by J Jordan
He looked up at Mila and smiled. She smiled back, then retreated to Devon’s desk. To find a better position, thought Romney. These power player types were vultures. Every last one. Devon’s new smile was downright sheepish.
“You’re right,” said Devon. “We shouldn’t have done that. That’s my bad. Sorry. But you have to understand where we’re coming from.”
Devon wheeled his chair over to a laptop on the left corner of the desk. He opened it with great care and turned the screen toward Romney. There was a long report on the screen, complete with pictures and walls of text. They were black-and-white snapshots of a round stone on a leather strap. Romney skimmed through sentences on ages and dates, when he caught a phrase in bold: “was not found.” He scrolled down and saw the bolded phrase in several places. He turned it back to Devon.
“Interesting read. Maybe you could give us the abstract.”
Cora looked impressed by this. Of course he knew what an abstract was. Romney had read the abstracts of many important papers in the wee hours before class. He wasn’t a total idiot, and this was true.
“We’ve been looking for a very long time. Our people have scoured museums, academic journals, historical records, manifests for every archeological site from here to Desridan. We’ve spoken to historians, archeologists, treasure hunters, anyone with some kind of experience. Experts from every possible angle.”
“This is three years’ work with a staff of ten people, all working around the clock. This is anything you could ever want to know about a Katarin stone.”
“Except where to find a real one,” said Mila. “As you know, Katarin stones are never made out of Katarin. They use other minerals to mimic the same qualities, like the smooth surface and that blue flickering look when it hits the light. Someone did mention a Katarin stone made from Katarin, but the reference was buried in old religious text.”
“Imagine our surprise when someone found it. In Lanvale, of all places.”
Devon adjusted his seat. He was doing a poor job of containing his excitement.
“Naturally, we wanted to know more about you. Who are you guys? And how did you figure this out? Do you want to know what we found?”
The three exchanged glances. Romney noted Tykeso’s glare. Devon had turned the laptop to himself and was pulling up several files. He began reading from them.
“Tykeso Vandesko. Owns a small dojo in North Cresdale, specializes in Akako Medo, received his license to instruct in 2007. You cater to amateurs and professionals alike, though your clientele is mostly older couples looking for a hobby.”
Tykeso’s glare was gone, replaced by the most convincing poker face one could muster on short notice. You couldn’t chisel a better one out of marble, thought Romney. It was almost too good.
“I believe Mrs. Ransmith is going for her yellow belt tomorrow night,” chimed Mila. “You must tell us how it goes.”
Tykeso said nothing. Devon flipped to another file.
“Cora Queldin. Doctor of Camerran history, achieved defending a dissertation on the hierarchy of the Highland Tribes of North Camerra, Ancient era. Very interesting read.”
Cora’s face remained pleasantly shocked. He got her name right, on the first try.
“A master’s degree in pre-monarchal Camerran society,” continued Devon, “and a bachelor’s degree in general history, with a minor in archaeology. A 4.0 GPA through all three degrees. Volunteer work at the Lanvale Museum. A brief stint as adjunct professor of history, Lanvale Prime. And seven essays published. You are the historian’s historian, Ms. Queldin.”
“We were impressed with your paper on the rise of Katresean religious practices in Camerran society,” added Mila. “Humans worshipping an elven goddess in the Ancient era? Who knew? We used some of your work in our report.”
“You cited me as well, I presume.”
“Of course,” said Devon.
Cora leaned back in her chair, pleased with his answer.
“I had a group of people working on this. And you, Romney, had two people I had never heard of. Both of you have impressive credentials, don’t get me wrong. But you are nobodies.”
“How did we do it? Is that what all of this is about?”
Devon nodded. The truth of the matter was simple. The job had fallen into Romney’s lap one day, when he was down on his luck. Of course, he had made the best of it. He had worked hard to get the details right, despite what Cora might say about it. The van, the masks, the suits, and the people involved were all Romney’s doing. It had taken some considerable effort to make it all fit together. But the big stuff, like finding Cora and Tykeso on short notice, had fallen into place on its own. Later on in his life, Romney would say the plan involved more luck than effort. But he wouldn’t say that to Devon Reymus.
