by Coy, David
“If you want to call it work, that’s okay by me.”
She stood up and rubbed her eyes, then shook her head, still in a state of disbelief.
“I don’t know a biologist in the Commonwealth who wouldn’t kill for this opportunity. It’s a chance to see and classify a jillion species and sub-species. I’ll discover who-knows-what, and there’s no telling. All those discoveries will be mine—I mean ours—the team’s. It’s a lifetime of work. I can just see it now. I am one lucky person.”
Rachel took a deep breath, then sighed, and all the tension that had built up over the last few minutes went out with it. “I need some tea,” she said.
* * *
The next day, she got to the port early and had breakfast. It was surprisingly good. It amazed her that anything edible could come out of the filthy little concession. Thousands of people waited there for the morning shuttles that would carry them up to the transports, which would carry them to the off-world projects. The gate for Verde’s Revenge had very few people waiting. The shuttle would be late, according to the status board. She planted herself on a beat-up wooden bench and steeled herself for a two hour wait.
Good thing I’m always early.
Bored stiff by the end of the first hour, she counted the passengers at the gate one at a time. Then she counted them again.
Twenty. Both times.
That didn’t seem like anything for such a high-rolling project like Verde’s Revenge. It puzzled her.
She heard her name called on the addressing system, and the pleasant, disembodied voice asked her to please come to the check-in.
“I’m Rachel Sanders. You called me?” she asked the steward.
The steward pointed. Rachel followed his finger to the bench behind her. A young man stood up and stepped over in one long, stiff stride.
“Oh? Rachel Sanders?”
“Yes?”
“Hi. I’m your apprentice, Joseph Devonshire.”
Rachel blinked. She hadn’t asked for an apprentice.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, at a loss.
“Joseph Devonshire. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No. They didn’t,” Rachel said stiffly.
“Oh. They should have told you. My contract puts me under you as the other member of the bio-team.”
“The other member?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
The conversation was getting even more confusing. Rachel felt her voice growing an angry edge.
“No . . .”
“They should have, I guess. I’m sorry.”
He started to dig out his pad.
“I’ve got my contract right here. It’s signed and everything.”
“I see.”
“It’s all legit and everything.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Rachel took him by the arm. The arm felt like a twig under the heavy coat.
“Let’s go talk about this, shall we?”
She led him over to a bench and sat down, brushing off some papery trash before she planted herself.
She smiled a big friendly smile at him.
“Joe, is it?”
“Joe Devonshire.”
“Joe. First of all, I didn’t ask for an apprentice. Second, bio-teams are comprised of six members minimum, and I already have my six people in mind. I haven’t ordered their contracts yet, but they’re people I’ve worked with before, you know. This is a very important undertaking. I’m sure you understand.”
“Then, I guess there’s been a mistake,” he said.
Rachel nodded knowingly.
“Yes. I’m afraid so,” she said.
“God! That makes me mad,” he blubbered.
“I’m very sorry . . .”
“I was told there was no full, actual bio-team. Just you and me. The facilitator said so. He said . . .”
“What?”
“The facilitator said the bio-team was going to be small. He had your contract right there at the time. He said he could sign me on with you as the lead. There wouldn’t be a problem he said. I knew it was too good to be true.”
Rachel swallowed. It had to be wrong. It had to be.
“Can you wait here for a second?”
“Sure. I don’t have anywhere to go anyways.”
She moved to a spot a few benches over and pulled out her pad. If it were true, she was going to kill somebody. Goddamned bastards. You couldn’t do a biological survey of a single section with only two goddamned people.
She turned the device on and fetched her contract. All the seals at the top looked okay. She started to read through, word by word. She felt her heart beat faster with each one.
Ten minutes later her eyes found the clause she hoped wouldn’t exist. When she saw the words preliminary survey, she had to read them again just to be sure that’s what it said. “Sonofabitch . . .” she murmured.
She wanted to laugh. The clause described a biological inventory all right, but not a real one. It was more like a test survey, a preliminary survey, a bullshit survey—and it had no team members except herself and an optional apprentice. The option belonged to Richthaus-Alvarez Mining, not her. She scrolled down and found the addendum that must have been added. There it was. It clearly identified one Joseph Devonshire as her apprentice. She checked the paragraph that defined the contract’s term.
Five hundred hours. That’s it? Three months? How could she have been so stupid? She wanted to throw the pad down and stomp the damned thing flatter. Had she been so excited that she hadn’t been paying attention? Had she missed the most important parts? Had she just assumed they were there? Was she brain-dead?
The bright image of the contract seemed to mock her from the screen, to cast its ghostly light on her horrible misunderstanding, all the clearer to see it with. She turned the pad off and groaned. When she looked over at Devonshire, she thought she saw a faint smirk on his bony face.
