The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Agent Tay for ‘Personnel’,” said the gynoid, waving her badge at the reader.

  The lackadaisical receptionist looked up briefly from filing her nails. “It’s been rebranded as ‘Employee Tenderness and Consideration’ this week to try to retain and motivate the staff.” She compared image and form on her screen and pressed the foot button to release the solid door blocking the way into the building. “Level 15.”

  When they were inside, waiting for the lift, Tom glanced furtively around and muttered to Kara. “You told me you’d left the TCA.”

  “I have,” she smiled back. “Nobody could be bothered to see me out on my last day, so I kept the access card and all my standard issue equipment. It looks like they haven’t been worried about taking me off the systems either. That’ll teach them to outsource I.T.”

  “I hope Young Pete is doing a better job for us than that.”

  “Top man. He’s very keen. Ah, our lift arrives.”

  The doors opened at Level 16. “Are we in the wrong place?” asked Tom, regarding the floor number.

  “No, it’s actually an added security measure,” replied Kara. “Level 15 is the alligator store.”

  The HR office was like any normal office, with the usual collection of gossiping people, water-coolers, potted plants and ringing singing trees. “I thought it would be a bit more high-tech.” Tom paused at a sign over one of the desks, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but if you do work here, you might as well go and fuck yourself.’ “I guess there’s a bit of a morale problem.”

  “Probably my fault with that funding issue. I imagine they are unhappy with the pay arrangements.”

  “Makes a change from blaming it on the management.”

  “It is the management. I hear they are still giving themselves massive bonuses, while the staff are kept on minimum wage.”

  “Not very fair then.”

  “I suppose not.” Kara walked up to the only workstation that had anyone sitting at it. “Is there a free hot-desk?”

  “You can use Steve’s.” The man waved vaguely down the aisle. “He’s off today taking his manikin to the cleaners.”

  “There’s not much security here is there?” Tom settled himself beside Kara as she activated the terminal.

  “They don’t care,” said the gynoid. “Total apathy is the friend of the malcontent; they think they are safe behind the Oilflig-Adventists disguise, but have forgotten that most security breaches come from inside an organisation, especially from disgruntled employees... Good, I’m into the system.”

  “No problems?”

  “It has let me straight in. Apparently, if I was still employed, it would have asked for passwords and mechanical key and bio-data and shoe size and all the usual, but because I’ve left, there is no way I’d be in the building, so the system thinks I don’t exist and has defaulted to the engineering password.”

  “Don’t tell me…”

  “Yup, ‘Letmeinyoubastard’; it’s the only thing they are sober enough to remember.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “You have to be an engineer…”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “Right, I’ve accessed the personnel database. I’ll search on the word ‘Imperator’. Ah…”

  “What?” Tom peered at the writing on the screen. “It’s all Double-Dutch to me.”

  “Single,” she said. “They use Dutch because nobody speaks it anymore, since it became an annex of Turkey. ‘Figuratively’ is the main language around here, so Dutch is the most secure way of storing data. Programmatically I’m fluent.”

  “You would be. You know everything. How big is your database?”

  “You couldn't take it away on a thumb-drive, and even if you could, the processing power required to start extracting the data, and then use the intelligent algorithms to translate it into coherent symbolisation does not exist.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  Kara slapped the desk. “Got it.”

  “The personnel record?”

  “No, the restaurant menu for today. Looks like the pie will be the best choice once we’ve finished here.”

  “Time for pie? I thought we’d better get out once we’ve found what we are after.”

  “There’s always time for pie, and it would be less suspicious if we stay in the building for a while. Right, now I’ve got it.”

  “Good. What does it say?”

  “That all the details are kept in a filing cabinet at the back.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Kara closed the terminal and they strolled past another group of workers complaining loudly about the air-conditioning, towards the bank of cabinets. Kara ran her finger through the dust as they tried to read the labels and tutted in disapproval. “Here we are.” She bent and pulled one of the drawers out. The cabinet started to topple. Tom held it in place.

  “Health and Safety,” he muttered, looking at the cardboard boxes blocking the emergency exit. It was dark there and someone had left a candle burning in the tangle of frayed electrical wires powering a large fan heater in a puddle of water, which cut in at that moment. The noise was deafening, and scorching air bathed the firework box parked in front of it.

  Kara withdrew a thick folder and stuffed it into her bag. It was swallowed completely of course34. “Great bag,” said Tom.

  “This old thing? It was a bargain; I couldn’t leave it.”

  “Of course not, now can we get out of here before someone starts getting snoopy? We can read the file later. Are you sure that’s the one?”

  “It says ‘Cyclic Imperator—full records and salary, year 21000 to present’ so it is our best bet. The ID number corresponds to that on the system.”

  “It could be anything,” said Tom. “Looking at this lot, I don’t expect they care anyway.”

  “Hopefully it will pre-date the latest reorganisation by the Imperator, where all the systems that worked were replaced with knotted string.”

  “He’s not into I.T. then?”

