The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  * * *

  “Right, team,” said Tom, beaming at his executive committee, “I suppose we’d better do the usual meeting stuff before we get on to something useful. We can start with you, Monty; I know you’re busy with all the changes we need. How is life in the Change Control?”

  Errorcode jumped as his name was mentioned. Despite the fact that Tom did this at every meeting, it still seemed to take him by surprise when he was asked for information. “Well…” He coughed. “What do you want to know?”

  “The usual,” said Tom patiently, “The sort of thing you tell us every time; you know, number of changes in our systems, success rates, the actual cost of the Change Management process.”

  “Good news,” said Errorcode, taking a breath.

  “I like good news,” said Tom, “but not at the expense of being told a pack of lies simply because that is what you think I want to hear.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, the truth would be nice then. Go on, I can take it.”

  “The truth?” Errorcode rolled the words around on his tongue. “With respect, I’m not sure that was included in my management training.”

  “You had training? Tell me more.”

  “Of course,” said Errorcode haughtily. “Did you not look at my CV?”

  “Caryl, did we look at Monty’s CV?” Tom fended his girlfriend away.

  The head of IR rummaged through her K-Pad folders. “I’m not sure we had one.”

  “There you go then, Monty,” said Tom. “Did you ever submit a CV?”

  “Of course.”

  “The truth please. I really don’t mind.”

  “I’ll ask him,” said Caryl. She removed Tom’s hand from her thigh and stood up, rearranging her skirt. Tom thoughtfully sucked his finger as she waltzed around to the Head of Change Management. She sat on his knee. He froze. “Right then,” she said, settling in and crushing the stirrings inside his trousers, “you will tell me the truth, won’t you? Don’t worry about them…” she waved her hand in the general direction of the other Committee members, “…they aren’t listening. Now, did you ever have a CV?”

  Errorcode gasped as her musky scent tickled his nostrils. “Um, actually, no,” he murmured.

  “So how did you get the job with SCT?” she purred into his ear.

  “Old chums act,” he said. “I was at school with the CEO as his fag.”

  “Fag? You mean a junior whose job it was to run errands for the seniors and generally be treated like a slave, in those fictional stories about public schools?”

  “Um, not really; he was the senior and I was his bum bandit.”

  “Are you allowed to say that?”

  Errorcode was struggling to resist her questions, but some strange force demanded honesty. “Normally it was kept under wraps, to save the whole public school system being investigated by the Health and Pervertery Department.”

  “I see.” Caryl looked surprised. “Shall we talk about Change Management now? You said you had ‘good news’?”

  “Not really,” said Errorcode, desperately trying to stop himself. “Costs are down though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve sacked anyone who failed their particular Change, and a lot of other people have left and found other jobs.”

  “So how many folks have you still got in Change Control Manor?”

  “Change Control House now.” Errorcode squirmed, trying to push Caryl away, but she clung on, rubbing her breasts against his chin.

  Tom felt pangs of jealousy. “Please put him down now, Caryl,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. Amber and Tanda exchanged grins. Pete Young was wrapped up in calculations on his M-Pad and had failed to notice anything. “I think Monty has told us everything we need to know, apart from the fountain. How are we getting on with repairs?”

  Errorcode breathed a sigh as the girl slipped off his knee. He rearranged his shirt and crossed his legs uncomfortably. “The fountain? Yes, we are getting on rapidly with repairs.”

  “It doesn’t look any different, although you did manage to turn the water off. When can I expect it to work again?”

  “That was a successful Change,” said Errorcode. “I’ve contracted a new project manager from our supplier to manage the staff.”

  “Supplier? Which supplier would that be?”

  “Errorcode Consultancy; er, no relation of course, because that would be nepotism.”

  “And we don’t do that here,” said Tom, returning his hand to Caryl’s leg as she sidled back to him.