She got up and walked over with her most confident stride, head held high. There was no use crying over spilled milk, at least not in front of this weasel. She could cry later when she got into her quarters.
“Well, I guess you’re my apprentice.”
“I am!”
“Yep. You am.”
She held out her hand. He shook it eagerly. “Joe Devonshire!” he said.
“I know. Glad to meet you . . . Rachel Sanders . . .”
“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. Gee, this is exciting!”
“Yep . . .”
“I’m sure I’ll learn a lot.”
“Yep . . .”
Later, she read the contract again, just to be sure there were no more surprises. Other than the glaring oversight on her part, everything looked okay. She thought briefly about contacting the facilitator and trying to re-negotiate the deal. Experience suggested that was largely impossible, though. Once you made your deal, you lived with it.
She should have asked, she should have checked, she should have read the damned thing.
She lay back on her bunk and closed her eyes trying to see the not-so-dark side of it all. She’d have five hundred hours. You could cover a lot of ground in that period of time. She didn’t know much about Joe Devonshire, but if he could work hard, it might not be a total loss. What disappointed her most was losing what she’d thought would be a lifetime of work doing what she loved. That’s what she thought she’d signed up for; the best contract, the last contract. Had her enthusiasm simply blinded her?
That’s me. Miss Enthusiasm.
Well, she’d make the best of it. Maybe there would be a contract renewal down the road. Someone would have to lead the full-scale survey that would surely follow. Why not her?
Later in the day, she invited Mr. Skinny down to the canteen for a sandwich. Since he’d be in her face for at least the next five hundred working hours, it might be a good idea to get to know him.
It didn’t take her long to discover that he knew practically squat about biology, and even less about sampling te
chniques; the key to a good inventory.
“Where did you get your doctorate?”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten it yet.”
She blinked and thought.
“I see. How much course work do you have left?”
“Ummm . . . three years.”
She almost coughed up her coffee. This was ridiculous. She could have done better with a certified clerk or secretary; someone to do just the record keeping. This twig would make a piss-poor field biologist. She wondered if she could twist his job duties enough to make him a clerk.
“So you’re at least five years from a full Biologist Grade I? “Well, if you count this apprenticeship, not quite,” he said. “It counts for some.”
“Some . . .”
“Some,” he repeated.
“Not much though.”
“No. Not much.”
“Do you have any field experience at all?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?”
“Let’s see . . . I was the lead on an investigation of a suspected biohazard in my second year at Stanford.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It was nothing really.”
“What was the nature of the biohazard?”
“Nothing, really . . .”
“No, tell me. It’s okay.”
“Cockroachers . . . I mean cockroaches. They’d been released in the dorm, and we had to find them, classify them against a government standard and make an advise versus destruct decision.”
“Based on the clues written on the chips glued on them?”
“Right.”
“Umm . . . the roaches were a simulated biohazard?”
“Yeah.”
“Umm . . .”
She’d done that one a dozen times. It was a favored “real world field test” designed for freshmen in Biohazards 101. She was surprised his instructor had waited until his second year to expose him to that little model of fieldwork. The goal was simple: trap as many roaches as possible using standard sampling techniques. Analyze the data in the chips until you got a complete picture of the scope of the hazard. Apply the rules as outlined in Government HFAR 23899B and issue either one; an advisory for release to the general public, or two, a complete destruction order.
“It was nothing, really. But it was fun . . .”
“Umm . . . what was the decision?”
“Advice, I think.”
“Don’t you know?” she smiled.
“Yeah, advise.”
“Umm . . .”
“Then we destroyed them anyway,” he chuckled.
“Sure.” Roach Grabs. That’s what they called them at Harvard.
“We’ll be doing a lot of that kind of thing. We’ll be working closely with the public health officials on Verde.”
“Really?” he grinned.
Well, he did have some enthusiasm. She liked that at least.
“Yeah, really,” she said, sipping her lukewarm coffee. She swallowed and made a face.
The coffee sucks, too, she thought.
10
There were many ways to cook the books. Nancy Crawford had seen every one of them. The most common way was to keep two set—one for the paying customers, and one for the chef. If it came to an audit, the good, upright, detailed set should stand close scrutiny. The second, more personal set, didn’t have to be quite so robust. Almost anything would do. You hid the money—or the loss of it—with the first set. The second set just kept you on top of how much you’d scammed.
This was the most ham-handed attempt at financial data manipulation she’d ever seen, and she wondered how in the shit he hoped to get away with it.
In order for the scam to work, someone who knew what they were doing had to do the actual posting, the data entry, the dirty work. Someone had to make an adjustment here and another one there, and generally keep everything in balance. It took a certain finesse to do it well. The bullshit had to be balanced just right on all the scales. Too much on one, and you sent up a flag; too little on another and someone would take a closer look.
You had to temper your greed.
