by David Coy
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 techniques; 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?”
“Advise, 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 coo
king, 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.
“James, can you please escort Miss Crawford back to the transport? I’m finished.”
“Yes, sir.”
James was a good-looking young man, and his pleasant demeanor put her at ease.
She extended her hand to Smith, and he took it. The grip was firm and dry. She wished hers had been the same.
“Have a safe trip. I’ll have your contract paid down with a bonus for your good work in this matter. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
The passageway from the Manager’s office was narrow, causing her to have to walk almost behind James instead of next to him. She picked up an odd flowery scent from him that she found distasteful.
“I take it your trip was a profitable one?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Yes. Somewhat . . . I . . . ”
Something caught his eye.
“Oh, my. Are those real? They look real.”
“These?” she said, reaching for the string of pearls around her neck.
“Yes. They’ve been in my family for hundreds of years.”
“May I?” he asked, reaching out.
“Oh, sure . . . ” she said letting him touch them. His fingers felt cold and light as they brushed over her skin.
“You’re very lucky.”
“I suppose so.”
“What are they worth, do you think? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“They’re the only real heirloom in my family that I know of. My younger sister will get them next. I can’t tell you what they’re worth.”
“They’re lovely.”
“Thank you.”
They walked through the orbiter turning first one way then another, past offices and workstations until she was totally lost.
“My, I don’t think I would have found my way.”
“No. It’s fairly complex. We’re almost there.”
They left an office area and went down another corridor that seemed even smaller and darker than the others. It didn’t look at all familiar. A tight feeling came into her chest.
They went a little further, walking past barrels and shipping containers stacked in the passageway. This wasn’t right. “Where are we?”
“We’re taking a short cut,” James said happily.
“A short cut?”
“Yes. Almost there.”
This wasn’t right. She had the sudden urge to run.
She sensed someone behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Another young man was following some distance behind them.
This isn’t happening.
“Where are we going?” she asked hopefully.
“I told you. A short cut.”
She stopped.
“I’d like to go another way.”
Her mouth was so dry it barely worked.
James laughed.
“This is the only way.”
/> The man behind her came up to within a few feet of her and stopped. She looked at him and saw in his eyes the same iciness she’d seen in Smith’s. The man took something out of his pocket and held it to his nose. She heard him breathe deeply. His face suddenly changed from stony to strangely lascivious. He grinned like a wolf at her.
“What are you doing?” she asked weakly.
“Taking care of you,” James said behind her.
She heard a sound, like a weak groan. It was hers.
She felt his strong, cold hands grip her shoulders and turn her around.
“Come along, dear.”
Her feet wouldn’t move.
“Come on. It’s not far.”
She heard a distant chuckle and realized it was coming from the man behind her.
She collapsed like a doll.
“Pick the bitch up,” someone said.
“Christ, she’s pissed herself.”
She felt herself being carried in strong arms and watched the dim lights in the passageway drift past, one after another.
Finally, they stopped, and she felt herself being lowered to a cold hard floor. She watched two sets of legs walk away from her then saw the heavy red airlock door close.
She turned her head and saw the other door. She’d passed through airlocks just like this one a thousand times. Always when the door slid open, another passageway followed, sometimes brighter and newer, sometimes older and dimmer than the one she was in.
She knew that when this one slid open, there would be only the blackness of space to greet her.
There was a click and a hiss and the door began to slide. A moment later, she saw the dreaded black seam and the bright, cold light of distant stars shining through it. There was a sudden sound of rushing air, and she wanted to scream but something inside prevented it. She felt herself flying toward the door, and as she passed through it, all sounds dimmed and died to nothing as if her head had been swathed in thick cotton. Tumbling over and over, her hand reached for her pearls, her most treasured possession to touch and hold, one last time.
