by Lee Bond
That didn’t diminish the hatred he was feeling towards each and every curl, every loop, every … just every bit of his signature.
Working for a man like Garth Nickels, who had more money than God and no idea what to do with it, invariably meant that he, Herrig, was called upon to follow after Garth, stylus in hand, filling out the mountains of paperwork that came with everything the man bought. Unlike most wealthy people his age, Garth didn’t buy lots of cars or glittering piles of shiny objects that he could then toss into cavernous mansions, all to be forgotten by the next best thing.
No. Not Garth Nickels.
He bought things like advanced medical research companies. That acquisition alone had required four solid hours of signing and crosschecking, initialing and revisions of policies. Herrig supposed he shouldn’t really complain all that loudly, because he was very well paid for his time. Besides the vast quantities of money making its way towards him, Herrig had the sneaking suspicion that Garth Nickels was working towards an unspecified-yet-beneficial-for-Lately goal. It was just so hard to see what that goal was!
Herrig hated his name, but quietly. Every now and then, just to exact revenge, he signed it differently. Not enough to upset anyone or trigger fraud avatars, oh no. Just enough to satisfy himself and no more. Every now and then, the cross on his ‘t’ was slightly crooked. It made him feel better.
The documentation necessary for Conglomeration was another kettle of fish, so to speak. Herrig had neither seen of nor heard of anything needing quite so many pages and so many signatures. He was quite certain that, if there was indeed a God, all this Holy Being would need to do to elevate someone to angel status was a rubber stamp and a pat on the back. If this God were feeling especially chatty, some kind of ‘good job’ would be murmured.
If it weren’t for avatars designed to go through the blizzard of sheets in search of improperly couched phrases or loopholes or booby-traps, Herrig knew he’d have gone insane days ago.
As soon as he sent one pile back to the government avatars for careful scrutiny, they sent one to him for ‘leisurely perusal’. It was maddening. Herrig was very certain that there was a host of avatars doing nothing more than waiting on his processed paperwork, whereupon they reached into their never-ending servers to extract some random-yet-extremely-relevant file.
But now there was light at the end of the tunnel; yesterday morning, his proteus had signaled acceptance of the unlikely-sounding Conglomerate moniker ‘UltraMegaDynamaTron’, an indicator that Garth was well and truly on his way to becoming a name brand.
Herrig’s proteus rang, and the chubby ex-banker literally dropped everything in his hands to answer it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to a live human being. “Sa Herrig DuPont, how can I help you?”
“Herrig, buddy!” Garth shouted cheerily from a rooftop café that afforded its clients a wonderful view of the mountain ranges far to the west. He sipped at something cold, parti-colored, and thirst quenching.
“Garth.” Herrig nodded cordially, then dropped down into his comfy chair. Once a feature of his small apartment, he’d had it shipped over when his days at work transformed into nights at work. “How are you feeling?”
“Top notch, pal, and thanks for asking. How’re things on the home front?”
Herrig flashed Garth a summary of his efforts so far, frowning embarrassedly when his prote indicated that his employer was using a Sheet, and a dirt-cheap one at that. “Oh yes, of course … it was destroyed in the, ah, the fire.”
Garth nodded unhappily. “Yeah. ‘s one of the things I need to cover, but first, why don’t you fill me in on the lowdown? Nothing too business-y or anything. I’m on vacation, sort of.”
“Ah, yes, well. I’ve just completed the latest round of documents pertaining to your Conglomeration. I expect the revisions I’ve made will be approved without too much fuss; the Regime was seeking to limit your access to Trinity, but indications of your absolute willingness to make Hospitalis your base of operations and to employ over ninety percent Latelians seems to’ve ameliorated their concerns over … over Trinity influence. At worst, they’ll demand some type of import taxation. I’m certain that if they do choose to tax anything you bring in, it will be … hefty. At best, they’ll roll over on their backs thanks to Doans’ stand on Trinity. UltraMegaDynamaTron as a name has finally been approved.” Herrig paused to see if Garth had any questions, but his client was busy shoveling food into his mouth, so on he went. “You’re on the bottom of the list for disaster reparations …”
Garth stopped eating. Around a mouthful of shubin steak, he said, “Cancel the request. Don’t need the money.” He went back to eating.
