Sidney Tremblay had enough experience to not show the relief he felt at those words. But he could see the problems that might cause him. “I’m being demoted?”
The Old Man almost choked on his whiskey. He coughed. “No, not at all. Why would you say that?”
“You said I wouldn’t like what you were about to say. I figured demotion the only thing that I might find repugnant.”
The Old Man laughed. “No, no, it’s worse, far worse.”
“Worse?” He no longer feared, but wondered what could be worse. “Worse how?”
“We’re promoting you. We want you to train the new investigators, run the show from London instead of traipsing around the world.”
Worse, indeed. That would end his opportunities to collect. He could fudge the report numbers as long as no one could find a paper trail that would disprove his figures. If he changed figures later – figures that these new subordinates either wrote down or had memorized – sooner than he’d like, he’d get found out. Eventually, they would discover his offshore account, and then the real search would begin. Investigators would comb through his life, and they would unearth his stash. He didn’t like the thought of prison. And that meant he’d have to get rid of that stash as soon as possible – which meant taking a loss on the sale. Well, loss meaning the difference between what he would get and what he could get.
“Does it at least come with a rise?”
The Old Man laughed. “It does. Fifteen percent. That’ll give you a chance to get to know our great city a little better.”
“That’s very generous, Mr Williamson,” he said without exaggeration. “I don’t think I’ll be sending out resumes to our competitors any time soon.”
“No, I didn’t think you would. Find yourself a better flat, take a couple of weeks off, and come back ready to work.”
Sidney took the Old Man’s hand. “I’ll do just that, Mr Williamson. It’ll be a change, waking up in the same place more than seven days in a row.”
He took a final sip of the whiskey, emptying the glass, and set it down.
CHAPTER 4
London, England
Friday 28 May
Kiera West groaned as her customer signalled for another glass of wine. She just wanted to go home. Her feet hurt. Above that, she hadn’t slept well the previous night – her two flatmates saw to that, having invited male friends home. They had spent the night, and had caused more noise – of a kind that kept sleep away – than she felt entirely necessary.
“Why can’t he just finish and go home?” she asked Marie, who worked this section of the floor with her.
“Because he has money. That type, they don’t care ’bout people like us.”
Kiera nodded, feeling miserable, but not showing that. Instead, she smiled dutifully, placed the glass on her serving tray, and carried it out to him. She gave a quick glance to the old ornamental clock that graced the wall above the serving station. It actually had hands instead of a digital display. And those hands showed that her shift had ended eight minutes earlier.
She remained, however, for men who dressed such as this customer did often left a sizable cash tip, and she didn’t trust her co-workers to ensure that she received all of it. She had seen it happen to others – and a tip often meant the difference between eating and going hungry.
She still had grave doubts that all the money left in the tips section of the credit transactions made it to her account with the restaurant. She didn’t dare complain, or even question the accuracy; she needed this job, even if they robbed her – which they did, in more ways than one.
“Here you go, sir,” she said with a warm smile she didn’t feel, and picked up his empty. His meal would cost her a week’s wages. Sometimes she hated herself for thinking like that, envying those she served. They might have the money, but that didn’t make them good people – likely the opposite.
She returned to the staff area, and waited. Her feet ached. She longed for the small flat she shared with the two women, neither of whom she liked much. Not that she enjoyed being in the flat, but there, at least, she could finally sit down and rest for a bit. Perhaps she might watch The Lottery on the vid. Both her flatmates had plans for this night – with the gentlemen in question – and wouldn’t be back until very late, if at all. Hopefully, the ‘gentlemen’ would take them to their homes this time.
So, she’d have her choice of channels. Neither of her flatmates thought much of The Lottery. Thus, with them absent, she could enjoy it in peace, could dream about what she would do if she won. If this customer tipped the way he ate, she might even buy a ticket for a chance to escape her life. Foolish thinking, that. Even winning The Lottery didn’t ensure you a place on an outward-bound ship. If the sponsors found you lacking, they’d buy out your ticket for about ten thousand New British pounds. Still, she wouldn’t turn that down. Not hardly. It would remove all her monetary worries for six months.
“Why don’t you go home, Kiera? You’re not going to get paid for staying late – you know that.”
She did. One of the ways they robbed the wait staff – expecting them to finish their tables even if they stayed past shift-end.
“I’ll see that you get everything he leaves, if he leaves anything. Don’t like the look of this one.”
Kiera smiled tiredly. Marie, she could trust. “Thanks Marie, I think I’ll take you up on that.”
Marie nodded, and gave another look to the customer while Kiera reached up to remove her nametag. “Oh-oh, he’s signalling again. Want me to take it?”
Kiera sighed. “No, I’ll do this. With any luck, he just wants the tally. Watch as I put my smile back on. Make sure it isn’t crooked or anything.”
Marie giggled. “You’re wicked.”
Kiera nodded, face serious, then put on her smile. She walked over to the customer’s table, without it dimming in the slightest.
“Yes, sir?”
“I noticed that you look ready to leave. I had no idea I kept you beyond your hours. Please get my tally, so I can pay up and you can depart.”
