The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “Of course,” said Tanda, self-consciously pulling the material together.

  The shuttle landed on a ruined piece of tarmac, where the company shove-halfpenny courts used to be.

  “I’ll clear out any resistance.” Tanda cocked her doku-shunt shotgun in the way that people do in films when they are trying to look hard. Tanda did look hard, but strangely appealing, in that sexual Skagan way. The Magus had no doubts he was in safe hands. She had offered them to him on the way down, but he was too preoccupied with anticipation.

  The SCT headquarters building was silent. There had been some patching up of the previous damage, painted brick now instead of the marble, and it looked as though the main executive office was rebuilt, but of the former glory of SCT, nothing much remained.

  “Bastards broke our building,” said Tanda. “I will avenge.”

  Weeds were growing through the marble paving around the main entrance, and several of the slabs were broken, with others showing evidence of discarded chewing gum. Tanda kicked open the main doors and one twisted back on a broken hinge. She waved the gun around the entrance hallway. Nothing moved. “Phoist,” she said, and blasted the head off a statue at the back of the room. The building echoed hollowly.

  “Was that necessary?” The Magus stared at the decapitated sculpture and the cloud of dust raised.

  “Of course. Firstly, it was Oilflig Phoist, curse his memory...”

  “It could have been our sadly deceased leader,” said the Magus. “He and himself are somewhat similar.”

  “Secondly, there was a security camera hidden in the eyes...”

  “They did follow you around the room.”

  “And finally, I was itching to try out the fragment gun. I wasn’t sure it would work.”

  “It seems to. You should reload.”

  “Plenty of ammunition about,” said Tanda, scooping up a handful of broken stone. “Where to now?”

  “If you haven’t woken up everyone in the building, perhaps we should try the executive office?”

  “Oh, there you are. I was wondering when you were going to report for duty. There are still some last bits of data we need to forward over to Nishant.” Montague Errorcode shifted on his booster seat and regarded Tanda and the Magus with slight amusement.

  “Put the gun down, whatever your name is. I don’t recall faceless minions, but I do remember that body.”

  “Surrender,” said the Magus, “or Tanda, here, will make a mess.”

  Tanda scowled and settled in an armchair, not taking her eyes off the man.

  “She’s not happy,” added the Magus.

  “I don’t need to surrender,” said Errorcode, “there’s nothing left to surrender. I’ve outsourced the lot. It is my management triumph. I was updating my C.V., when you so rudely interrupted. Drink?” He indicated a broken refrigerator.

  “Actually, I am a bit thirsty,” said the Magus.

  “You didn’t need to bother,” said Errorcode. “It’s empty. Since I outsourced the catering, they don’t seem to worry about restocking. It’s connected into the Galactinet of Doobries, so I can’t see why it doesn’t happen automatically. I’d have had someone look into it, but I locked Mrs Tuesday in the kitchens. Do have a seat.”

  The Magus pulled up one of the less dusty chairs and sat down. It sank under him until he was low enough to be on a level with Errorcode’s chin.

  “I see you have been motivating your staff then,” said the Magus, reading a document taped to the front of the desk. “Even if you have borrowed the format from elsewhere.”

  “You’ve changed the name of the company too,” said Tanda. “You realise we are going to have to get all the uniforms and headed notepaper updated?”

  “I’ve outsourced that. Not my problem.”

  “You’re not going to resist?” Tanda sounded disappointed.

  “Of course not,” said Errorcode. “I’m a manager, not someone who does anything. What do you want? My knowledge is at your disposal.”

  “I believe you,” said the Magus, “but don’t try any false moves.”

  “What, like taking my dentures out, and clacking them at you?”

  “I would hate that. Please don’t do it.”

  “I can see you two are getting along,” said Tanda. “I’ll go and rescue Mrs Tuesday. If he moves, shoot him. You know how to shoot, don’t you? You just squeeze your fingers together and blow... him apart.”

  “Does anyone actually follow these rules?” said the Magus, after Tanda had shut the door behind her.