  “I think he sourced the rope from the Nishant Corporation’s ‘Quipus’ Division; saved a fortune in technology costs. Anyway, I think we should go. I don’t like the look that guy on the desk is giving me. Everyone else is standing complaining, but he seems to still be working.”

  “There’s always one, isn’t there?” said Tom. “Everyone else is after an improvement to working conditions, and there’s always the guy who keeps his head down, hoping things will get better, doing the work of everyone else and preventing the leaders noticing there’s a problem.”

  “Yup, and they will never actually talk to the management and get things changed. They’re afraid for their jobs.”

  “I hope SCT is not like that.”

  “Not anymore,” said Kara, “Since you sacked all the miserable sods.”

  “I had to start somewhere; picking on moaners who would complain without suggesting solutions was as good as any. Anyway, about that guy.”

  “He’s on the ‘phone now. We should go.”

  “One moment.” The man stood up, still with the telephone in his hand, and blocked their way. “Can I see your ID please?”

  “Of course.” Kara flashed her badge.

  “You are no longer employed by the company,” said the man. “What are you doing in here?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your badge has a sticker on it, ‘Terminated, please hand in at Reception as you leave’.”

  “I should have removed that.”

  “Idiot,” muttered Tom. “What were you thinking?”

  “I guess my mind is on a higher plane.”

  “I expect that the intelligent algorithms translating into coherent symbolisation are not capable of thinking that if anyone looks at your badge, they might notice the sticker. At a company I once worked for, they let me in, even though I’d pasted on a picture of Kermit the Frog.”

  �
�Bummer.”

  “I’m going to have to call Security,” said the man.

  “Quite right too,” said Kara patting him on the shoulder. “Have you filled in the correct forms?”

  “Would you mind waiting while I get on to ‘Constrictions’ and access the right procedures?”

  “Of course; I see there’s pie on in the canteen; we’ll have something to eat and will be down there if you need us.”

  “Very good. Do you have a mobile number if I need you?”

  “Sorry, no. Is that a problem?”

  “Not really; I’ll be in touch.”

  Tom and Kara headed for the lift. “Nice and easy,” said Kara. “Don’t spark him into realising that there is an emergency number in event of a security breach.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s on signs all around the office.”

  “Oh dear, he’s calling the others over from the water-cooler.” Tom jabbed the lift button.

  Flight of the Pig-Ugly

  Tanda fills in a form

  Tom meets his Destiny

  T

  anda glanced at the pilot, sitting beside her in the long-range Pig-Ugly as they plummeted through an asteroid field. “I beg your pardon, Vac. What’s with the ‘Yee ha’?”

  “It’s so good to be back at the controls of something that flies,” said Vac. “Shame we couldn’t take one of the new assault ships, but the delivery of hexacat whiskers seems to have been held up.”

  “It was a good decision to put the mats we do have into smaller ships. This way more of our tribe have been able to get space-borne.”

  “I still think that we would have stood a better chance of negotiating a good deal with GUTS if we were in a horribly beweaponed starship, rather than the Pig-Ugly though. They probably won’t be intimidated by this.”

  “Nauseated more likely, but beggars can’t be psychos,” said Tanda. “These cars are fine once we’ve cleaned off the vomit from the previous owners. There is a ready supply now. They did have a brief resurgence as dieting aids, but since the fast food outlets have been slowed down by average speed cameras, the common people are not as obese as they used to be. We can get second-hand ones really cheaply, which is what we need, until we somehow get a reduction on our tax rates.”

  “I knew that,” said Vac, throwing the ship into a sharp dive to avoid a set of traffic cones. “What the Phoist are those things doing out here?”

  “Looks like the Consortium is improving this route,” said Tanda. “Look, there’s a sign over there.” She read. “It is with the utmost regret that we have to slow you down and divert you via Manchester, but this is for your own safety and we could not live with ourselves if you ran into a black-hole and destroyed your suspension. It’s your own fault the route is worn out anyway, so stop moaning.”

  “Bastards,” said Vac. “Why the Phoist don’t they leave the roads alone. If I’m stupid enough to drive into a black-hole, then surely it’s going to be my fault.”

  “It would be, and don’t call me…”

  “I knew that.”

  “Actually,” said Tanda after a brief period of silence where Vac concentrated on pulling the Pig-Ugly back out of a black-hole35, “I’ve noticed that you are not sounding at all like the old Vac. What’s happened to ‘Yessah’ and ‘Nosah’ and that annoying stilted speech, supposed to take the piss out of fictional military types?”

  Vac grinned. “I have a different hat on now, babe. I’m in the space force, so can adopt a completely different persona. Now, I’m the dashing captain with the Universe at my feet and the babes falling over themselves to get into my pants.”

  “If you give me any of that bollocks about ‘cabbage crates over the briny’ or ‘roger, wilco’, I’ll have to slap you and set fire to the hat.”

  “Roger Wilco? Isn’t he the chap that founded that neat discount store?”

  “I think it was, but I’m not having any of those sort of clichés spoiling the narrative, so put the ideas out of your mind, what there is of it. Look out!”

  Vac fired the side thrusters barely in time to avoid being trapped between two massive boulders.