  “Anyway, I don’t have any nephews,” said Errorcode, “Nor have I ever been Pope.31”

  “Thank you for that, Monty, I’m sure the significance of what you said concerning the definition of the word has not been completely lost on the etymologist members of the team.”

  “I can’t stand insects,” said Amber, shuddering.

  “Time out,” said Tom, “Let’s get back to business. I suppose we should invite Vac…”

  “You called, Sah?” The Head of Security was instantly at his shoulder.

  “How do you do that? I thought you were off looking for doku-hair or hexacat whiskers or something.”

  “Skagan secret, Sah. Helps when there are free handouts, and ‘seconds’ in the canteen. Will that be all, Sah?” The big man started to head back towards the door.

  “No, hold on. I think Mr Errorcode is ready to be escorted back to Change Control. I thought they were in a house at the back of the building now.”

  “Change Control Bungalow, Sah. I’ve downgraded him after the last mass walkout of his staff.”

  “Right you are then,” said Tom brightly. “Thank you Monty for your illuminating report.”

  “I can walk,” said Errorcode, trying to fend off Vac’s grip. He failed and left the room, gagged and struggling under the Skagan’s arm.

  “Be gentle please, Vac,” said Tom.

  “Sorry, Sah?” Vac turned to regard his leader and cracked Errorcode’s head on the door jamb.

  “I said ‘be gentle with Mr Errorcode’.”

  “Right you are, Sah,” said Vac, turning back and cracking Errorcode’s head again.

  “He’s going to hate us for this, you know,” said Caryl.

  “I know,” said Tom, “but I can’t simply sack the man; the terms of his contract would cost us a fortune, but if he resigns…”

  “Sometimes it’s best to grab the doku by the antlers.”

  “I really don’t want to pay him off—reward for failure and all that. I mean he might go somewhere else and con his way into a position of authority there. We owe it to other business-people not to release him back into the wild with a cash stake.”

  “On the other hand,” said Caryl, “wouldn’t that strengthen our position in the marketplace? I mean, having someone like him in charge of a competitor?”

  “You’ve a devious mind,” said Tom.

  “Ah, you love me for my body though, don’t you,” said the girl snuggling to him and gazing up with doe-like eyes.

  “Stop it,” said Tom. “Back to Errorcode, can we afford to pay him off?”

  “Not yet,” said Amber. “I’m still trying to find out what the original Plank of Directors spent the money on. Whatever it was, it is no more. We have stopped losing money.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But we are still paying off the arrears incurred in that poison chemical recycling fiasco I unearthed.”

  “Toxic debts; very bad,” said Tom, nodding sagely. “We need some new form of income... Come in.”

  The stocky form of the new Head of Drive Technology and Hair Products appeared, closely followed by Mrs Tuesday and a trolley of cakes. “Ah, Magus, good to see you again,” said Tom. “And you’ve found coffee.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” said the tea-lady, “I’ve been distributing pizza leftovers to the pack of wild UNIX programmers in the reservation, as you requested. They’d starve
without your charity, now that people have realised that UNIX died out forty years ago. Who’d like a nice cup of tea?” There were nods around the table. “Good, then my visit hasn’t been wasted. One lump or a plague of boils?”

  * * *

  Tea-break was over and Mrs Tuesday had departed to feed the captured parking attendants in their own enclosure, and then to make sure the other lunches were up to standard, when Tom brought the Committee to order. “So, Magus, how are you getting on with fitting the Dokumat Drive into the Skagan Peace-ships?”

  “Not bad,” said the Magus. “It has been a problem getting the Mats together for larger craft, but we are ready to launch the prototype in a few days.”

  “And the regular supply of Pig-Uglies for the air-cars?”

  “Bit of a problem.”

  “Oh dear; technical issues.”

  “Not at all,” said Pete, looking up from his pad. “It’s that nobody is buying our finished products.”

  “What, a flying car that costs nothing to run?”

  “Something about the energy and fuel companies saying that anyone with a Pig-Ugly will be charged treble for their normal supplies. It’s not economical for people to buy one.”