  “Not anymore.” Errorcode leaned back smugly. “I’ve closed the whole assembly floor. There is only me here now, collecting my inflated salary and associated share options and bonuses, and my obliging Polynesian chauffeuse, so there’s nothing you can do, which is why I’m not bothered about you and your gun. Anyway, you wouldn’t shoot a man in cold blood, would you,” he added, tipping a bag of O-negative over himself.

  “I would never be so callous.” The Magus grimaced, and clicked the safety catch back on to the pistol. “And the rest of the staff?”

  “All on extended leave in our staff retention centre.”

  “At least you’ve retained them. Most outsource exercises involve getting all the information out of the existing people, thanking them for their efforts and then sacking them the following day.”

  “They are sort of retained. You see they can’t really get away. It was cheaper than redundancy payments. They are all still on the payroll, but the prison charges exactly match their salaries, so no paperwork is required. Very efficient. By the way, I heard of the problems with your leader. I would have liked to hand back the company to him. I owe him that, for everything he did to me. Change Management indeed. How more cruel could he be? So, who will be in charge now?”

  “His widow, I guess,” said the Magus sadly. “But you probably know that already.”

  “Only rubbing it in,” said Errorcode as he massaged cream into his hands. “Bad luck on the $mith (sic) thing, though. Death by conductive pizza, so I heard, and humiliating display in the Museum of Piracy and Strangely Shaped Bottles in Sapristi Town.”

  “Ah, so that’s where he is. I should go to pay my respects, and the exorbitant entrance fee.”

  “Me too. Perhaps we could visit together, and I promise I won’t alert the authorities to your presence. I don’t care anymore. I have been given my platinum handshake by Nishant, in gratitude for my tireless efforts in the outsourcing deal. I also sold off the main stock to some geezer from Charmony. There is a bit left, so I guess that will go to Mrs $mith (sic), and any other shareholders.”

  “Too right, dearie,” said a voice. “I’ve sorted the catering out and I’ve got a few words to say to you.”

  “She was busy drilling her way out of the kitchen complex,” said Tanda, as the pair appeared in the doorway. “I don’t think she’s very happy with you, Monty.”

  “Off now,” said Errorcode, eyeing up the meat cleaver the tea-lady was carrying. He pressed a button on his desk, and sank dramatically out of sight.

  “Wait, we haven’t finished threatening you...” Tanda rushed around the desk, but the hatch under where the seat had been had closed. On the desk was a monitor. They watched as the chair used a series of underground passages, rails, lifts and cranes to finally deposit Errorcode, the wrong way round, in a Nishant-branded escape vessel.

  “Shame I sacked everyone,” they heard him mutter. “I should have had this tested out first.”

  The ship powered out of its silo, with the weasel’s face forced against the back of the seat, and shot up through the atmosphere.

  “Damn,” said the Magus. “He got away.”

  “Not really,” said Mrs Tuesday. “Before he locked me up, I managed to replace some of the beans in the on-board coffee dispenser with Senna-pods. He will pay for his crimes.”

  “And we must return to the Notable,” said the Magus. “Can I leave you to fin
d Amber, and take charge? You may need to go and release folks in Guacamole Cove, but the manufacturing floor needs restarting. Contact Ludwig Gottstein on Glenforbis for any components you need. He might even come over and help if you ask him; he does own twenty-five percent of the business now, or maybe more, from what Monty was saying.”

  Showdown

  In which a review of parking charges is requested

  T

  he Bereavement Notable hovered in the night sky over the planet of Sapristi. The rebuilt drone, P17, was orbiting it, scanning for enemy activity. At the controls, the Magus contacted the planet surface.

  The angry face of Ferguson Poordraw appeared on the microwave door. “What are you doing, blighting our night sky and waking up all the babies?”

  The Magus cleared his throat. “I have released the engineers, and SCT Island is back under my control, so your drone manufacturing facility is no longer operational. We are here to reclaim our parking charges. Your domination of all vehicle storage spaces is against the Statute, and Human Rights across the galaxy, in particularly the Fourteenth Adjustment, which states that all people are equal, even drunk young white girls in short skirts, and therefore you have no right to let the rich ones off their parking charges, and it also says that you cannot deprive people of life (Two-Dan), Liberty (the engineers at SCT) and property, vis-à-vis the spaces you are appropriating to build car parks upon.”