“Easy,” said Romney. “I found the best people for the job. The rest handles itself.”
“You have to give me more than that,” said Devon. “Where did you find these two?”
“It’s a trade secret,” said Romney.
Devon grinned at this.
“Fair enough. We all have our secrets, don’t we?”
“Can I ask a question now?”
“Does it have to do with payment?”
“Maybe.”
Devon rose from his chair, crossed to the front of the desk, and then sat on the bow. His posture was relaxed, arms crossed lightly over his chest, much like a young man at a bar. But he was looking down on Romney. Somehow, this made him threatening. Romney couldn’t put his finger on the exact problem.
Perhaps this was the hunter sizing up his prey. Romney made note of Mila standing beside Cora. He had the feeling a rabbit might get when seeing shadows that don’t belong in the thicket. These shadows wore business suits. Romney leaned back to his full height and met Devon’s gaze. The suited hunter nodded.
“Before we get down to business, I want to see my Katarin stone. That’s fair, right? You wouldn’t buy a VoPad without seeing it work. Right? You do that. Don’t you, Mila? You check the VoPad before you buy it.”
Mila nodded. Her smile had taken another step toward grimacing.
“I must sound like the spoiled, rich kid right now,” chuckled Devon. “I let Mila handle all of the purchasing. I don’t have the time anymore. Plus, imagine this guy walking into a Vock store. People would freak out. That doesn’t sound any better, does it?”
“She has excellent taste in computers,” said Cora. “I was just marveling at your Vock machines in the lobby.”
Devon didn’t hear this. He had been watching the stone from the moment it left Romney’s pocket. His demeanor had changed. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring. It was as if the stone had struck him dumb. He cleared his throat and carefully returned a smile to Cora. But his eyes couldn’t leave stone’s smooth surface, no matter how hard he tried. Devon was hungry. Romney could see the sudden wildness in his eyes. This stone was his weakness.
Romney held the stone out in his hand, then let it spill from his palm. Devon’s fevered gaze turned to mania. How long had Devon been searching for this stone? Romney allowed himself a grin. That wasn’t the real question on his mind. How much would Devon pay for an ancient prayer stone? And what could Romney do with all that money?
Romney snatched at the leather strap and caught it between two fingers. The stone dangled on a lopsided pendulum below his hand. Devon’s eyes followed along .
This built another thin layer of tension, but it wasn’t the reason Romney had paused. For once, since the very beginning of the heist, Romney had a sudden pang of guilt. There was something wrong with all of this. This stone was the beginning of something gigantic. It was the kind of something best left for someone else, someone with bravery and a well-developed bravado. This needed someone with brawn and brains, someone with a more pronounced jawline and straighter teeth. For some reason, Romney had decided this moment needed a hero. But there was no turning back from it now. Devon was waiting. Romney offered the stone to D
evon.
Devon cradled it in his hands and watched it carefully. Mila hovered by his side, enraptured by its simple beauty. Devon’s grin became frenzied, equal parts excitement and fear. He watched the stone’s surface carefully, as if looking for something. A marking, perhaps, or a sign. Something to prove it authentic.
A blue spark passed across the surface of the Katarin stone, like blue sunlight on wet sand. And in that brief moment, Romney felt a tremor rattle the bottom of his chair. There was a terrible groan below the floor, as if a steel support beam had been twisted out of shape. Romney grabbed his armrests and prepared for the worst.
But the building didn’t collapse. Nothing had moved on Devon’s desk. And no one else seemed worried by it. Devon shivered.
“So,” said Romney, testing his voice in the silent room, “what are you planning to do with that?”
Devon looked at Romney as if he had just fallen through the ceiling. Romney didn’t know where the man had gone, but he knew that he had been there a moment too long. Romney pointed to the stone.
“Trade secret,” said Devon, his voice still numb from the rush. “You understand, don’t you?”
