“That would be the headboards, Sah.”
“You should move them away from the walls. It’s upsetting the programmers, making them use their imagination for a change. However, any results in the procreation front?”
“There may be one or two of the ladies a little larger than before.”
“They were all quite tall, as I recall.”
“It’s difficult to tell, Sah.”
“Keep up the good work.”
“Are you sure you can’t show us what to do again, Sah?”
“I haven’t recovered from last time. What did you actually want?”
“Meant to say, Sah. I believe the gentleman here had something to tell you, Sah.”
“Thank you, Vac. Please return to your duties. What are you working on at the moment?”
“External auditors, Sah. I believe they are not far from cracking. We expect a good result, even if it kills them.”
“Right, I’m sure you know best. That will be all.”
“Thank you, Sah.” The door slammed as he departed, shaking the side of the building. A small glass figurine dropped off a shelf into a strategically-placed basket of cotton wool. Errorcode went to retrieve it.
“I think I might leave it there, Monty,” said Tom, regarding the weasely little man. “Please take a seat.”
“Nice, but it wouldn’t fit in my office,” said Errorcode, as he settled into one of the comfortable sofas.
“Yes, where is your office at the moment?”
Errorcode shot his leader a poisonous glance. “After you evicted Change Management from the coal bunker, the gardeners offered me space in a corner of the potting shed.”
“Unfortunately, when we moved from coal to junk mail as our main fuel, we needed the location for the crèche.”
“But there have been no babies born to the Skagans yet.”
“Sadly, no,” said Tom wistfully, “that’s why it’s so small. Despite all the demonstrations they insist on having, there are still no offspring. Anyway, that aside, are you settling in comfortably?”
“It’s cramped and a bit spidery, but we have a good supply of chewing shallots.”
“I thought I noticed something on your breath,” said Tom, turning up the air-conditioning. “And how are the changes, you are managing?”
“Going swimmingly. Can’t complain.” Errorcode coloured.
“How many have you done in the last quarter?”
“We have maintained a 100 percent success rate.”
“Excellent, but in numbers, how many?” Tom probed.
“Some.” Errorcode slipped lower on the seat.
“Some? Can you be more specific... details perhaps?”
“I guess the main one would be of interest.”
“And what would that be?” Tom leaned back in his chair.
“We have replaced the Change Control System.”
“Wonderful. And what benefits does that bring?”
“Benefits?” Errorcode sat upright.
“Yes, have you improved efficiency, decreased the amount of process, streamlined the workings so that people can do their jobs, instead of having to fill in interminable forms and argue their cases at tribunals before proceeding?”
“Oh, yes, all that of course.”
“And how have you achieved that aim?”
“Of course, the old system was so efficient that all we needed to do was put a modern front end on it.”
“Of course... A new front end?”
“We linked it into ‘Constrictions’. All now done online.”
“That would be ‘Constrictions’, the social media platform nobody could use, that cost eighteen million drachmae, and the one that Pete Young shut down last year?”
“It cost too much to throw away.”
“But the ongoing licence fees were the actual problem.”
“I’ve dealt with that. We aren’t paying them anymore.”
“And that would be mainly because Amber refused to authorise your request for the money?” Tom pointed to one of the elements in the spreadsheet. “She’s also put a note of explanation, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings by reading it.”
“Can you authorise it for me, then?”
“Amber does the finance, and she’s on holiday.”
Errorcode glowered at Tom, which he failed to notice. “It is going to be difficult without paying—no licence fees, no support. What do I do if it goes wrong?”
“As you did last time, I guess,” said Tom. “Get your subordinates to take the blame and you deny everything. How is Mr Gamble, your Risk man, by the way?”
“He resigned after the last time ‘Constrictions’ went wrong.”
“As I recall, it was already wrong. That’s another reason we had to drop it. Anyway, I’ve not got the time to debate. What did you want to see me about, assuming you’ve given up on extra finance?”
“In Miss Coles’ absence, the phones redirect. I picked a call up. It was from the hospital... your wife.”
“Oh dear. What’s happened?”
“They’ve taken her into the rehab wing of Dr Crippin Hospital. She’s asking for you.”
“I thought she was off the drugs and the drink.” Tom sighed.
“Not drugs or drink.” Errorcode wore a satisfied smile.
“Then what?”
“Cake, apparently. She's overdosed on chocolate brownies.”
Hospital
In which a patient isn’t murdered
T
om left his Hynishota Pig-Ugly in the hospital carpark. It was an ordinary vehicle–he was never one for ostentatiousness–but did have the nitrogen-filled wing mirrors that made all the difference to the ride and the appreciation. He bought his parking ticket, carefully affixed it to the inside of the windscreen as instructed by the back of the label, and walked away. He did not see the parking attendant who appeared as soon as he was out of sight. The man produced a small magnet and rested it on the outside of the screen. The magnetic strip inside the ticket responded, and the paper dropped to the floor of the car, out of sight. The attendant smiled and proceeded to write out a large non-payment notice, which he stuck all the way across the windscreen.