  “Then we must expand our reach to other planets, or at least fit a discharging socket for people to plug in. If we get the Drive in bigger ships, we can transport the cars elsewhere.”

  “Can’t I simply destroy the opposition?” suggested Tanda. “We have the firepower.”

  “I thought I said the weapons were to be removed from the fleet.” Tom regarded the statuesque blonde, suspiciously.

  “Of course, I forgot,” said Tanda quickly. “Timeworn traditions die rigidly, you know.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” said Tom. “Remember that we’re not a military force, whatever our potential; our duty is expansion through trade.”

  “Is that a mission statement?” said Amber, scribbling furiously. “I like it.”

  “I’ll get a press release organised,” said Caryl.

  “Right, so back to the Drive; when are we planning to launch?”

  “Tuesday” said Pete.

  “Thursday,” said the Magus simultaneously.

  “Today,” said Vac, poking his head around the door.

  “Today Vac?” said Tom. “Come in and tell me all about it.”

  The Skagan eased his large frame into the seat next to Tanda. “It’s like this, Sah. We have a problem with GUTS.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Has Mrs Tuesday not been cooking your Bracey Stew properly? Are the Weltroots not fresh enough?”

  “No, Sah, you misunderstand.”

  “Always.”

  “He is talking about the Taxation Service if you remember, Tom,” put in Amber. “They have invented a tax on free-powered cars and are sending us demands, namely form 1042-Stuffyou, where they withhold any monies coming to us, despite the fact that we are a different planet and they have no right to do that at all.”

  “GUTS huh,” said Tom. “And where are they based?”

  “It’s a regime called the ‘Disconnected Systems of Officialdom’. They take pride in the fact that they believe themselves to be Phoist’s own planetary arrangement and that everyone else should obey their laws. They have interests in many areas and usually take it upon themselves to be peacekeepers in any off-world disputes.”

  “I like them, Sah,” put in Vac. “They solve most problems by bombing them; it reminds me of old times, when the Skagans were the Primary Genus.”

  “That is rather a long time ago, Vac,” said Tom, suspiciously eyeing a hint of smugness on the usually expressionless face. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sah,” said Vac, smartly clicking the heels of his immaculate leather boots. “Of course, Sah.”

  “So what’s the problem, apart from them taking some of our income, upon which we are taxed on this planet, I presume?”

  “That’s correct,” said Amber. “Our own people levy 50% of our earnings.”

  “And how much do GUTS take?”

  “50% of anything we earn off-world.”

  “So we are actually not making anything in off-world sales and therefore it makes no sense to try?”

  “Permission to take the prototype ship and negotiate ‘tax concessions’ with GUTS, Sah?”

  “You, Vac, negotiate?” Tom grinned.

  “I’ll go with him,” said Tanda. “I might be able to talk them round and explain our predicament,” she stood up and adjusted the buttons on her straining blouse, “without violence hopefully.”

  “Thank you Tanda. You don’t have to sleep with them you know,” said Tom. “What’s that you’re holding Vac?”

  “Nothing, Sah.”

  “Give!”

  “Yes, Sah.” Vac awkwardly proffered the book he had been trying to hide behind his back.

  “What’s this,” said Tom opening it, “‘Everyone’s Guide to Taking over the Universe, by Vac McSkagan’? Did you write this?”

  “My pen name, Sah; didn’t want anyone thinking it was me that wrote it.”

  Tom flicked through the pages. “It’s very good, Vac, you have a creative cartoonist; in fact it’s mostly pictures of people doing rude things. How does that fit in with conquering the universe?”

  “Got to keep it simple for the peasants, Sah.”

  “And these bits of paper stuffed inside the back sleeve?” Tom shuffled them. “Tax demands? Have you really sold that many books?”

  “No, Sah, if you look at the wording, it is predicting sales based on how much they think they should take off me, to account for undeclared earnings.”

  “And that is from GUTS too, I note.”