Romney nodded. Honestly, he didn’t want to know.
“Perhaps now we should discuss payment,” said Mila, shattering the silence with a nervous hammer. She looked shaken. Cora was still smug in her chair, and Tykeso was still miserably cool. Devon stirred once more. He snapped quickly back into shape, placing the stone carefully on the desk and returning his fingers to their steeple. His grin was smart once again, though now it was an obvious facade.
“I like you,” said Devon. “You’re efficient. Good work ethic. And you get things done. I like that about you. You produce results.”
Romney nodded. This was Devon’s way of finding the path again. Talking, using impressive-sounding phrases, until spotting the verbal groove in the grass. It was the typical method of any businessman, at any point in history. Talk until you know what you’re talking about.
“I like to reward people who produce results.”
Romney caught Mila nodding at this.
“I don’t know if they told you any numbers, but let’s throw those out the window right now.”
Mila’s smile soured. Romney matched her nod.
“Let’s talk big numbers. One hundred and fifty thousand.”
Romney grinned at this. Mr. Reymus was a businessman after all. He turned to Cora.
“What is that?” he asked. “Fifty per person? Is that okay?”
Cora’s smugness chilled quickly. Her glare plainly said she wanted nothing to do with the conversation.
“Cora didn’t come cheap, you know,” said Romney. “You guys probably knew that already. Right? I mean, Lanvale Prime offered her a professorship, $70,000 ON a year. They promised benefits and a fast-track tenure. So, I had to outdo them.”
“She is really good,” said Devon.
“No,” said Romney, smiling at Cora’s glare, “she’s the best.”
“I saw that the moment I looked over her resume,” Romney continued. “I couldn’t pass her up. So, I promised her eighty.”
“Eighty thousand,” said Devon. “Okay. High caliber comes with a high price. Understandable.”
“Right, and she was burning the candle at both ends to make this happen. So, I may have promised her a hundred toward the end. For incentive. To ensure results.”
“One hundred thousand. That is a big price.”
“A big price for a big brain,” said Romney, smiling again at Cora’s stunned expression.
“That leaves you with fifty thousand between you two,” said Mila. “Hardly a modest sum.”
“Except for one problem,” said Romney. “Tykeso is also the best. Martial arts master. Accomplished marksman. Decorated war hero. Special operations training.”
Romney watched Devon rise in his chair. Jackpot.
“I’m sorry,” said Devon, “could you go back to the last part?”
Romney’s surprise looked genuine.
“The special ops or the decorations? You did read that, didn’t you? Or was that only in his dossier? Vandesko was Tambridesian Special Forces. TamSpec, right Ty? Did you guys get his dossier? There’s a lot to read in there.”
There was no response. Of course they hadn’t. Romney pressed on.
“Koyvos,” added Romney. “That was him. Also, there were counterterrorism operations in Norzerra. Under-the-radar kinda stuff. Operation Fang Lord, Operation Red Eagle. Ever heard of them? Me neither. Really interesting stuff.”
He looked to Tykeso for assistance. He saw an elf trying very hard to look natural.
“That sounds expensive,” said Devon.
“Yes,” said Romney, “that dossier was huge. He told me he was finished. No more wet work, he said. No matter what. So, I had to sweeten the deal. A lot.”
“How sweet?”
“The going rate for a guy like him? Unbelievable.”
“How much?”
Romney didn’t pause long. He knew he couldn’t. He went for the jackpot.
“One hundred.”
Devon didn’t wince. He nodded slowly and looked to Mila. Romney didn’t bother to see her reaction. It was disapproval. Devon returned to the stone and nodded once more.
“Two hundred thousand Ontaran notes,” he said slowly. “That is what you are asking for.”
“And we can assume Romney will have an overblown story for his own achievements,” said Mila. “You’re asking for three hundred thousand.”
Mila appeared beside Devon, her arms crossed with a casual demeanor.
“This must stay out of the books,” she said. “We had 150,000 ON ready to move. It was set aside, hidden from prying eyes. But now we need to double it? That won’t be easy.”
