The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “It always is, sir,” said Amber. “Nobody makes it like Mrs T.”

  “Back to Security, though. Are you telling me that all the Skagans, and therefore my protection forces, have gone?”

  “I can check. I’ll call up the input from the cameras over the Skagan village at the end of the island.”

  “I thought we had those disconnected after we found that the engineers had rigged up a feed into the Skagan shower room, and were watching the late-night activities, instead of working.”

  “They learnt a lot of new techniques, sir. A happy engineer is a productive engineer, and with equal opportunity, they were all taking the opportunity.”

  “That would also explain why one of our largest invoices came from the Birth Control Clinic.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Amber switched on the security monitor and checked several of the images. She looked at Tom apologetically. “It appears that the village is empty of Skagans, and everything else apart from the company tumbleweed.”

  Tom stood up, spilling his tea, where it started to soak into the highly polished surface of his desk. “Oh my Phoist, I’ve just thought. If the security teams have gone, what is happening to the people incarcerated at Guacamole Cove?”

  “Our secure detainment centre and holiday camp?”

  “Didn’t we imprison a load of folk who wanted to do us mischief?”

  “Originally yes, but they soon found out that being waited on hand and foot, having continuous entertainment and lots of sex, all expenses paid, was preferable to a lifetime of insurgency. The guards were replaced by catering staff long ago. If anyone thinks about escaping, they apply to the relocation committee and we fly them back to the mainland. They usually want to return immediately after they see what’s going on over there, of course. The grass is always greener... actually that really is true; they don’t have grass over there anymore. We have quite a long waiting list of re-applicants now.”

  “Nothing to worry about, then?”

  “Not from the Cove, sir, but I’ve just been informed there is a deputation from TBP Traffic Collection awaiting access. They need to see you, regarding paying a fine or two.”

  “How did they get past all our defences?”

  “I think Vac might have switched off the automatic systems before he left. He always did have a tidy nature.”

  “Tell them I’m not in.”

  “Tell who?” The door burst open and two men dressed as parking attendants entered the room. “We are looking for a gent called ‘the Magus’ and some dude that goes by ‘Thomas Orville Sapristi Smith’.”

  “Never heard of them,” said Tom, slipping his nameplate under the desk. “Are you sure you’ve got the right place?”

  “Says here,” said one of the men, inspecting a note attached to his clipboard.

  “And how did you get on the island? There were defences.”

  “Yeah, we lost a few vehicles to missiles, before we took to the water.”

  “And after those ships leaked all the toxic chemicals, boats have been dissolving in the pollution slick before they get here.”

  “Yeah, we lost a few more ships when their hulls melted. We’ve come over on plastic lie-lows—great if you can hold your breath and keep your hands out of the water.”

  “Full marks for ingenuity,” said Tom amiably. “I expect you’d like a cup of tea...”

  “Tea?” said Suzanne, pushing the trolley into the room. “Mrs Tuesdays pro-active listening devices triggered five minutes ago, so she sent me in. I made it myself.”

  “Perfect,” said Tom. “Please serve our guests first.”

  Suzanne nodded, and handed round the cups. The liquid came out thick and dark. “It may be a bit strong,” she said apologetically.

  “We like it that way,” said one of the men, taking a sip. A strange expression came over his face. His colleague joined him and tasted his own drink.

  “It’s one of Mrs Tuesday’s special teas,” said Suzanne. “I believe it’s grown on the Steppes of Watford. A hardy plant that thrives in those adverse conditions, I am told.”

  “It would have to be,” said Tom, gazing at the bodies of the two attendants in their final death throes. “I think you probably have a bit to learn in the tea making profession. Does Mrs Tuesday know?”

  “I am aware, dearie,” said the rotund refreshment engineer, as she entered with a sack barrow. “I’ll dispose of these for you. You don’t want them going smelly and sullying the congenial atmosphere.”

  “Mrs Tuesday,” said Tom sternly. “Did you poison these good fellows, who were only pursuing the course of gainful employment?”

  “What, murder the parking supervisors you mean?”

  “That too. Why?”

  “They were for fining the company more than it actually earns, on trumped-up charges for vehicle storage. The scam has been going on for a while now. TBP Carparks is taking over all the major amenities.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Me, I’m only a tea-lady. What would I know about political intrigue? My main concern is if they annex the company, who will really appreciate a good cuppa.”

  “Are they likely to do that?”

  “This is the invoice.” She prised the clipboard out of the already petrifying hands of one of the corpses and handed it over to Tom. He showed it to Amber.

  “More than we make in a year, I’m afraid,” she said. “It says the alternative is for us to sign the company over to TBP.”

  “Rubbish,” said Tom. “They can’t do that... can they?”

  Amber rummaged through a large book she had retrieved from under the table leg. “The country is supported by these new edicts, and so was your desk. The 2008th Adjustment to the new Statute of Sapristi Law says they can. It’s the ruling now. It also says that former owners can be taken into custody and tried for mismanagement. The ultimate penalty is apparently a huge payoff and the right to plunder any pension fund you see fit, as long as you don’t mind people throwing stones at your windows.”

  “That’s not ethical,” said Tom.

