CHAPTER
SEVEN
John was at his desk in the morning when Keckley came in; he’d simply sat down at the empty one and made himself at home. The audit chief of Arrowhawk Post had meaty shoulders and arms and a fire-eating expression on his goateed face; if John hadn’t known who he was, he would have taken the man for Security, or a stevedore.
John hadn’t been certain which of the blue and buff clothing English had delivered to his hotel room in Henry Hudson Post was appropriate for daily use, so he’d chosen a casual jacket, worn over his own trousers and a polo shirt. Just in case, he’d tucked Director English’s encryption plug into the pocket.
He was relieved to see Keckley wearing a very similar jacket.
“John—”
“I know who you are, dammit.” Keckley flung himself into the chair behind his desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Don’t fool yourself that you’re going to earn a promotion by the power of sheer enthusiasm and go-getterness. I hate those people.”
“Understood,” John said. “So I’ll aim for . . . what? Grumpy? Dour? Intractable?”
“Competent,” Keckley said. “Be competent, and I’ll keep paying you. If you can also be fast, I may actually give you a raise. So far, DeBoe has just managed to be competent, and that by the skin of his teeth.”
“One way to be fast is to get an early start.”
“Touché.” Keckley sighed, sat up, and opened his eyes. “What are you looking at, then?”
“I started with the most recent balance sheet,” John said. “Just checking it against journal entries.”
“Ticking and tying.” Keckley laughed. “Just like school, eh?”
John nodded.
“Tell me,” Keckley said, “at NYU, did they ever have you confirm your inventory by walking through the warehouse and physically counting everything?”
“No,” John admitted. “NYU is a school, so it doesn’t have a warehouse.”
“Good. Then you can feel like you’re learning something this afternoon, while you’re doing it here.”
“It might be easier if I had a little more familiarity with Weave and with our packaging,” John suggested.
“True,” Keckley agreed. “But you’ll learn that stuff. And you’re overlooking the most important reason why you should have the job.”
“Which is?”
“It’s a crap job,” Keckley said, “and you’re the junior guy.”
“I don’t feel enthusiastic or go-getterish about that,” John said, “but I’ll do the work competently.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m looking at paper ledgers,” John said. “I understand power isn’t always dependable here, so the paper books are primary.”
“All true,” Keckley said. “But we transmit our monthly figures over the network, so of course we have electronic books, too. I’ll get that application downloaded into your multi by lunch. There’s also the post utility app. It has messaging, scheduling, news feed, a chatroom. Don’t abuse it. I’ll get that to you, as well.”
“Assuming power holds out.”
“You’re a fast learner.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I hate fast learners.”
“But learning fast is how I become competent.”
“Carry on.”
The accounting app and the utility app both downloaded into John’s multitool well before midday, and he switched from ticking and tying the balance sheet to examining costs. The accounting app connected him to the Depository records of the post, so he could see amounts and also confirm payments.
The salaries all looked in order. For a moment, the payments to traders looked strange, until he realized that there were two components: a stipend paid monthly, and other payments that fluctuated in time and amount.
Keckley had disappeared by then, but DeBoe was sitting at his desk across the office.
“DeBoe,” John said, “can I ask you to explain something?”
“Send me a screenshot,” DeBoe mumbled.
A few seconds later, DeBoe sipped coffee from a printed cup and examined the image John had sent, while John squatted beside his desk and looked on.
“Those irregular payments—is that the traders, trading for their own accounts?” John asked.
“Uh, no. Unless for some reason the Company got involved in a specific transaction, those deals should basically be invisible to us. You’d have to look at the trader’s own Depository Account records to see him getting a payment from his Earthside agent, or from the Central Transit buyer, or whatever. You have to remember that ‘trader’ means two different things.”
“Uh, okay.”
“You’re a factor, right? Me, too. And someday, I might become a trader, but that just means I’ll be allowed to buy and sell Weave, and whatever other commodities I want—but don’t get too excited, around Arrowhawk Post it’s all Weave—for my own account, right?”
“Correct,” John said.
“So factor is my rank and auditor is my job, but in the future maybe trader will be my rank and auditor will still be my job.”
“I’m in exactly the same boat.”
“Good. Fun bit of trivia for you that might not be obvious from your contract. There’s a rank lower than factor. Those people aren’t even allowed to buy and sell through a trader, they’re just barred from trading in any of the commodities indicated in the Barred Goods Annex to the Code of Conduct. Employees for hire, and that’s it.”
John nodded. “They call them ‘writers.’ Poor bastards. Who are they?”
“Not people who write, as it turns out. Or at least, not anymore. The security guards.
Porters, and so on.”
“I see.”