  “Why don’t you turn the Splat-nav off,” said Tanda. “That’s not the first time it’s sent us to certain death.”

  “Perhaps I should have set it for ‘safest route’ rather than ‘shortest’,” said Vac. “I probably don’t need it now; that cut-through has put us almost into the DSO planetary system, home to GUTS. I think that’s one of their suns over there.”

  “The sun always shines on the DSO,” said Tanda. “That’s why they are so efficient and productive; they have learned to do without sleep altogether.”

  “They’ve seen us already,” said Vac. “Those blips on the DOKUDAR wouldn’t be a reception committee would they?”

  “I hope so,” said Tanda. “I’ve heard that they aren’t very friendly towards people from other worlds. Neat device by the way.” She craned her neck to examine the little square screen perched in the centre of the Scoot-board.”

  “A present from the Magus. It stands for ‘Dokuon Detection and Ranging’. Works effectively. Got it hooked up to the Shunt Cannon.”

  “Shunt cannon? I thought we were unarmed and on a mission of diplomacy.”

  “Sorry,” said Vac. “It sort of just happened.”

  “I’m not really surprised,” said Tanda. “As a Skagan, I always feel nervous when we go anywhere without protective weaponry. I guess it harks back to the days on our lost planet of Skagos, where the great Oilflig Phoist installed that energy absorber to take and remove any artificial power sources on the planet.”

  “I believe he used it to keep his fish tanks and underground rocket silos operational. In those days the tribe was forced to rely on brute force and ignorance to survive.”

  “Both of which were a plentiful commodity as I recall.”

  “Ah, but as soon as they were able to break free of the planet and the energy damper, the sidearm became a fashionable accessory again...”

  “And the front-arm, the back-arm, the underarm-arm and the arm-in-the-sock-arm which wasn’t there.”

  “Happy days. Shame that Mr $mith (sic) has prohibited all violence.”

  “Yes, shame,” said Tanda, regarding the firing control button, a large red mushroom push (Type 91T) wistfully. “Was it really necessary to put it next to the windscreen wiper lever?”

  “It had to go somewhere, but that aside, the blips on the scanner are ships I think,” said Vac. “Short range ones, otherwise they’d be here already.”

  “Already? You’re not going Jewish on me now are you?”

  “One ‘already’ does not an ‘oy vavoy’ make,” said Vac.

  “Thank goodness. I had a problem with them. Last time I ventured off-world they tried to dump me in a vinegar bath.”

  “Those would be the Acidic Jews,” said Vac sagely. “They hate any form of microbes on the body, so rinse up to three times a day in preservative; they have lovely skin.”

  “I noticed that, although they were a bit pink and kept hopping about rubbing their groins. I thought it was some sort of ritualistic greeting, and joined in. They kicked me out for taking the piss.”

  “That passed a bit of time,” said Vac. “I think we’re about to meet the reception party. I’ll turn on the Pionio and hope they have our frequency.”

  “Attention unidentified craft,” the voice came clearly through the induction coils. “This is Interplanetary Customs; heave to and splice your main-brace, we are coming aboard to inspect your vessel for illegal goods or Aztec stowaways.”

  “How do we answer that?” muttered Vac. “There’s no room for anyone else on board.”

  One of the Customs ships eased alongside them, and a travel tube snaked out from it and locked on to Tanda’s door. There was a hiss as it pressurised. Tanda wound the window. “Hi,” she said as a stocky official with a clipboard poked his head through. “
What can we do for you... er, sir.”

  “I need to search your ship. Can I come in?”

  “Not unless I come out first,” said Tanda, “Shove over.”

  She scrambled through the open window and the Customs man tried to get in. He stuck as soon as his head and shoulders were through. “Damn and blast,” he said. “These little ‘Fukedds’ cars are not big enough for a real person; how do you manage?”

  “Healthy diet, exercise, not overeating and plenty of sex,” replied Vac promptly.

  “Filth,” said the official. “I’ll add porn to the list of things I’m searching for. Well, boy, have you got any?”

  “How much do you want? Will this do?” He handed over his proof copy of ‘Everyone’s Guide to Taking over the Universe’. “It’s got pictures,” he said. “You can have it for 2 Drachma 32 Chalkoi.”

  The official flipped through. The cartoons together made an obscene simple movie. “Like it boy; I’ll have to confiscate this.”

  “No problem, I get them print on demand. If I buy another, it will increase my sales by 50%.”

  “Sounds like an issue for the Tax people,” said the Customs man. He shone a torch into the foot-well. “Looks like you’re clean enough,” he said, “apart from all the hairs stuck in the carpet, which are a feature of all cars, even if you haven’t got an animal.”

  “I think they make the mats that way especially,” said Vac. “Probably makes it easier for Forensics if you’ve been transporting dead bodies.”

  “That’s the approved reason,” agreed the official. “You can go, but report to the main aerodrome when you land, so we can look at your papers. Here’s a form to fill in as an alien.” He produced a concertina of paper from inside his jacket and handed it over. “Give me a pull please miss, get me out of this damn window.”