  “Tough,” said Poordraw. “I control the government. I’ll get the adjustment adjusted. So what’s that you are driving, up there? I thought we destroyed your pirate ship.”

  “It’s a Bereavement Notable,” said the Magus, reddening slightly. “We have come to back up our claims, with force and devastation.”

  “And that’s supposed to send terror into our souls, is it?”

  “We did have a more extreme name, but we weren’t allowed to use it... deemed too confrontational by our moderates.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, you had better surrender now. I’ll launch our drone squadrons if you don’t.”

  “You should surrender instead. We have enough firepower here to destroy your entire planet.”

  “And what would be the benefit of that?”

  “We stop your evil plans.”

  “But my evil plans are already on most of the civilised worlds... and even a few that aren’t, and haven’t discovered the internal combustion engine. We are putting that right for them, but it’s a bugger trying to teach them to drive when they keep eating the tyres.”

  “Then I will show you that I mean business. Pete, release the main weapons.”

  “Oh dear.” A voice came ruefully through the communicator. “I’m having to say that I’m with Mr Poordraw on this one. I’m not going to attack my employer and destroy a planet.”

  “Pete, how could you? After all we’ve been through. I mean, you helped us develop the new drive and weapons and all.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” said Poordraw. “He was incorruptible to start with, and then we found his girlfriend.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It was difficult, I admit, but we checked his emails and a few jewellery shops and finally tracked her down to one of the Nishant assembly facilities.”

  “No, I meant it’s hard to believe he has a girlfriend... him being a techie and all that.”

  “I found her on the Galactinet,” said Pete. “We are ideally suited. She likes Hyper-wars and pizza as much as me, and will do anything to get away from Musoketeba and have cute little mixed-race babies... and I’ve vowed to help her. We haven’t actually met yet, but Mx. Poordraw has promised to release her to me when the Recalcitrance is over.”

  “Pete, please reconsider. You can’t believe anything STOP says,” said the Magus. “Pete?”

  “Pete is indisposed.”

  “Kara.” Relief sounded in the Magus’ voice. “Would you be so kind as to release the power of our doomsday weapon and destroy the STOP half of the planet?”

  “Nah.”

  “Nah?”

  “I would not fire upon the people who have promised me the Emperorship of the Galaxy again. STOP have guaranteed to reinstate me as the one glorious figurehead, and grant me the position I am finally due. I have it in writing.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better give up?” said Poordraw. “You have nothing to menace us with.”

  There was a squeak from the battle-closet, and then a man’s voice: “Correction! This is Vac here. I am now in control of the weapons.”

  “Vac, you’ve saved us all,” said the Magus. “Fire the battery. Target the main airport car park warden station and barriers.”

  “Naw.”

  “Naw?”

  “Mx. Poordraw has promised me that he will remove the car park he has recently had built on Skagos, especially as we don’t have any cars. He has also pointed out that cutting the amount of vehicles on the roads, and making bigger potholes thereon has actually improved the health of the commoners. As a health advocate, I acknowledge fitness, and anything that improves the look of the common woman expands the gene pool of potential mates for me.”

  “But we are mates.”

  “On reflection,” said Vac. “I don’t see how you can win, here, and the Skagans are not yet ready for another Armageddon. Glory, Sex and more Sex, now we’re not going to die!”

  “Is that your new battle cry?”

  “It’s as good as any. I’m off to find Tanda in the engine room, and give her a good seeing to, before we give ourselves up. Oh, by the way, after we have handed you over, I’ll be paying a visit to the Tax Office. I need to talk to them about my royalties, now that Mx. Poordraw has given me the correct form to fill in.”

  “Is there anyone who will help me?” said the Magus plaintively.

  “I’m here. at the weapon console now. What do I do?”

  “Rannie. I should have known I could rely on you.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. This Mx. Poordraw here has been sourcing a load of my products.”