Herrig scrawled a note to himself. “Very commendable, sa. As I was saying, everything with UltraMegaDynamaTron progresses apace and, barring the unforeseen, I’m confident we’ll have you up and running very soon. As to your recent purchase of MediCor … well, the Board of Directors wants to meet with you, to discuss your intentions.”
“Say what now?” Garth choked down a mouthful of half-chewed steak. When he could speak, he pretended he wasn’t whining. “Why in the hell do they need to meet me? Can’t they just keep on doing what they’ve been doing? Can’t I be, like, some guy who just owns them and doesn’t give a rat’s ass? Every once in a while I can show up, do something weird, make everyone laugh, and then steal all the staplers, sort of thing?”
Herrig wisely didn’t snort at Garth’s questions, choosing instead to orient on the matter at hand. “It’s common practice, sa, and is especially essential in a situation like this. MediCor was not on the market. No one could’ve anticipated anyone spending forty billion dollars just to force a pushy doctor into leaving you alone. You’ve left something of a vacuum at the top and a bit of a poor taste in the mouths of your new employees. Apparently the previous, what, CEO of the establishment, was quite hands on. The Board of Directors think you’re an … amateur … is what one of them called you. They think you’re going to strip them of their assets and fire them all.”
“I didn’t buy the place just to put Sullivan in his place.” Garth replied briskly. “And I am not going to sell everything. I got plans for MediCor, but they have to wait for a while yet. Do I have to?” He definitely wasn’t whining. He just hated the thought of meeting stuffy-ass doctors and all that jazz.
“I’m afraid so, sa. If you or a representative fails to meet with the BoD by the end of this week, MediCor can and almost certainly will file to have your ownership legally rescinded, at which time responsibilities will be divided amowingst the directors until a suitable figurehead can be found.”
When Latelians weren’t busy being inordinately crafty and genetically spy-smart, they were out to rob a guy of every last trillion. “While I’m out a chunk of change because I’m a lazy ass. These Latelians are pretty … hey, wait, you said me or a representative… how about you?” He grinned from ear to ear and wiggled his eyebrows knowingly.
Herrig smiled resignedly. “Even if I possessed the medical knowledge to have a meaningful discussion with these people, Garth, I wouldn’t have the time. The bulk of my day is spent verifying government requirements and filling out paperwork. No immigrant has ever tried to apply for Conglomerate status, much less one with your … colorful … past and, shall we say, troublesome connections with Chairwoman Doans?”
Garth groaned loudly. “There’s gotta be something we can do, Herrig. I can’t talk to ‘em. Doctors make my brain itch and besides, I got a bazillion things I need to do and all of ‘em gotta get done at the same time. I need an army of clones! Oh, no, scratch that. I didn’t say that. I didn’t buy MediCor to clone myself.”
Images of an army of Garth Nickels’ storming the streets of Hospitalis filled Herrig with a momentary burst of panic. One was more than enough! “If you’d like, I can approach a proxy service in the hopes that someone with the pertinent medical background is available. It would mean expanding your employee count.” There wasn’t any nee
d to mention that a proxy of that sort would be costly; he himself was making enough money a day to qualify for early retirement in less than six months. Someone with advanced technical skills parlaying with a company like MediCor would find him or herself wealthy in no time at all.
“Yeah, do that.” Garth nodded. He liked the sound of a proxy. “Sounds good.”
“And what should this as-yet-unhired person tell the Board?” Herrig suspected he was setting himself up for one of Garth’s vague-isms, but there was no way around it. His employer was notoriously –and he suspected intentionally- ambiguous at the best of times, but it would be immensely unprofessional -not to mention irresponsible- to leave a company like MediCor without clear guidance. Unwatched scientists tended to … do things.
