CHAPTER
TWO
“John Sanjay Abbott.”
Director Ryan English was the kind of thin that made people think a person was tall, but John knew from having shaken his hand at the door that English was of average height—probably one hundred eighty centimeters, compared to John’s one hundred ninety. His angular, downswept face, complete with slightly pointed, elfin ears, was spoiled by a jutting nose that was knobby and rounded like a small potato. His teeth, though, were perfect, shining bright white every time he opened his mouth. His hair was perfectly black and full, but receded above each temple to leave a dramatic V over the center of his face.
From what John had read about English, he had to be fifty years old, but he looked thirty. John had been assured breathlessly by other NYU students that Company officers enjoyed access to cutting-edge rejuvenation spas, generally believed to be located on the moons of one of Sarovar System’s other planets. Perhaps that explained English’s unlined face and thick, glossy hair.
English’s signature had been on John’s offer letter, and all the communications from the Company had been from ‘the Office of Director English.’ Those communications had instructed John to report here. Light flooded in though tall, wide windows, overlooking green forest, and spilled all over the director’s desk, coffee table, and chairs.
The office was elegant, but its real sense of power came from the fact that John had reached it by an exclusive elevator at the back of Company House’s elevator bank. The elevator stopped only at the lobby floor and this office.
“That’s me,” John said.
“Sanjay is an Indian name, isn’t it?” English leaned back in the chair behind his desk, steepling his fingers.
John nodded. “It’s very common; you get in an Indian neighborhood, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting five Sanjays. It’s like being named Dave.”
“When did your family immigrate to the U.S.?”
“All in the last two generations. My mother’s people are from southern and central India. My father immigrated from Nigeria.”
“Masters in finance and accounting from New York University? Top ten percent of your class.”
Why did this feel like a job interview? John nodded. “I put in the work.”
“How is Gotham these days?” The director smiled. “I haven’t left Sarovar System in nearly a decade.”
“Recovering,” John said.
English fixed him with a piercing eye. “I read that, after the riots, fundamentalists moved in and took over whole neighborhoods—the Bowery, Hell’s Kitchen, the Upper East Side.”
John managed, by force of will, not to fidget in his seat. “I don’t know that I’d call them fundamentalists. For sure, the United Congregations have gained a lot of ground in New York recently. That’s not surprising, people who are willing to change their lives enough to take a new religion are people who are looking for something. That’s way more likely to be the case for poor people than rich people. For the same reason, poor people are generally more likely to be interested in religion, and energetic about their faith, if they have one.”
“The Unity Church targeted New York.”
John shrugged. “They saw an opportunity to reach people who were in need. But yes, some U.C. missionaries did come into New York to serve.”
“Is that why you went to NYU?” English asked.
“I’m not U.C. I’m not any kind of believer, really. My family has a long tradition of cheerful, live-and-let-live agnosticism.”
English frowned down at his multi. “Your wife is the niece of Cardinal Ruocchio. You’re not a member of the Unity Church?”
“She is,” John said. “From the Catholic side. It’s hard to call a movement fundamentalist when its whole reason for existing is that it brought lots of Christian groups together into one alliance.”
“All the most morally traditional Christian groups,” English said. “Some would say, the most severe or the most puritanical.”
“I’ve had Christmas dinner with way too many of these people to think they’re Puritans.”
“You’re bending your fingers so far back, I don’t see how they don’t just snap off.”
John chuckled. “Old habit.”
English met John’s gaze. “Is it difficult, being married into that family? Are you a permanent outsider? Do you feel judged?”
John shrugged. “No. I don’t think they feel judged by me, either. We’re family. We can get along.” He was, however, starting to feel more than a little judged by English.
“Touché.” English chuckled, then he paused and seemed to think. “And tell me what it means that you have Marfan’s Syndrome.”
“It’s a genetic disorder that affects the connective tissues,” John said. “It means I can bend my fingers and wrists really far.” He demonstrated his wrist flexibility. “It’s also why I’m such a goofy-looking bastard.”
English guffawed. “You’re more handsome than I am. But Marfan’s can kill you, too, can’t it?”
“Weak connective tissues mean that the heart isn’t as firmly anchored in place as it should be,” John said. “So sudden physical shocks might cause my heart to detach, leading to heart failure. It’s why I couldn’t be a pilot.”
“Like your father was. Victor Abbott.”
John hesitated. “That wasn’t in my application.”
English shrugged. “We run a thorough background check on all applicants. But what I really meant to ask was, how does a twenty-second-century American end up with a genetic disorder? How was that not screened out and corrected in utero? I thought maybe your parents might have had religious reasons, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. And you grew up in Ohio and Illinois, not out in some technological backwater.”
John clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resisting the urge to stand and pace. “You know, there was a lawyer who said very similar things to my parents. They caught my Marfan’s when I got my physical to apply to the Space Force Academy. I was summarily rejected, of course. Can’t even have an office job in the Space Force, if you have Marfan’s. And this lawyer showed up at our house the next week. He told my parents that the hospital where my mom had me was guilty of negligence, and we should sue for millions of dollars. I remember the scene very well, sitting at the dining room table over coffee and dates. My dad said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with my son.’ The lawyer said, ‘We don’t even have to prove negligence. Res ipsa loquitur is the applicable legal theory here. It means your son is defective, and because the Sisters of Mercy entirely controlled the means of detecting and correcting that defect, they’re liable. Open and shut. We’ll have your money inside a year, and your son will be taken care of for life.’”
“Many parents would have jumped at that,” English said.
“Not unreasonably.” John nodded. “But my dad said, ‘Res ipsa loquitur, that’s Latin. I have a Latin dictionary in the other room. It’s a large book, with lots of words inside and very sharp corners.’ ‘Yes?’ said the lawyer. ‘And if you don’t leave my house this instant,’ Dad said, ‘I will shove that entire dictionary up your ass.’ And that was the end of that.”
“Your father wanted you to fend for yourself.”
“My father wanted me to be a whole human being, and he didn’t think the Marfan’s would stop me.”
English laughed, softly. “I would like to have met your father.”
John didn’t waste time saying what English must already know; that his father had died two years ago, while John was in the first year of his masters’ program, of heart failure. Which had made John wonder whether his father had also had the disease. Victor Abbot hadn’t had his son’s ectomorphism and flexible joints, but he and John had shared slightly bulging eyes and prominent ears.
His father’s death had sent John to his files, to look again at the test results for both his daughters, results that said they did not have Marfan’s. Though John’s parents had received very similar results for him, once, and had believed them.
And Marfan’s, if not caught in utero, was not correctable. A defective heart or liver could be replaced with a simple bioprinted organ, but medical technology didn’t yet allow for the replacement of all the body’s connective tissues.
“Of course,” English continued, “this whole conversation would make the human resources professionals shudder with discomfort.”
John shrugged.
“Good thing we fired them. Right after we fired all the lawyers. In Sarovar System, we only have room for the productive. You sedjem good, mar?” English asked.
John smiled. “I read the word list. But mar is ‘boss,’ isn’t it? That’s what I should call you.”
“Very good. You’re going to want to do more than understand Sarovari words; you’re going to want to pepper them into your speech. Generally, you’ll find that the more time someone spends away from Henry Hudson, out at the smaller posts or in the forest, the more he sedjems. So getting that right is an important part of earning trust from people in the field.”
John nodded, imagining himself sitting in a neat office, interviewing grizzled traders to confirm accounting data, jawing away in comfortable Sedjem.
“John,” English said. “I have good news and bad news.”
John kept smiling as his heart sank. He was in debt over a million dollars for his education, and couldn’t even afford a journey home. He and Ruth were fully committed, the ship metaphorically burned on the beach. Any bad news that English could give him, he would simply have to live with. “I’m excited to hear them both.”
“You like bad news, do you?”
“I like information. Information is the basis of all trade, and all relationships, and that includes information that’s sad or frightening.”
“Interesting,” English said. “As a manager, as a leader of men, I have to say, I like lack of information. I like the darkness.”
John frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“In darkness, you see who a man truly is. When no one can see him, when he has to act without perfect knowledge . . . then you see character.”
John cleared his throat. “I can understand that perspective.”
“Bad news first, then. The job that was supposed to be vacant at Henry Hudson Post has stayed filled. I expect it will come available again, maybe in a year or so, but for now, there’s no job for you here.”
John took a deep breath. He had horrible visions of his daughters begging with tin cups and Ruth singing for coins. “I saw what looked like a commercial district near the train station,” he said. “Shops and restaurants. Am I right to think those are not all Company-owned, that there might be other sorts of jobs and businesses on the planet?”
“There are, you’re correct.” English steepled his fingers in front of his face. “But you’re getting ahead of yourself. There’s no job for you at Henry Hudson Post, but there’s still work for you at the Company.”
“Oh, excellent.” John’s heart pounded; he felt his pulse throbbing in his temples. “Will I report to you?”
“Absolutely. I need an auditor to go to Arrowhawk Post and investigate possible malfeasance there.”
“Does ‘malfeasance’ mean theft?” John asked.
English nodded. “I suspect some of the traders are skimming from the Company.”
“Isn’t this the kind of thing Internal Audit should investigate?”
“I’d really like to have my own person look into it,” the director said. “And you need a job. And the post could use another accountant, in any case.”
“I can see how theft would be tempting,” John said. “If they could sell whatever they skimmed for their own account.”
“Exactly. Which brings us to the good news.”
John smiled and sat up straight.
“Obviously, having just arrived, you can’t be a trader.”
John fixed his smile in place. “The offer letter was ambiguous on the point.” He had been careful to tell his family that he might not be a trader immediately, but he had certainly hoped he’d be able to quickly buy and sell, and begin to crawl out of the enormous hole of debt he was in.