Romney smiled at this.
“You’re smart,” he said. “You can figure it out.”
“I have,” said Mila, “but it means having to cut someone. Maybe in accounting.”
She’s trying to get to you, thought Romney. It almost made him angry, until he caught Devon watching the stone again.
“No,” said Devon, stirred from a long reverie, “I had someone else in mind.”
Mila was staring sideways at Devon, trying to send signals to a wall. Stop, her looks seemed to say, you are really gumming this up. “Gumming” would not be the exact wording.
“Gray, and his top five. We demote the rest of the team, send them to various corners of the company, and wait for them to resign. That’s more than enough to cover it.”
“No results, no money,” said Romney.
Devon seemed to notice Romney again. He had trouble paying attention to anything but the Katarin stone.
“Right.”
Devon charged around the table, scooping up a tablet resting on the far corner. He began tapping and swiping furiously. Then he motioned Mila over to look at the results. She read them over reluctantly, until she saw something she liked. She nodded approvingly. They murmured to each other, then came to an unheard agreement.
“Here’s the deal,” said Devon. “If anyone asks, you are working on a top-level deal. We will give you Reymus cards with your payments deposited. Don’t worry, they’re accepted everywhere. Use them like a debit card. You can even withdraw money from ATMs in Lanvale.”
“Do not transfer anything to your personal accounts,” Mila added. “We know our accounts are clean. We can’t say the same about yours.”
“If anyone brings it up,” said Devon, “tell them your contracts are currently making the rounds in our legal department. Then bring up the top-level thing you’re doing. Make something up if you have to. That always works.”
“And nobody talks about what we’re really doing. And I mean nobody. Even if they give you credentials. No one else knows about this and no one will. Got it?”
The three nodded.
“So,” said Romney slowly, “that means there’s more work.”
“For the record,” said Mil
a, “there is plenty of work to be done. Enough to justify hiring three new consultants.”
“All a part of that top-level deal. There’s plenty of work. Plenty of money,” said Devon.
He returned to his perch on the front of the moon desk. His arms were crossed again.
“I like you,” he said, “and I want to see what else you can do.”
“But for right now,” said Mila, with diluted acid, “we should say thank you for your business and good day.”
Mila smiled and motioned the three new consultants down the stairs. Devon watched them from his perch.
“We’re doing great things here, Romney. You’re gonna be a legend.”
Romney’s reply was going to be “You have my number” or something to that effect, something with zing. But he didn’t get a chance to say it. Instead, Mila dragged them through the penthouse, across the small library, and into the elevator. He had been through the transition, but couldn’t seem to remember when the scenery had changed from wood furnishings to granite elevator.
Romney looked down at his hand because it was holding something small and cold. It was a plastic card with a gray gloss face and a black pinstripe on the back. It had Romney’s initials printed on the front, along with a series of numbers just above it and a small Reymus “R” on the top left corner.
Humanity had come a long way from the days of bartering, of carrying large sacks of coin around, or the long chains of braided golden thread once used by the Tambridesians. In the Ancient era, workers were paid in livestock and grain. A hard day’s work would net an ancient worker one bag of wheat or a roasted turkey leg. Imagine their surprise when they started handing out animal teeth and explaining that twenty wolf fangs were worth one chicken. And it only went downhill from there.
Tambridesian braids, Camerran marks, Andaran crowns, Ontaran notes, Azerran khybers; these were the wolves’ teeth of the twenty-first century. And at this point in history, many people would prefer a chicken to modern currency.
At least you knew your chicken was still worth a chicken when flying into Gonford International.
Romney’s little gray card was worth 100,000 Ontaran notes. He knew its value, because he had checked it at three separate ATMs. And he saw 100,000 notes in the available funds on those three separate occasions. He had been so shocked by his new wealth, he hadn’t noticed that Cora and Tykeso were following him the whole time. Judging by their faces, they were having a difficult time of their own. Romney smiled to his new associates.