Well, that was different. Few diners cared anything at all about their servers.
“At once, sir.”
“Sidney,” he said.
“At once, Sidney,” she replied, nodding her head in acknowledgment of the boon of his name, and turned away. As soon as she had her back to him, her smile vanished. He wanted to pick her up. Figured. She walked back to the question on Marie’s face.
“He’s getting ready to make his move.”
Marie closed her eyes in sympathy. “Don’t do it. I don’t like this one.”
“Yes, you said that before. Me, I’m tired, and I just want to go home.” Kiera closed the tally, and it presented her with a hardcopy. She picked that and the porta-chip up, put her smile back on, and returned to ‘Sidney’. Sidney? She doubted he gave his real name.
“There you go, sir. I trust that everything pleased.”
Sidney glanced at the tally as if it meant nothing. It probably didn’t – to him. He presented her with his chip, which surprised her for a moment – customers usually did that for themselves as security. Because of that, she usually wouldn’t see the tip – if any.
She looked down at the gleaming gold logo of Agri-Inc., which shone out from the top of the chip. She no longer felt surprise; he had done it to impress her. And, give the man his due, it had worked. Not many customers carried a gold-logo chip. She mated the chips, entered the tally, and handed it back.
He entered his passkey only, no tip. She had gotten good at seeing that sort of thing without actually seeing it. One of the reasons she felt sure that management cheated the servers. More than once she had had at least one chip-tip in a shift, and had received nothing on her weekly pay chit.
She sighed inwardly, while maintaining her smile. Marie had pegged him correctly. The porta-chip stamped his tally as paid, and ejected it. She handed it to him. He accepted it and his chip back, touching her hand as he took them. Worm.
Kiera took another look at him. Had Marie the right of it? It didn’t matter, really. She wanted the money badly – or at least a drink and some entertainment where she could sit. Going back to the miserable flat to watch the vid became less and less appealing. She gave a short nod.
“You’re going to do it,” Marie accused her, as she returned the porta-chip to its place on the counter. “I can see it in your walk.”
Kiera smiled sadly. “Sometimes I just get so tired of it: no fun, no money, no hope. He may be a user, but I have to take the chance. I have to.”
Marie grimaced. “I understand.” And she did, for her friend had done the same before she had found a husband, and most servers she knew succumbed to the temptation occasionally. It rarely worked out for any of them. “But you be careful. Anything goes wrong, and you know who they’ll believe.”
Kiera gave Marie a quick hug. “I know. Thanks. I also know when to walk.”
Kiera slipped into the change room, took off her work garb, and put on her own, everyday clothes. Her flat-soled, ‘sensible’ shoes felt comfortable after a shift walking in the more stylish heels. Her own clothes, however, drove home the difference in class between her and someone like Sidney. She felt the reduction in status as she changed into the outfit she had purchased at the thrift store.
The restaurant supplied the work garb, as few wait staff could afford it on the wages their employer paid them, from which wages they deducted cleaning fees.
Sidney stood by the door, waiting for her. It slid open at his wave, and they stepped out into the early evening air. Kiera wondered if he’d tip her outright, or if he’d try to wheedle out of it some way – perhaps take her to some pub, and make her buy her own drinks.
“I’m in the mood for theatre,” he said without preamble. “How would you like to accompany me to the New Globe. They’re putting on ‘A Midsummer’s Night’. Good light fun.”
“The New Globe?” Talk about expensive! She could never afford tickets. Only the best of actors played the Theatre, and only the posh could get through the doors to see them. She glanced down at her clothes. “They’ll never let me in.”
“They will. I have a box.”
To sit in a box! She wouldn’t have to mingle with the other patrons, wouldn’t have to feel she didn’t belong. And boxes received service between acts. The thought of someone serving her for a change decided her.
“Yes, Sidney, I’ll accompany you.”
“Thank you, Kiera.”
He had noticed and remembered her name. Not a bad start.
* * *
Tuesday 01 June
Tremblay looked up as his new secretary gave a quick rap on the door. He didn’t like the look on her face.
“Something troubling you, Ms Atwell?”
“You’re going to be late for your meeting with Mr Williamson,” she said.
He swore.
Her head went back a fraction. “I did warn you, sir,” she said.
“I know, I know. I’m not swearing at you. Got caught up in something.” Something. Like his memories of the previous night where the young Kiera West did everything he wanted her to, without even a hint of opposition. Yes, he could train her.
He stood, “I’m on my way.”
“Best hurry, sir. Mr Williamson demands punctuality.”
And so he did. What might the man want this time? What couldn’t be done over the telephone?
He rode the lift up to Williamson’s floor, strode down the hall and into Williamson’s outer office.
“Go right in,” Williamson’s secretary told him. “He’s waiting.”
Tremblay grimaced, then put a neutral look on his face. He opened the door and his stomach seemed to go into freefall. There stood Gerald Coleman – the real one. He hoped his face didn’t show anything.
“Ah, Sidney. I don’t believe you’ve met Gerald Coleman.” Williamson watched him closely. What did the man know?
Tremblay blinked, then let his eyes widen. “That’s not Gerald Coleman. I saw him at Customs when I came back from Germany.”
