The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Come and see.”

  * * *

  The fountain was finally turned off and Tom had finished being sick in front of the ruins of the Pig-Ugly. “That is certainly the most obnoxious vehicle I’ve ever seen,” he coughed. “It fair turned my stomach.”

  “You get used to it,” said the Magus. “Like getting your ‘sea-legs’ when you go aboard ship for the first time; I call it ‘Pig-Ugly Legs’.”

  “Talking of that,” said Tom, “how is that old girlfriend of yours, the one with the glue addiction? You stuck with her for quite a time.”

  “We split up.”

  “I bet it was really hard to tear yourself away from her.”

  “I was a lot more solvent afterwards. She was very expensive.”

  “More ale?”

  “It would be a shame not to.”

  “Look you guys.” Kara put her hands over their mugs as they raised them for another draught. “We were talking about the Doku-Drive, and if SCT would be interested in providing the resources for the Magus to develop it.”

  “Oh that,” said Tom. “I thought that was taken as granted. The Magus and I go back a long way. I’d trust him with my beer cellar.”

  “But you haven’t heard the deal yet,” said Kara.

  “Deal, is there a deal?” slurred the Magus.

  “There’s always a deal,” said Kara. “Isn’t there?”

  “What’s in a deal?” said Tom.

  “We have to have something in writing, signed in front of witnesses so that the Magus has his rights protected and you have a sound investment…”

  “Right then, everybody listening?” Tom glanced around at Caryl, who was now huddled against his side. She had a blank expression. He squeezed her hand.

  “Oh, what, yes, I’m listening,” she said vaguely. “You were asking the Magus if he’d like another ale.”

  “I thought he was asking Errorcode to turn off the water,” said Tanda. “Didn’t he know it’s already off?”

  “Good,” said Tom. “Everyone’s paying attention. Magus, you can have SCT resources at your disposal. Spend what you like and get what you like. In return you’re to provide my fleet with drive units and we can then become a going concern again, in the aerospace sector; deal?”

  “Deal,” said the Magus, clicking the glasses together.

  “And that’s it?” said Kara.

  “That’s it,” said Tom and the Magus in unison.

  “A deal made between real-ale drinkers…” said Tom,

  “…is a deal made for eternity,” said the Magus. “To ale!” The Magus raised his glass.

  “To Ale!” Tom raised his and clinked them together again.

  “Don’t you want to see what we are offering?” asked Kara.

  “Must we?” said Tom. “I’m not sure I can get into that thing at the moment. If my drinking buddy tells me he has the best thing since ready-sliced onions, then I’m happy.”

  “I give up,” said Kara. “I’m going for a lie down.”

  “Lying down room through the doors, down the stairs and third on the left ma’am,” said Vac.

  “Vac!” Tom chastised.

  “Sorry, ma’am, got confused with the interrogation chamber,” said Vac. “Allow me to escort you to the Rest-Room.”

  “Show Kara and the Magus up to the guest bedrooms instead please Vac,” said Tom. “And I mean the guest bedrooms. I’m not being obtuse here; do you understand?”

  “Guest bedrooms, Sah.” Vac winked at Tom.

  “For Phoist’s sake. Tanda, would you mind? These are our guests, and not insurgents or prisoners. Vac, stay on guard out here for me.”

  “Yes, Sah. I’m ready for anything, Sah.”

  “Good, we’ll meet again for cocktails before dinner. I need to go…”

  “Oh my Phoist!” Caryl grabbed Tom’s arm and clung on. It was not the way she usually grabbed him, and Tom was taken aback.

  “Are you okay babe? What’s the matter?”

  Caryl sobbed. “No, don’t go. You must not go.”

  “I’ve got to go; I need the loo.”

  “Not there; I mean go away from the Island.”

  “Why? I’ve nothing planned. Where would I go?”

  “I don’t know,” said the girl. “I saw an image in my mind of you lying on the ground, dead, mutilated, covered in blood, body parts everywhere.”

  “Where? Not here surely?”