  “Yes, Mx. Dearheat,” said Ferguson Poordraw, “Mx. Poordraw, my better half, loves the ‘Connected Bikini’.”

  “I haven’t heard of that one.” The Magus leaned back hopelessly in the co-pilot’s seat.

  Glowplug, patted him gently on the head. “Tough cheese, Magus,” he said, “but without Two-Dan to lead, we all feel that this is a waste of time. STOP have promised to leave us alone until we have enough people, and then we are to be given smart uniforms and take over from the parking attendants as physical enforcers. We will be allowed by law to put tickets on any cars we find and then extract the parking fines forcefully on the spot. It sounds such fun.”

  “Before your pilot interrupted, I was telling you about this great bikini,” said Ferguson Poordraw, “connected to the ‘Internet of Unnecessary Things’, it monitors the sun and has an add-on sunscreen dispenser, which sprays automatically when required. The bit I love is that it tells the wearer if they are getting too fat, eating rich food and lounging around on beaches, which saves me all the bother of pointing it out to the good lady, and subsequent denial of conjugal rights.”

  “My own design, that one,” said Rannie proudly. “Mx. Poordraw is granting me exclusive rights to supply any of my products, including my new range of digital eyes, which save people the effort of actually looking at anyone.”

  “Looks wonderful,” said Poordraw. “Put me down for thirteen.”

  “Rannie, but you said you loved me,” whined the Magus.

  “And so I still do,” said Rannie, “but business is business, and because the STOP executives have so much money to waste, they will buy anything, in an attempt to make themselves happy. I supply happiness in the form of gadgets everyone can live without.”

  “And they are all nice and shiny,” said Poordraw. “I’ve been impressing my associates. Mx. Welby wishes she could afford some, but her bonuses have been in proportion to
her shareholding, so she can’t get that much, and may have to go without that ‘Greeshun 2000’ super-car she set her heart on.”

  “Then I’m stuffed,” said the Magus. “All my crew is against me, I can’t run, I can’t fire... and now I’m wanted for piracy...”

  “I’ll come and visit you in prison,” said Rannie, appearing in the cockpit hatch. “With all the money I make from the new deal, I’ll be able to pay for a good trial, and with a bit of luck get you off on the lesser charge of ‘waywardness’.”

  “Which carries a shorter sentence of ten years holiday in the stone-head carving quarries,” said Poordraw. “Better than piracy anyway, where you are well hung after the application of weights, drawn by one of our outstanding cartoonists, and eighted, which is like being quartered, only more painful, before being reassembled upside down and suspended above a barrel of carnivorous guppies until you are dead.”

  “I’ll look after you,” said Rannie, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “How would you like him delivered, Mx. Poordraw? The Recalcitrance is over...”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Rannie gave a gasp of shock, and twisted in her chair to view the new entrant to the control room. “What the Phoist...?”

  “I beg to disagree,” it said. “I think the Recalcitrance is alive and fully operational.”

  Epitaph

  In which Arianne uses a Sapristi Army knife

  A

  nd now we go backwards in time, to when the damaged hulk of the Fortune was pounded into the shape of a small asteroid by the swarm of STOP drones. The pizza-stained, slightly-charred body of the former leader of SCT froze as the escape pod detected no life on board and shut down its central heating. No point in wasting energy, the systems reasoned, if it was due to melt in the nearby sun in a few minutes. It decided, however, to keep the internal pressure at atmospheric normal, to prevent the body blowing up and making a mess of the soft furnishings.

  The capsule cursed as it felt the impact from a doku-shunt at extreme range, but only a few of the chunks of rock, fired half-heartedly by the STOP drone, made contact. The hull was designed to take this sort of battering, and the heat caused by re-entry, but the pod was knocked off course and tumbled, spinning towards a suspicious purple glow between two massive stars. The capsule didn’t stop to analyse how two such celestial bodies could be so close without collapsing into each other, but was secretly relieved that its programmed trajectory now didn’t involve an increasing speed and then a progressive burn-up in the 5000 degrees of either surface. It registered that the temperature between the two stars was space-normal, and being a mere machine, accepted the fact, without attempting to modofy its course again.