Coleman looked at him sharply, but Williamson’s expression betrayed nothing.
“I’ve never seen you before today. We certainly didn’t meet at Customs.”
Tremblay turned on him. A good offence beat a defence any day. “I didn’t say I met you ... er Gerald Coleman ... I said I saw him.”
And then he dismissed Coleman as if he held no importance. Perhaps not the best thing to do, but necessary. He turned to Williamson.
“Customs had a question about Mr Coleman, who apparently works for us, sir.” He went on to explain, concluding with, “Are you sure this is the real Gerald Coleman?”
Williamson sat back in his chair. “I’ve known him for ten years, Mr Tremblay.”
‘Mister Tremblay’. Ouch. There went the promotion and the new flat.
“And you vouched for this man?” Coleman asked.
Tremblay glared at him. “You heard what I said. I confirmed that a Gerald Coleman worked for Agri-Inc. I said that the ID looked good, but that the officer should take it up higher if he had any suspicions at all. You can ask him. Officer Kent, if I recall correctly. I did not vouch for anyone.”
“Take it easy, Sidney,” Williamson said. “No one is accusing you of anything. Now, the reason for this meeting. Gerald, here, will be taking my place. You will report to him from now on.”
Tremblay didn’t know whether to feel relief or horror. He had gotten out from under the Customs debacle – and he now dared not approach that man – but he had possibly ended his career with Agri-Inc. At least his stash of seeds, if properly disposed of, would see him reasonably rich.
To his surprise, Coleman reached out his hand. “I like a man who isn’t afraid to speak up, Tremblay.”
He took Coleman’s hand. “Only when I know I’m right, sir.” Didn’t hurt to start mending fences with a ‘sir’ or two. Then it hit him. “Mr Williams, sir, are you leaving Agri-Inc.? Retiring?”
Williamson smiled. “No, Sidney, I’m not. I’m going up to Euro Alpha to direct our operations on the colony worlds. We’ve suspected for some time that some of these seeders are growing for smugglers, and that those seeds are going off-planet. If we don’t stop that trade, if we fail to enforce our patents on the colony worlds now, it’ll all get out of hand.”
Euro Alpha. Sidney would have to make sure that none of his seeds went through that space station.
“Congratulations, sir. That’s a promotion, then?”
In answer, Williamson brought out his scotch bottle, and poured three glasses. “Yes, it is. A toast to Agri-Inc.”
The scotch went down smoothly.
“I’ll have to be sure to take this with me.” Williamson indicated his small bar. “Gerald, you’ll have to bring in your own stock.”
Coleman grinned. “And I had hoped ... ah, well.” He turned back to Tremblay. “Good to meet you, Mr Tremblay. I’ll have access to all your reports, but I’d like a briefing ... say, late tomorrow? Nothing formal, just hit the highlights.”
Tremblay recognized dismissal. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on that.”
He didn’t start trembling until after he’d boarded the lift to take him to his own floor. In his office, the reaction really set in. All his perks, his salary, his life, he had put on the line for some unknown man whom he thought to recruit. Never again!
CHAPTER 5
Space Station Haida Gwai in Earth Orbit
Saturday 05 June
Jaswinder Yrden groaned as the alarm chimed, but she set herself in motion before she might give in to the desire for more sleep. Not that brother-in-law Matt would allow her that luxury. She rose to her feet and stretched up, reaching for the ceiling. Matt could certainly be a
harsh taskmaster. But, she had to admit, as she twisted her body to the right, he drove himself harder than anyone else. She twisted to the left, then took several deep breaths to calm her thoughts.
Once she had achieved that calm, she began her morning yoga in earnest. The memory of Tempest, the cat, came back to her. She had welcomed Jaswinder to the Yrden ship, Venture, the first time Jaswinder had done yoga there. Tempest had left them ten years ago.
She frowned. What had brought forth that memory? At the time, she had felt alone and afraid at the changes that others had forced on her, and Tempest had ameliorated those feelings. Her face relaxed, and she nodded. New changes came their way, forced upon them by outsiders. Though secure in the Family now, the Family itself – all the Families – faced hard times if Matt proved a good prognosticator.
She took a moderately long shower – one of the benefits of rank – and dressed for the day. The door chimed.
“Hello, Matt. I wondered who might come knocking at my door this early in the morning.”
Matt blinked, then recovered. “I have the results from yesterday’s tests here, Jazz.”
He tried to pass the reader to her, but she refused to accept it. “After breakfast, Matt.”
He frowned, but gave in. “If you insist.”
She did, and they walked in silence to the cafeteria. Seated, he watched her eat, which annoyed her. She felt pressured to eat more rapidly than she desired. Deliberately, she slowed her chewing.
“We boost again today.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Higher orbit?”
“Yes. I’d prefer to orbit the Moon, but that takes us too far away from the Agri-stations, and we have contracted for quite a load of foodstuffs. Some of that arrives this afternoon. And I want Venture fully stocked – overstocked – as well.” Matt offered the reader to her again.
This time she took it, and flipped through the report between bites. She frowned.
Not With A Whimper: Preservers Page 5