  “We will protect you with our lives, Sah,” said Vac reappearing from behind a potted plant, a machine-gun in each hand. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not here,” said Caryl. “I saw a strange place, soaking wet, pouring rain, the wind lashing the trees, no decent ale and a long way away.”

  “I haven’t any plans to do the ‘T in the Park’29 Festival again,” said Tom. He put his arm round the shaking girl. “Anyway, don’t worry, it’s your imagination. The site was destroyed in the Scottish Wars of Independence from the Geordie Caliphate, at least one universe ago and in another reality.”

  * * *

  Inside Job

  Lasmik’s Orders

  Tom’s Rights

  T

  he failure of Bott and Scaly to terminate Tom was not received favourably at the TCA. Foilside called his team into the Conversation Room. He noted the usual squad: the geeky tall person, the hunky musclebound guy, the fat secretary and the sensible organiser.

  “Is there someone missing, team? We don’t appear to be firing on all cylinders today.”

  The fat secretary put her hand up. “The cannon-fodder agents, Bott and Scaly, sir.”

  “I know that, Fat Secretary, I am holding this meeting to determine what to do next. Who else?”

  “Please sir, I know.” The geeky tall person bounced energetically from one foot to the other.

  “Right, Geeky Tall Person. You have the floor.”

  “I’ll leave it for Cleaning Lady thank you sir, but I think you are talking about agent Tay, the stunningly attractive totty who’s mainly there to get people to watch the show.”

  “Yes I am,” said Foilside. “Where is she?”

  “You let her leave sir. She had actually reached statutory retirement age, despite the fact the Government kept increasing it to save having to pay out anybody’s pension.”

  “So I did, so I did,” mused Foilside. “Trouble is that I think with a criminal as dangerous as $mith (sic), she is the only agent who could now get close enough to terminate him.”

  “Does he really need to be terminated?” asked the fat secretary. “I mean, he is still alive and the Universes haven’t crashed into one another yet. Perhaps the Imperator has got it wrong?”

  “What?” There were shocked exclamations all around the room.

  “The Imperator does not get things wrong,” said Foilside, raising his tray to its maximum height and glowering down at the woman. “He told me so last week when I reported the deactivation of our agents, Bott and Scaly. $mith (sic) is a criminal and has to be brought to justice.”

  A silence fell as the agents reflected on how they would achieve their objective.

  “What about Agent Lazmik, sir?” suggested the sensible organiser.

  “Shhh, no names; a new directive has been issued that we are now an extra secret organisation,” said Foilside. “I’ve even closed down the visitor centre.”

  “And the web site I hear,” said the sensible organiser. “Why?”

  Foilside shook his head and the tray rocked dangerously from side to side. He reduced its elevation. “Nothing to do with hiding the possum,” he said. “It’s mainly because the company making the 2000 key keyboards has folded its wings. By the way, Agent Lazmik is now to be ‘handled’ as ‘Hunky Musclebound Guy’.”

  “Hairy Hunky Musclebound Guy really,” said the geeky tall person, always the wag.

  “Can’t I use my real name?” moaned Lazmik. “After all, I have been using it all the time I’
ve been here.”

  “That was before another new ordinance,” said Foilside haughtily. “TCA directive 1479.602 states that we now have to use pseudonyms for security reasons.”

  “Can’t we simply adopt numbers,” suggested the geeky tall person.

  “That would never work,” said the sensible organiser. “Imagine the reader trying to keep track of all the names here, let alone if we were all numbers. If I was Double-oh-seven for example, how could you tell I was any different from Double-oh-six, and how would you latch on to my personality and develop a sympathy for my character?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” said the tall geeky person, making a note to bag the Double-oh-seven number for himself if the discussions went in that direction. “You are only a minor character. If you are lucky, you won’t be killed off like Bott and Scaly, agents Oh-one-one and Oh-one-two respectively.”

  “I don’t recall authorising the use of numbers, Tall Geeky Person,” put in Foilside.

  “Only trying the concept out,” said Double-oh-seven.

  Foilside scowled. “I’m going to deliver a blast of leadership here,” he said. “We could as easily use letters; my name could be ‘F’.” He looked at himself in a mirror and raised his chin with the servo-motors. “Yes, I quite like that idea.”