At the hospital entrance, Tom stopped at a sign which proudly announced details of the establishment’s achievements. Apparently 100 percent of patients that requested it made a complete recovery. The hospital had been given an award for its services to the pension shortfall by making sure that anyone over a certain age died mysteriously if they stayed in their beds for more than three days. The hospital acknowledged that patients and their relatives should be vigilant, and that they were doing everything they could to track down the murderers. The loss of the older, and terminally sick, patients was unfortunate, but also beneficial in that it helped to keep up the statistics and the costs down.
Tom looked nervously around.
“Don’t worry,” said an orderly, busily sharpening a machete as he skipped towards the geriatric ward, “you look fit enough to keep out of the way of any potential murderers... not that I’ve ever seen any,” he added. “Where are you going?”
“The La-la, psychiatric ward.”
“La-la Ward? That way. Follow the signs, and be careful to answer any questions sensibly. Sarcasm is prohibited within the hospital grounds.”
Tom followed the directions, which sent him randomly along corridors, up flights of stairs, through operating theatres and down tunnels. After passing the coffee and wheelchair shop for the third time, he stopped and asked. The waitress sold him a caffeine-laced beverage and let him try out a wheelchair while he was drinking it.
“I was actually looking for the rehabilitation ward,” said Tom, when he thought sufficient time had elapsed to not make the girl suspicious of his motives for stopping.
She pointed him at a bank of lifts hidden behind a potted shrubbery. “Up there, third floor, labelled ‘5’ because ground floor i
s actually ‘3’ and nobody stops at the fourth, which might be the operating theatres.”
“Been there already... And One and Two?”
“Basements. Nobody ever goes there either. Nobody of any significance, that is.”
“I’m glad you told me. A good wheelchair this is. Do you have one in anything other than wood?”
“I’m afraid not. Plastic and steel are in short supply after the last terraforming war, and there is plenty of wood after we speeded the planet up. I’ve lost three kilos would you believe?”
“I’ll let you know if I see them on my travels. We don’t hear much on SCT Island, though.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve heard it is a paradise on Sapristi... the only one, now that the road system has been extended. What does SCT stand for? I’ve always wanted to know since that guy $mith (sic) appeared on ‘Are you being Degraded in their Eyes’. He was lucky to survive, and after he lost it and punched the compares, all my girlfriends fell in love with him.”
“Probably the money that attracts them,” said Tom modestly.
“That will be it. Personally, I think he’s a jerk, but there’s no accounting for taste.”
“You’re right about the taste,” said Tom, spitting the last of his coffee into a serviette. He regarded her name tag. “It must take a lot of training to be a barista, Olivia Aftershock... is that your real name?”
“To tell you the truth,” said the waitress behind her hand, “I’m actually a fully trained fertility nurse, but the pay is better doing this.”
“Does it take long to learn to be a barista? Could I do it?”
Olivia shook her head. “The only training I’ve had was when someone showed me the machine and gave me two handbooks in Dutch. The translation packages leave a lot to be desired, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” said Tom. “I’ve got to go. My wife is in intensive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, intensive rehabilitation—chocolate brownies.”
The waitress gave a low whistle. “That’s bad, but once she gets too fat to get through the door, natural processes will help her back to normal. Now, you were going to tell me what S.C.T. stands for.”
“Morals, employee satisfaction, customer service, concern for the environment and a competitively priced product,” said Tom as he headed for the lift.
“What a guy,” said the waitress as he pressed the call button. “I wonder who he was. He has the makings of a great barista.”
Tom stood at the secure entry to the psychiatric La-la ward, and pressed the button to alert the desk to his presence. Nothing happened. He waved through the glass at an orderly. The man looked directly at him and then turned away. Tom banged on the door. A nurse coming out of one of the wards nodded and disappeared into another side room. Tom exhaled, and pressed the button again. At the far end of the corridor, another orderly appeared, and headed towards the door. Tom smiled and waved again. The orderly reached the door and then did a left turn and disappeared along another corridor. Tom pressed the button and held his finger on it. This time a voice in broken English asked him what he wanted.
“I’ve come to see Suzanne $mith (sic).”
“Have no person on staff of that name.”
“She’s a patient. I’m her husband.”
“Oh, you must be ‘Shit-Face’. Difficult impatient patient said you be coming. You come in please, Mr Face.”
Tom stood waiting. Nothing happened. He pulled at the door handle—still locked. He pressed the button again. There was no answer.
Tom was considering calling Vac to deal with the mechanism—it would have been quicker than waiting, he decided—when a nurse came up behind him and let herself in using a nipple recognition system. He slipped in behind her, causing a brief moment of misunderstanding. She slapped him.
“I’m in too much of a hurry to take you to court,” she said breathlessly, “but here’s my business card. Please start proceedings against yourself without me.”
“I wish I’d have known about the nipple recognition,” said Tom, watching the woman button up her uniform again. “What a great idea.”