“Uhm,” Garth sipped from his drink thoughtfully, “yeah. Have … have buddy tell ‘em not to do anything stupid.”
“Stupid’?” Herrig squinted. Vague. It had to be intentional. It had to be.
“Yeah, y’know. Stupid. Like, genetic experiments, the production of illegal narcotics, making giant mutated ninja frogs. Investigation of telepathic viruses that link human beings into pulsing neural nets hell-bent on destroying that which they cannot assimilate. Whatever kinda stuff the public frowns on. That sort of thing.”
“I hesitate to say this, but ‘stupid’ isn’t very descriptive, Garth. However,” Herrig raised a finger to keep Garth from interfering with yet another vague-ism, “I am confident that whoever I hire will be able to rephrase ‘stupid’ into a ninety page document admirably satisfying the needs of the Board. I will even flash you a copy when you acquire a new proteus.”
“Sweet.” Garth ordered another plate of food from the waitress when she appeared before turning back to Herrig. “The people here are bananas when it comes to eating, you ever notice that? Everywhere I go, there’s at least four restaurants, and I ain’t counting the little holes in the wall where, like, only two people can eat at the same time.”
Herrig -once able to use ‘healthy’ when describing himself- knew all too well about the Latelian propensity for eating. Unhappily, they had the metabolism and the height to carry off the additional weight. He did not. “You said you wanted a new proteus?”
“Not so much a new prote,” Garth began slyly, “as the machine to build one.”
“Egads.” Herrig slumped miserably in his chair. A sly Garth was infinitely worse than a vague one. “I haven’t even made a dent in the forms needed to apply for the right to be interviewed about the chance of setting up a duronium processing plant, sa. Owning and operating a prote-maker is listed as the second most difficult thing to get permission for, with the aforementioned duronium plant being the first. I fear next you will ask to begin the importation of AI, sa, I truly do.”
“Why don’t you hire a couple of steno-workers, sa?” Garth asked after a moment’s silence. Personally, he was surprised Herrig hadn’t thought of it on his own.
“I… I …”
“I mean,” Garth continued, “you are my corporate financial officer. Strike that. You’re my second-in-command man, man. Hire as many people as you want to get this shit done. I’m in a total hurry, but dammit, don’t kill yourself. If you die, I'll have to do the work and that's not ... wise. Oh and give yourself a raise.”
Embarrassment rippled its way through Herrig’s chubby body. Here he was, a fully qualified ex-bank manager who had, in his time, hired and fired more than a hundred people in three systems, and he’d forgotten the basics. Why hadn’t he hired anyone to share the workload? He didn’t have an answer, except possibly stupidity. “I’ll do that right away, sa. I assure you that by the end of the day you’ll have a workforce to rival the Regime’s legion of drones.”
“Don’t get carried away, though. Office workers like to steal pens and shit. I ain’t buying truckloads of supplies just so Susie Homemaker can have a cupboard full of sticky notes.”
“Never fear, sa. I will protect your interests.” Herrig was impressed with how well he’d taken to Garth’s mannerisms; though he understood less than half the phrases the young man used, he was automatically replacing words like ‘sticky notes’ with ‘Sheets’ and ‘Susie Homemaker’ with ‘Lucy Latelian’.
“Rad. One more thing before I bugger off and let you get back to work, Sa Herrig. There’s a little matter of my, uh, celebrity.” Garth clenched his jaw and waited for the inevitable.
Herrig laughed gently. He’d caught the tail end of a gossip show before crawling into bed last night, and it’d been quite ‘informative’. “You never told me you were raised by wolf-men, Garth. As your number two,” he smiled mischievously, “I think this would be an important piece of information to share should you inexplicably start chewing on the furniture.”
“Ha-friggerty-ha-ha.” Had everyone on the planet tuned in to watch that tripe? He sighed magisterially. “Anyhow, Doans tells me that as a Conglomerate, I’ll have the authority to force all these ‘newshounds’ to contact me for interviews instead of just videotaping me from a distance and making me look insane.”