  “So the moment the reader gets used to who we are, we change our names again?” said Double-oh-seven.

  “Got to keep them on their toes,” replied ‘F’; “The meat and potatoes approach to this issue isn’t the way to maintain secrecy. Anyway Hairy Hunky Musclebound Guy…”

  “‘λ’ if you don’t mind,” said the hairy hunky musclebound guy. “That’s my new handle; it’s the letter ‘L’, lambda from the Greek alphabet, clever huh?”

  “Sir,” the fat secretary put her hand up. “Can I suggest that this is getting stupid.”

  “Shut up, π,” said λ. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Can’t we stick to our original names?” pleaded the sensible organiser. “I was comfortable with that, and everybody knows us now. What chance do we have of maintaining our secrecy? The simple fact that we are using cryptic aliases will tip off the criminals straight away.”

  “True,” said F, musing quietly to himself. “Perhaps it would be easier if we reverted to our real names…”

  “Aw,” said λ, disappointment not showing on his face because it was covered with hair.

  “That’s enough, Agent Lazmik,” said Foilside. “We use real names, and if anyone is confused, we can qualify them with descriptions. You all do have real names don’t you?”

  “Of course, but they are quite complicated as is traditional in our culture. Our names describe locations and personalities and origins. Also,” said Binfootlebinglescrotbucketblogwanker, the sensible organiser, “can I suggest that we drop the word ‘agent’ from our names too? It only serves to tip off the criminals that we are some sort of secret organisation…”

  “Enough.” Foilside lost his patience. “We are approaching the end of the fifteen minutes allocated for the meeting and haven’t achieved anything yet. I’m going to have to fold the head-contact without a result.”

  “What about using the three minutes constitutional flirting time, since Agent Tay isn’t with us anymore?” suggested Binfootlebinglescrotbucketblogwanker sensibly, “and if you automatically accept that we will join you for coffee afterwards, we have five extra minutes to make a plan.”

  “Good idea that man,” said Foilside. “Right, Lazmik goes and terminates $mith (sic).”

  “Do I have to?” moaned the hairy hunky musclebound guy, formerly agent Lazmik, formally λ. “If Bott and Scaly failed, what chance do I have?”

  “A cunning plan,” suggested Binglebinscrotfootleblogbucketwanker, the tall geeky guy (no relation to the sensible organiser). “I have heard that they are working on a cure for the Dokuvirus. You can offer yourself up as a test subject.”

  “Brilliant,” said Foilside. “Get Fat Secretary to make up your cover story and background and get off there straight away. Don’t forget the proper procedures. Can you do that for Lazmik, Fat Secretary?

  “I’ll pop it on my attainment gradient,” said Bucketscrotbingleblogfootbinwanker, (also no relation to the others) busily making notes on her L-Pad.

  “Great,” said Foilside. “Anyone for coffee?”

  Lazmik turned the permit note over in his hands. He was now plain (not secret agent) Lasmic Togerado, who had been afflicted with the Dokuvirus as a result of an early career as a milkmaid on Glenforbis. He had requested a name a little less like his original, but when the Fat Secretary had offered alternatives, he hadn’t been able to remember them. She settled for changing his name very slightly and ignored the fact that he couldn’t spell it anyway.

  The newly named Lasmic’s family were the fictitious Togerados of Butnugget on Glenforbis. A background had been created for him saying that they originally owned a large area of the northern continent of said planet. Lasmic had been an orphan since his mother left to live with a perfume manufacturer and disowned him, and his father had mysteriously fallen into the Shiznip Grinder after marrying a lady who he got at an auction. Lasmic was also destitute, because the lady had seen to it that she inherited all the family goods and chattels.

  By the time Lasmic had read his full biography, he was in tears; he might be a big man, but he had a sensitive heart under all that fur and muscle. He was still sobbing when he climbed out of his hired canoe on the beach of SCT Island and was welcomed by a troop of black-leather-clad soldiers, pointing guns and wanting to know how he had avoided the defence missiles, the minefield, the attack drones and the guard turbot.