  “It is, according to the 2009th Adjustment, issued last week.”

  “Bugger that. We will resist and fight off any takeover.”

  “Sorry, dearie,” said Mrs Tuesday, bringing a hand-held screen out from under her apron. “We don’t have anything available to resist with at the moment, and the car-parking foundation appears to have mobilised the whole Sapristi armed forces.”

  “I thought those guys were on strike over places to store their tanks without having to pay.”

  “Not any more. Since the collapse of the taxation system, everything is pay-as-you-go. TBP has funded the mobilisation of the army and navy. The air force is still on strike because they don’t like the look of the Hynishota Stealth PU35s replacing the current strike aircraft. Apparently, they get airsick even before they get in the planes.” Amber checked her j-phone information readout. “As we speak, it seems that the slick-sweepers are clearing a way through the toxic flotsam on the ocean, and are on their way with a full invasion force.”

  Tom looked around helplessly. “What can we do?”

  “We leave,” said Mrs Tuesday. “Take the management team and get out of here. I’ve already got a stock of the special coffee beans loaded, and the Magus is waiting with the ship.”

  “Ship?”

  “The Fukeds Belle has returned.”

  “I thought it was out in the cosmos enjoying life on the seven galaxies, crewed by the Swedwayland Ladies’ Topless Football Team?”

  “It was, but I sent a distress call and brought her back. The pilot didn’t argue. Apparently, the ladies had returned home after their country apologised for not paying them as much as the men, despite the fact there were a lot nicer to look at, and didn’t spend all their time rolling on the ground pretending to be injured. Anyway, I believe there are just the Skagan outcasts, Groat and Spigot on board at the momen
t. They need us; we need them. I think we should leave, sir. I’ve gathered the team.”

  “Including Montague Errorcode?”

  “Oh no.” Mrs Tuesday took a step backward in horror, and banged her foot on a parking attendant, who by now had nicely calcified. “I’ve told Monty he’s in charge, and can look out for new ownership. He seemed very pleased. I expect that will change when, as the new owner of the company, he has to deal with the outstanding fines, disgrace and incarceration.”

  “Good, but what about these guys here? If TBP find we’ve murdered their reps, we will be in big trouble.”

  “I’ll leave them on the fountain outside. Nobody will realise they aren’t more of the statues.”

  “Oh my Phoist,” said Tom. “Then what about those sculptures of the telecoms engineer, auditor and estate agent out there on the rockery? They aren’t really...?”

  “We should leave,” said Mrs Tuesday as various explosions resounded across the campus. “That will be the TBP shock troops invading. Without Mr Vac, I’m afraid we have no defence.”

  The room shook. Ceiling plaster and dead rodents fell around them.

  “At least this office is protected,” said Tom. “Vac assured me that it would withstand a nuclear blast.”

  “I think he just meant the window,” said Amber, as the walls began to collapse. “It’s time to use the secret passage to escape.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got a secret passage,” said Tom. “I asked for one, but Vac said it was too dangerous. It could become a way for insurgents to sneak in and murder me, he said.”

  “We use the secret passage,” said Mrs Tuesday.

  “There really is a secret passage? He was lying to me?”

  “For your own good, I expect,” said Mrs Tuesday.

  “You always did think the world of him.”

  “He’s wonderful,” said the tea-lady, taking on a dreamy expression. “But how else do you think he was able to get to you so quickly each time you mentioned his name.”

  “But why didn’t he tell me about the secret passage?”

  “Then it wouldn’t be secret, would it?”

  “True. Do you know how to open it?”

  “That was a secret too. He didn’t tell me...”

  At that moment, the wall behind the comfy executive sofa collapsed under another salvo from a TBP warship dissolving slowly in the bay. A gaping hole was revealed, with a passage leading downwards.

  “That will be it then,” said Mrs Tuesday. “Will somebody give me a hand with this tea trolley?”

  “I think it will be okay to leave the urn behind,” said Amber, handing Tom his ‘England World Cup Runners Up 2105’ commemorative pen to take with him. “We will never get it down all those steps, through the rotating knives and over that shark pit.”

  “Mr Vac likes his security,” said Mrs Tuesday. “If the trolley stays, I stay. I’m too old to dodge rolling boulders and trenches full of barbed wire. You young people get on your way. I’ll hold off the invaders with a nice cup of tea and some of Suzanne’s rock-scones...”

  “I should have used less curry powder I think,” said Suzanne reflectively. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, Mrs Tuesday?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, dearie. I’ve seen off worse than a few parking attendants playing about in boats.”

  “Then we should leave,” said Tom.

  “I’m staying too,” said Amber. “If Monty is in charge, he will need a good accountant to make sure that his tax returns are in order, and get him arrested for embezzlement and generally weasely bookkeeping.”

  “But...” Tom stopped as he saw the grin on Amber’s face.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to return,” she said.

  “Then we should go.” Tom put his arm around Suzanne’s waist. “Unless you want to stay?”

  “I follow the money,” she said. “And at the moment you still have some. Should that change of course...”