Herrig nodded absentmindedly. “That sounds about right. I believe I read something to that effect the day before yesterday. I’ll hire someone to specifically work on that.”
“If it’s at all possible, I’d like to see if we can get that one retroactively applied. Can’t leave The Palazzo until that happens.”
“Poor you.” Herrig remarked teasingly. He’d dropped by The Palazzo to inform the management that Garth would be returning, and still couldn’t get the place out of his mind. Large, lush, expensive and positively reeking of wealth, but not really to his liking, no sa. In the back of his mind, he was idly considering moving to Northon, to be closer to the sea. He’d always wanted an ocean view. “Just kidding, sa. I’ll make a publicist my first matter when we’re done.”
“Make sure you hire enough people to make your life easier, Herrig. You were the first dude to be nice to me on this planet, and I don’t want your head to pop off.” Garth chewed a lip. “Matter of fact, hire the people, but tell ‘em not to show up until tomorrow. I’m officially giving you the rest of the day off. The shit I got to do can wait for twenty-four hours.”
Herrig flushed at the trust and respect. “As you wish, sa.” Garth ended the comm abruptly, leaving him to dither for a moment; he was so excited about having a day off he didn’t know where to get started.
The ex-banker did know how his day was going to end, however. There was a nice stretch of beachfront town homes in Northon that’d caught his eye six years ago…
Philosophical Conspirators Conspire
The four men sitting at the table knew each other by name, but they refrained from using them whenever possible. Though Doans hadn’t yet made it illegal for people to sit at a table and talk quietly amongst themselves, the nature of their discussion was such that God soldiers would rain down on their heads should it ever be made public. A device, innocently designed as an ashtray, provided them with them electronic obscurity. Should one of the endless Bureaus or Ministries find reason to listen in on their conversation, all they would hear were the banalities of the Game.
For a single person not inducted into the world of faith to overhear what the men talked about would bring a bloody purge. Time and again, the Chair reacted this way, and these men had learned what many had not; obscurity was the best possible response. The problem with so many of those who had come before was that they inevitably believed that their faith made them immune.
Nothing made a man immune to bullets. Except possibly body armor.
And so, no names, though the four knew each other well. And no faces, either, though that was more a concession to the need for overt signs of religious pageantry; each of the four wore thick, heavy robes with deep cowls that prevented all but the most obvious and ardent of looks.
“Is it bad?” The one in deepest of green asked. He sat further away from the others, a Hunter green island of solitude. At the beginning of their religious od
yssey so long ago, the others had tried to include him in their handshakes, hugs, and the like. They had learned quite quickly he did not like to be touched.
“Incredibly so.” The one opposite him, wearing a dark grey robe, answered dryly. “Were Ashok able to speak for himself, he would agree. Alas, they have given him the Traitor’s First Tongue.”
A fitting punishment for a man who’d lied with every breath he took as far as the system was concerned, it also served to protect the secrets Ashok Guillfoyle had been privy to down the years. Regardless, the men winced. To be Tongueless, to be saddled with the cybernetic beast that prevented you from speaking unless you were given leave … barbaric.
The other one on the left, all in black, smacked his hand on the table angrily. “This is unconscionable. How could this have happened?”
The one opposite him, in blue, spoke in a cool, lazy drawl. “If one were to believe the few press statements he made before his ‘trial’, one would have no choice but to point the finger at this Garth Nickels. An Offworlder, who, as Ashok put it so definitively, will bring the world down around his ears. He is showing a disturbing predilection towards spectacle, labeling this … this … man Antichrist. We should investigate this Nickels further. He could be working for the Chairwoman.”
“Nonsense.” Green shot back. “I’ve been telling that fool for years he was playing too fast and loose with that woman. This Nickels person is a man who is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He has the unfortunate luck of somehow catching Guillfoyle’s eye, and all the evidence pointing to an obsession with the Offworlder’s artificial mind corroborates the Regime’s findings. Guillfoyle went mad, obsessive even. Nickels … is just a man.”