  * * *

  “So,” said the Magus to the captive Lasmic. “You are from Glenforbis. I’ve looked up your family: a sad story.” He wiped a tear away. “I’m from there myself, but that might have been a different universe; nobody knows, and I’m certainly not explaining it at this stage of the narrative.”

  “Possibly a different universe,” agreed Lasmic, passing him a grubby handkerchief to mop his face.

  “So you aren’t that other ‘Lasmik’ that was trying to kill my mate Tom in an earlier adventure are you? I thought you got shot there and died in agony.”

  “Must have been a brother or a doppelganger,” said Lasmic remembering the information that had been drummed into his brain by the Fat Secretary. “Not me. I’m most certainly not dead. Can I have my handkerchief back please?”

  “Is that a TCA logo on there?” asked the Magus suspiciously, trying to find a cleaner section of the cloth.

  “Er, yes,” said Lasmic, unable to deny the fact. He cursed the Fat Secretary for providing him with an unfortunate wardrobe. “I got it in the gift shop on, er, a guided tour round their facility.”

  “I thought they were supposed to be a secret organisation, sworn to uphold the Laws of Time.”

  “It was an open day,” said Lasmic.

  “Can they still be a secret organisation if they are going to have open days?”

  “A new era of transparency and honesty.”

  “Good; if that’s the case, you can tell me the truth. Are you one and the same as the Agent Lazmik, also known as ‘λ’ that Pete found detailed on a memory stick left in the company taxi?”

  “Of course not,” lied Lasmic. “His name is spelt with a ‘λ’; not that I would know, because the agents operate at maximum security, under the LIDAR30 as it were.”

  “So, did you buy the shirt and trousers in the gift shop... and the tie?”

  Lasmic groaned. Now that he looked, the TCA logo was everywhere on his outfit. This would need some clever explaining to get out of. He thought fast. “Yes,” he said.

  “Fair enough,” said the Magus. “Now, you’ve come to volunteer as a test subject I am told. Sorry about the interrogation. Our security forces are somewhat overenthusiastic.”

  “No problem,” said Lasmic. “The waterboarding, i
ceboarding and snowboarding was okay. I could handle the thumbscrews, and that chair with the hole in it was almost pleasant, but when they started playing Justout Burbler music at me, I nearly cracked.”

  “Cracked?” asked the Magus sharply.

  “Um, I was ready to confess to anything rather than listen any longer… even though I was innocent,” he added, as the Magus quizzically raised the part of the face where his eyebrows would have been.

  “I can understand that,” he said, nodding. “They can be so cruel. So what actually convinced the interrogators?”

  “I told them I was a mate of John’s.”

  “John, John who?”

  “They didn’t ask. They confirmed that everyone was a mate of his, and then apologised and said I could go, and keep the electrodes too, if I liked.”

  “I thought the torture apparatus would be re-used to save money.”

  “Apparently there are now health and safety issues. It can only be used once, for fear of passing anything nasty to the next prisoner. They don’t want to risk compensation claims. I am totally innocent of any crime.”

  “Are you going to sue?” said the Magus. “You could, for wrongful arrest and inconsiderate torture.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “You may have seen the adverts. Here’s one,” said the Magus, and he read out the narrative from his m-Pad screen:

  “Been injured in the wrong torture chamber, had your fingernails pulled out in an inappropriate fashion, suffered with a stuck door through negligent maintenance of the iron-maiden? Or perhaps you are an interrogator yourself and have contracted whiplash where one of your colleagues missed a prisoner, or repetitive strain injury from repeated operation of an improperly adjusted rack. Or you may simply be a doku farmer, ineptly poisoned by a gorgeous wife.

  “We are here to help; no win no fee apart from our administration costs. If you have a case, we can guarantee to recover a sizable wad of cash for you and take 50% of it. Interested? Call ‘First Whinger Greedy Bastard Helpline’ on this number…”

  “Nah, too much trouble; these things happen,” said Lasmic.

  “They do it all for you,” insisted the Magus. “I can leave you the Multinet address…”