Nancy Crawford should know; she’d been doing it for years. She was the high queen of fiduciary contrivance.
“Have you looked at the financials?” Ed Smith asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Your report?”
“There are some irregularities, Mr. Smith.”
Smith leaned forward just a little and one eyebrow came up a millimeter.
He’s good.
“Well, I don’t have the exact figures yet. I’d have to query the data warehouse to get a better view, but . . .”
“But?”
“Well, I was just wondering how much you trusted your Financial Analysts?”
“As much as I trust anybody.”
“Even the lead, Trevor Little?”
“Very trustworthy. I’ve worked with him for years. He’s very loyal.”
Butter wouldn’t melt in this man’s mouth.
“I see,” Nancy said.
She did, too. Trevor Little was the one mixing the stew, adding the salt, stirring. It had to be with Smith’s full knowledge unless Little was transferring the skimmed money with a stolen set of transfer codes. That was practically impossible. Smith had to be doing it. The books were cooking, and Smith had to be controlling the kitchen.
“And?”
She’d seen the early reports. The project would expand to become the richest in the Commonwealth in a few years. Richthaus-Alvarez and the franchisee, Ed Smith, Ltd. would make a fortune here. If he did it right, Smith could finagle not just a fortune, but wealth beyond imagining, perhaps trillions. If she was going to cut herself in for some of that, she’d have to convince Smith that she could do a better job than Little at gleaning that wealth, a chunk at a time, out of the morass of books, ledgers and financial records.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“Well, I hate to be the one to break this to you, sir. But I think the irregularities I’m speaking of are a direct result of Mr. Little’s tampering.”
She let it sink in. Smith could have been made of stone for the reaction he showed.
“I hate to put it so bluntly, sir,” she continued. “But I’ve had some degree of experience in these matters. I know what I’m talking about, and it looks like the numbers have been fudged to show more activity in certain areas than there should be at this stage of the project. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.”
“What do you suggest?”
‘Well, the first thing to do is a full scale audit. That should tell us where the adjustments have been made. We’ll have to compare each invoice from Richthaus to the accounts payable transfers. I’m sure we’ll find a delta in favor of costs when we look close enough. To put it simply, what it looks like is that Mr. Little is reporting far greater costs than there actually are and diverting the surplus funding to another account. I’m not sure how yet.”
“I see. This is very disturbing.”
You show it, too.
“I’m sorry, sir. But this is why you brought me here.”
“Yes. You’re even more efficient than your reputation suggests. I’m amazed that this is happening. Are you sure about all this?”
“Oh, yes.”
“There’s no doubt in your mind?”
“Very little, sir.”
She hoped he’d taken the bait. Time to set the hook.
“I could have done a much better job, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
Whoops.
She chuckled.
“I just meant that I could have done a better job, if I had been so inclined. I mean it’s not too hard to do if you know what you’re doing.”
“What isn’t?”
“Changing the books,” she said and swallowed.
“Changing the books?”
He was playing too dumb. Way too dumb, she thought.
She looked into Smith’s eyes and felt the ice
in them touch her. If she faltered now . . .
She took a deep breath.
“Yes. That is what we’re talking about, isn’t it? Stealing money from Richthaus-Alvarez?”
“Stealing?”
“Yes. Diverting money from one source to another. Theft.”
“Are you saying that I’m involved in some theft?”
Careful. “No. All I’m saying is that the way it’s being done is fairly amateurish.”
“You’re saying you’re a better thief than Trevor Little,” he said with a smile.
She tried but couldn’t smile back.
“Yes, I am.”
“Yes, you are better, or yes, you’re saying it?”
She swallowed. Smith had spit out the bait.
“When can you start this audit?” he said. “I’d like to settle this matter as soon as possible.”
She sat stunned. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. The audit trail would lead right back to him, as if he had a long string tied to his butt.
She had the feeling she’d just stepped into quicksand. She twisted around, looking for something to grab onto.
“I’m not so sure I’m the one to do it after all, Mr. Smith.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Well . . . I . . . I have some . . . another contract I’d like to pursue that has some growth potential. I’m close to retirement, and I’d like to speed it up just a little.”
“I see. I very sorry to hear that.”
“But I’d be happy to act as an advisor to whomever you chose to do your audit. Most definitely.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
She nodded her head a little too eagerly, and regretted it. She wanted to get up out of her chair, but Smith’s steely eyes seemed to fix her in place.
“Think nothing of it.”
It was Smith’s turn to talk, but he just stared. She felt a tightening in her chest and felt herself sinking deeper.
“Well, I guess our business here is done,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“Thank you for coming and for your excellent report. I’ll have my assistant escort you back to the transport. It should be leaving within the hour if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m sure I can find my way back.”
“No. I insist.”
He pressed the intercom.
“Yes, sir?” the man’s voice said.