“I suppose that’s deliberate,” English said. “So we don’t have to adjust the text for the occasional offer we make to someone who will start as a trader. Someone with a lot of experience, for instance. But here’s the good news: you’re a factor, as of right now, and that means that you can bargain with any Company trader and sell to him.”
John nodded slowly. “So I’ll need to make trader friends at Arrowhawk Post.”
“No, we can do better than that. I’m a trader, obviously, and I’ll ship your goods with mine. This is actually to your advantage, because my shipments have priority over the shipments of ordinary traders, without having to bid for it. That’s one of the better perks of my office. That means you’ll get paid faster.”
“And you’ll do this . . . for free?” John suggested, smiling.
English frowned. “Sadly, I can’t. The code of conduct requires that I charge you at least one percent. But I can probably make that up to you in volume, if you can get Sarovari Weave in quantity.”
“Shesroo,” John said, using the Sarovari word.
English smiled his acknowledgment. “And I can push for a raise for you, once you’ve had a performance review.”
John nodded; it seemed unlikely he could get any more. “So Arrowhawk traders buy Weave, then? Arrowhawk must be here on the northern continent?”
“They do, principally, and it is. Arrowhawk is a small post, and remote. The train only goes there once a week, ordinarily, and it’s about an eight-hour ride.”
John frowned, trying to remember Arrowhawk in his orientation materials. “Is it on the beach?”
“In the mountains,” English said. “But low, old, eroded mountains, thickly forested. Think Appalachia, not Himalaya.”
“What’s my job title?”
“Auditor,” English said. “You’ll be one of two auditors, reporting to the audit chief. In addition, as we discussed, you’ll report to me.”
“I’m to help the audit chief find out whether any of the traders are skimming revenue?”
“Heavens, no. I suspect the audit chief is a coconspirator. His name is Keckley, by the way. Audit Chief Keckley. Who’s in a better position than the audit chief to simply miscount bales of Weave, steal the difference, and sell the bales on the side? You’re going to find out who’s skimming revenue at Arrowhawk Post, and how much, and the very first person you’re going to investigate is the audit chief.”
“Shouldn’t it be easy to tell if the audit chief is stealing?” John asked. “If his shipments of Weave jump way up, he’s getting extra.”
“But what if he steals Weave, and then sells it at a discount to other traders, who in turn have it shipped back to Earth?” English suggested.
John considered the possibility. “The banking system here is all contained on this side of the wormhole. If he’s receiving payments, it might show in his Depository accounts.”
“Unless he was receiving payments in cash,” English pointed out. “You noticed the markets on your way in; the Company prints Company Dollars, called Sarovars or Sars for short, to allow those markets to exist. Sars are exchangeable for U.S. dollars at a fixed one-for-one rate, not only here, but at Depository branches on Earth.”
“So he could collect a pile of cash, planning to deposit it when he gets home,” John said. “Or buy U.S. dollars with it.”
“He could also be collecting wealth in some other form—gemstones, promises, land, who knows. He could be consuming the wealth in the form of liquor, food, sexual services.”
“At the expense of the Company.”
“And at a time—I don’t want you to worry about this, it’s an issue that a different task force is looking into—when Sarovari Weave is getting harder to come by.”
“Is something wrong with the Weavers?” John asked.
“Don’t worry,” English said, “there’s plenty of sheshroo still coming through to let you pay off your school loans quickly, as well as save up for a house.”
John nodded. “I’ll be investigating the audit chief.”
“And after him, Post Chief Carlton. She’s smart and ambitious. I respect that, but sometimes smart and ambitious people lead themselves astray. Naturally, I will require your complete discretion. I do not know whom to trust.”
“Of course.”
“Complete.” English’s stare drilled into John’s face. “This is not something to discuss even around the kitchen table.”
John nodded solemnly. “And how will I communicate with you? We’ll need some means that resists eavesdropping.”
English set a knob of metal with two stubby metal leads protruding from one end on his desktop. “Insert this in the comms panel at Arrowhawk Post when you contact me, by ethermail or otherwise. It will encrypt your messages, and only I, as the possessor of the counterpart device, will be able to read them. It will encrypt audiovisual messages as well as text.” He handed over a slip of paper with a long number hand-printed on it. “This is my personal encrypted comms address.”
“The communications run over satellite?”
“There’s also a physical line. It runs parallel to the train. We have redundancy in case of a catastrophe. If worst came to worst at Arrowhawk, an emergency signal from the post might lead us to carpet-bomb the area.”
John hesitated. “Carpet bomb? What would necessitate that?”
English shrugged. “An uprising of the natives, maybe. A breakout of a virulent and unknown disease. It hasn’t happened yet.”
John nodded.
English stood and extended his hand. “Your train leaves the day after tomorrow. I’ve had a bag of the uniforms you’ll need delivered to the hotel ahead of you. The steward of the Oberon knew your sizes.”