.”

  Nick gave him a sad look. “This isn’t the way your old man would do things,” he said.

  “Sure,” Kevin replied. “But I’m not my dad. I’m me.”

  45

  When they were kids, growing like weeds between the paving stones of the mean streets of Z’vworpp City, Ab and Snib Venturi built themselves a galaxy. They had to do the best they could with what they could find—in dustbins, mostly, or litter retrieved from corners and gutters—thus, their first stars were little balls of silver foil from gnuup packets, their nebulas handfuls of cellophane wrapping, their planets pebbles, their comets stale pjii nuts with trailing beards of cotton wool, and the whole lot lived in a plastic carrier bag. But every evening they’d empty it out on some quiet corner of the pavement and arrange it all, just so, and in their hearts and minds the balled-up newspaper was the vast and infinitely mysterious galactic Core.