  Fireball

  In which Tom meets a mother of a ship

  A

  s he patted the dust and spiders from the secret passage off his clothing, and prised a small dogfish from his trouser leg, Tom’s mouth dropped open. He stared around the main production floor of SCT.

  “I didn’t expect the passage to come out here, but rather glad it did, but where are all the ships we were building? Where is the ‘Belle’?”

  “I have no idea,” said Suzanne, buffing her nails.

  “And where’s the Magus; where’s Young Pete? They were supposed to be running this place.”

  “Do I look like I care?” said Suzanne.

  “You should,” said Tom. “We are being hounded by TBP, who are going to appropriate the company for non-payment of fines, and will stop at nothing.”

  “I know that. They are after you, not me. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “There isn’t a ride,” said Tom. “Look, the place is empty.”

  “What about that then?” Suzanne pointed at a pile of scrap metal at one end of a metal rail.

  “That was the first prototype we ever built,” said Tom. “A ‘classic’ Hynishota Pointless. It’s been crashed a few times on test flights, but that’s only served to improve its appearance.”

  “Will it fly?”

  Sounds of explosions, growls, splashes and shrieks came from the entrance to the passage. Tom looked about furtively. “If it’s the only way to get out, then it has to. You coming?”

  “Yeah, if you like. Will we fit?”

  “It was built to carry native Musoketebans, so it might be a bit of a squeeze. The Magus and Kara managed to fly it, but that was before it got bashed up. But where is the Magus? He and Pete should have been here waiting for us, even if the Skagan workers have deserted.”

  “Would this be them?” Suzanne pulled a piece of sacking aside, to reveal two struggling cocoons of rope.

  “That looks like Vac’s handiwork,” said Tom. “Have you got a knife?”

  “I’ve got a metal nail file,” said Suzanne. “According to the airports, they can be used as terrorist weapons and bring down a whole plane. That’s why they make you leave them behind when you fly. I still haven’t worked out why they also insist on me removing my bra.”

  “Maybe the metal supports?” Tom worked away while he spoke. Sure enough, the nail file proved to be deadly in operation, and the coils of rope parted like the seams on a Musoketeban sweatshop shirt. A small bald man rolled out.

  “That big ape...”

  “Magus, how good to see you,” said Tom, patting him on the shoulders to knock off imaginary dust.

  “He took the fleet,” said the Magus, “along with all the security forces. He was muttering about returning to the spawning fields.”

  “Spawn, like salmon, you mean, and ‘of the devil’?”

  “Precisely. I tried to talk him out of it, but he said if they didn’t go now, there would be no chance for the Skagan race.”

  “Racing? I didn’t think he gambled, but then I’m used to them doing weird things, what with the standard greeting they do which involves removal of clothing and going at it like Bonobos.”

  “They do that on departure too,” said the Magus with a strange grin. “It took them quite a while to leave, before they tied me up and left me behind, and most of the rest of me too,” he added.

  “I guess it would do, but why didn’t you simply use that teleportation skill of yours, relocate out of the bindings to stop them, or at least tell me?”

  “I didn’t have the energy. The way I am feeling, I might have turned myself inside out.”

  “Nasty. So everyone left with Vac, even Young Pete, the best designer we ever had?”

  “Untie him and ask him perhaps?” The Magus indicated the other struggling cocoon.

  “Let me,” said Suzanne. “You’re all fingers and more fingers with my nail file. Leave it to a pro.”

  She attacked the bindings
, and a newly-released Pete struggled to his feet. He wore a dazed, content and surprised expression, and nothing else. “I didn’t expect that,” he said.

  “Was it good?” said the Magus. “You being a techie, I don’t suppose anything like that has happened before.”

  “To be honest, no. I’ve always thought tarts and technology were mutually exclusive, but I can see the attraction. Trouble is, I now can't remember anything about technology. All I want to do is eat burgers and spend my time taking pictures of my food to post on Twitface, along with inspirational sayings that nobody will take any notice of.”

  “Snap out of it. I need you,” said Tom. “We have to leave, but the Skagans have taken all the ships, and TBP Stormtroopers are at this moment forcing their way through the exploding lemming farm inside the secret passage.”

  “I helped design that,” said Pete proudly. “If you get too many of them through their excessive breeding habits, they control the population themselves. It’s a simple matter of calculating the exact cage size, versus the rate of propagation, versus the food supply, and then adding dynamite shavings to the food. The enemy entering the passage triggers the release of the backup grain supply... except that I’ve probably forgotten all that after what I’ve been through.” He dreamily pulled on a pair of discarded Skagan security trousers.

  “Do you think you can repair that ship over there?”

  “I can’t remember. Which one?”

  “That one there.”

  “If I could think straight, I would point out that it was the prototype. We nicknamed that ‘Fireball One’ because it kept exploding.”

  “It’s the only hope we have to escape. Can you get it flying before the troopers get here?”

  “I really wouldn’t recommend it. We only kept it for nostalgia, and because the bin-men wouldn't accept it as recycling.”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” said Tom. “Magus, you flew it originally?”

  “Until it crashed a few times.”

  “Good. Take the wheel. Pete, you’re co-pilot. Fireball One is going to fly again. Where are the back doors so Suzy and I can get in?”