“Designed by male engineers of course,” said the nurse, over her shoulder, “apparently after extensive studies of the uniqueness of nipple structure. They say it is more hygienic than thumbprint readers, which very quickly build up a layer of nicotine and earwax to share diseases amongst the staff. Anyway, I can’t stay talking to you. I have patients to invoice.”
At a reception desk further up the corridor, the foreign girl he had spoken to over the intercom was tapping away on a communications device.
“I got in eventually,” he said with feeling. The girl ignored him. “Where will I find Mrs $mith (sic)?”
The girl ignored him again. Another nurse passed the desk. “Have a look at the board,” she said. “All the details are on there, but you can follow me if you like.”
Tom stepped back and stared at her. “Olivia? Didn’t I just see you down at the coffee shop?”
“Shhh... moonlighting,” said the nurse. “Come with me.”
“What’s up with her?” asked Tom as the barista-cum-nurse led him along the corridor.
“Fuksit.”
“Pardon?”
“You know this planet, Sapristi, is nicknamed ‘Fukeds’ by the people who live here?”
“I had heard.”
“They call it that because of the bureaucracy and the stupidity and greed of the leaders, and how everything always goes wrong.”
“I guess you voted them in.”
“They are ministers for life now. They passed a law. The only way they can be replaced is if they die, which is quite likely as most of them are old and would have to come here if they get ill.”
“But you still voted them in.”
“They made a load of promises that they forgot about as soon as they were elected… you know, like more money for the health service and universities, free pizza for fat lazy bastards, and the right of everyone from everywhere to claim benefits without proving anything, apart from the fact they needed money without working for it. The government said they wouldn’t put up taxes, but refused to tell anyone where the money was coming from...”
“Car parking and traffic fines, as usual, I expect,” said Tom.
“Anyway, there is a new movement, financed by TBP Carparks, to break away from the central administration and become self-governing again. Our receptionist thinks she’s going to be sent back to her own country if Fuksit comes into being.”
“Judging by what I’ve seen today, that won’t be much of a loss.”
“She’s a good girl,” said Olivia, “perhaps only a little misguided and demotivated. We all are, here. The management have no idea how to run a hospital. They put money-men in to manage the place, and forget about the patients and the staff and the equipment and the catering facilities... but I shouldn’t be telling you this. I could be sacked, if there was the remotest chance of them finding anyone to replace me...”
There was a crash and then the sound of shouting and cursing from one of the side wards.
“You see,” said the nurse, “even the private patients aren’t given the best of attention. We simply haven’t got the people.”
“I know that voice. I’ll go and settle her down,” said Tom.
“I’d be grateful,” said Olivia. “I’ll look in on you later if I can find a few seconds spare.”
“I’ll leave you my details,” said Tom. “We could do with some medical facilities back at base.”
“I’ll schedule some time next week to read it.”
“Is that the sort of language to use outside a video game?” said Tom, as he pushed open the door to the private ward.
“You took your time,” said the patient. “Have you brought any chocolate?”
“You are in rehab, dear. You are not allowed it until your organs have recov
ered. Are they treating you hospitably?”
“I have to pay cash to get any attention at all.”
“And your organs that are supposed to deal with excess sugar... what happened?”
“They shut down. I must have gone into a coma, and they brought me here.”
“You look good,” said Tom, regarding the slim girl as she lounged on top of the bed covers. “I’d forgotten how lovely your hair was. You should leave it loose more often. I expected to find you... fatter.”
“Have you forgotten? Where I come from, our metabolism works fast enough to prevent build-up. That was the problem.”
“You are saying that you can’t become a lard-bucket like any normal person when you eat too much?”
“And I confess I did gorge,” said Suzanne. “Being so miserable, I started to comfort eat, I suppose.”
“And everything else, so I’ve heard,” said Tom. “How’s the medication working?”
“They sold me some new pills that make me violently sick and want to die if I have any sugar at all. They seem to work. I’m feeling a lot better.”
“I hope there’s no lasting damage.”
“Do you?” The woman regarded him pensively. “I would have thought you would be glad to get rid of me, and then you could get together properly with that dark-haired harlot. What was her name?”
“Caryl, as you are fully aware.”
“Yes... Mx. As-You-are-fully-Aware. Where is she now? She didn’t come with you to gloat.”
“She’s out and about, tracking down more family members. She took one of our long-distance Hynishota Drearys.”
“The six seater with the four-engine drive, extra cigar holders and the rear bench that turns around so you can blow smoke at the other passengers?”
“You seem to know a lot about our products.”
“I thought I should take an interest if I’m going to come and help you run the company. Have you decided what SCT stands for yet?”
“Not really.”
“Why don’t you choose something you do know?”
“Chief of Security, Vac, won’t let me. He says it would mean changing all the uniforms, and he likes them how they are.” Tom momentarily failed to notice Suzanne’s full comment, and then what she had said sank like a buffalo in a tar pit. “What do you mean, help?” he said slowly.
The Fourteenth Adjustment Page 2