  “Yessah, I thought I might be able to negotiate a refund, seeing as how I’m based here and have only sold two books.”

  “Who was the other one bought by?”

  “It’s very good,” said Tanda, “but we have to leave now; our ship is ready.”

  “Is it?” asked Tom.

  “It will be, Sah,” said Vac, staring directly at Pete.

  “I—I’m not sure…”

  “We will go and discuss this, Mr Young,” said Tanda. “We need that transport. Come with me.”

  “But what about security?” said Tom, “What about all those insurgents you were talking about, Vac?”

  “Insurgents, Sah?”

  “Yes, hordes of them, you said, trying to assassinate me.”

  “Nah, Sah, we caught them all. You will be safe while we are away.”

  “All of them?”

  “In the detention centre, being questioned,” said Tanda. “Sorry, I’ve got to go now and pack a bag.”

  Vac nodded and started to follow Tanda as she marched Pete out of the room, keeping a firm grip on his neck.

  “Vac?”

  “Yes, Sah?”

  “Are you leaving now?”

  “Yes, Sah, got to.”

  “So can I expect you back?”

  “Might have to stay away a while; prime directive, Sah.”

  “You said you weren’t doing that ‘conquer the universe’ thing.”

  “Ah, quite right, Sah. Forgot myself for a moment, Sah. Old habits dye brown, as they say in ecumenical circles, Sah.”

  “Glad to hear it Vac.”

  “Me too, Sah,” he said, and shut the door quietly behind him.

  “What happened there?” asked Tom. “He shut the door quietly.”

  “I think they are going to have a word with GUTS,” said Amber. “I hope they know what they are doing.”

  “Skagan negotiation,” said Caryl. “That’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one. Phoist help them.”

  “At least they haven't got any weaponry to wreak havoc,” said Tom.

  * * *

  “I need to go.”

  “What right now?” Tom stopped in mid thrust. “I’ll have to untie you from the stocks.”

  “No, do finish what y
ou started,” Caryl said. “I was starting to enjoy it.”

  “I thought you wanted to go.”

  “Afterwards will be fine; we need to talk.”

  * * *

  “So it wasn’t the loo you were talking about then?” said Tom

  “I’m afraid not.” Caryl lay naked beside him, idly playing with his regions.

  “What then?” He leaned back on the cushions and put his hands behind his head.

  “I need to go and find my family.”

  “I thought you had no family.”

  “So did I, but now that we have the satellite communication connected up, I’ve been picking up transmissions on channel 176.”

  “Isn’t that the alien porn network,” said Tom. “Not that I’d know,” he added quickly.

  “It is most of the time, but sometimes they have news. It seems that there are a few film producers with my family name.”

  “Family name? I thought you didn’t have one.”

  “Of course I have; I’ve realised it’s ‘Six’,” she said.

  “Six? Isn’t that the designation they gave you at that people farm you escaped from?”

  “I thought so too, but there seem to be a few Sixes roaming the Galaxy. I had a vision.”

  “Another one? In the last one, you saw me lying dead, covered in blood with my insides all over the place.”

  “This was better,” she said. “I saw a happy family, with me at the head of the table, eating and chattering, a lovely roaring fire, decorations and presents and everything.”

  “But you have a happy family here, and a big table in the Conference Room. I could have a fire fitted if you really want one.”

  “It’s not the same,” said Caryl distantly. “Family is different.”

  “What, the way you have to pretend to like people you’ve got nothing in common with,” said Tom, “and go to numerous gatherings, where you listen to the old ones going on about the Great Depression and how they had to live for a week with nothing to eat but golf balls?”

  “There are nice things,” said Caryl. “Suppose I’ve got a mum out there still; she will make me pies and cakes and fuss about, checking my shirts are ironed.”

  “I thought you told me your real family was murdered by the Mob back on old Earth before the Americans liberated the country and replaced all the shops with fast food outlets and lard dispensers.”