“But some of the men at the post have trader as their job, too. Trader is their rank, meaning they can buy and sell for their own account, and trader is their job, meaning they can buy Weave—and other commodities, where there are others—for the Company’s account.”
John stared at the image. “And they must get paid a commission of some kind.”
“They do. Two percent. In order not to pay them too badly in arrears, the Company pays the commission weekly, and assumes the sale price of the Weave is the most recent posted price from New York City, as communicated by the most recently arrived starship captain.”
“That’s not really great price data,” John said. “The market could have entirely collapsed, and we wouldn’t know it until the next starship arrived.”
“The price of living behind a wormhole.” DeBoe shrugged. “And another reason why the traders are happy to get paid at the most recent price, rather than take the risk that the market has collapsed.”
“Of course, if the market goes up rather than crashing, the traders lose out on the upside.”
“And historically the market has always gone up.” DeBoe shrugged again. “But one day, it will go the other direction, and it will be the Company, rather than its traders, to eat the loss. Unless, of course, the Company changes its compensation policies at that time. Which it will. The Planetary Board may sometimes be slow to act, but the Executive Committee is not.”
John went back to his seat, musing. The ledger numbers matched up with the bank transfers, so that all seemed in order.
The traders were all clearly making much more money than he would make, so that seemed . . . obnoxious. But maybe he could become a trader for the Company; of course, he’d have to learn the business, first.
He didn’t mean to skip lunch, he was just too excited to remember that it was time to eat, and he rushed off to the warehouse with a photograph of the physical inventory ledger page on his multi. DeBoe raised a hand and mumbled as he left; Keckley still hadn’t returned.
In the stairwell, he bumped into a woman. She had a very straight face and piercing eyes under hair black as pitch. She wore a blue tunic and buff trousers, with a short gold cape around her shoulders.
“Post Chief Carlton?” John asked, extending a hand.
“Hinkley.” The woman laughed, a short, stabbing sound. “Surgeon. Which makes me the real factor doctor of the post.” She pointed at the door to Medical. “We’re neighbors.”
“John Abbott,” John said. “Dr. Hinkley, we’ve just arrived on the planet.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Are there . . . inoculations my family should have? Or other precautions against local disease?”
“No.” Hinkley frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“We heard there were . . . Sarovari diseases to worry about.”
“Hmm.” She peered at him closely. “Listen, this may be none of my business, but have you ever heard of Marfan’s Syndrome?”
John felt vaguely embarrassed, as if he had been caught in public in his underwear. “I have it.”
“Ah, good. So you know. What are you doing about it?”
“Making regular appointments with my physician,” John said slowly, “so she can keep an eye on any symptoms I may develop, and treat them.”
“When shall we schedule your first appointment?” Hinkley asked.
“Let me get settled in first. I have a lot going on right now. I guess you must have a lot of free time, at a small post like this.”
“I have some flexibility.” Hinkley winked. “Carry on.” The doctor turned and entered the Medical office.
John continued on his way.
The warehouse was two stories tall and stacked floor to ceiling over every available square meter with heavy shelving. There were bay doors in the eastern wall through which vehicles could enter and leave, and three trucks of different sizes and configurations stood squeezed uncomfortably between the shelving. The trucks had big knobby wheels, and the two larger vehicles had segmented bodies, dividing the trucks into fore and aft compartments. A set of scales large enough to hold any of the trucks occupied the space immediately beside the bay doors. Stairs wound up beside the south wall, apparently to the ceiling—did they open on the maglev platform? Or onto a roof below the platform?
The Weave was packed in crates, standing neatly organized on shelves that reached ten meters up. The movable stairs for accessing those shelves were wheeled and had a hand brake, so, all by himself in the warehouse, John could slowly move around the entire space and examine every crate.
The Weave was a standard width, about two meters, and it was measured in meters of length. Working without break and under the dim warehouse lights, augmented from time to time by the light of his multitool, John was able to confirm that the numbers of crates on the shelves and the listed contents of the crates were consistent with what was listed in the post’s inventory.
One hundred twelve bales of Weave.
Seventy-five boxes of trade goods, which consisted of various kinds of manufactured tools and canned food.
He found that all the crates were electronically sealed, but that the possession of the accounting app on his multi allowed him to open them. Ideally, he’d have liked to look inside every crate. Given his time constraints, he opened one in every ten, in each case checking the actual contents against those listed on the crates themselves and against the written inventory. He checked Weave and also trade goods.
All consistent, all in order.
The Weave itself was the raw product, undyed. It was shimmering, elastic, and beautiful. It was also, John had read, resistant to flame and puncturing, and when it did rupture, it was self-healing—something about the Sarovari Weavers’ process allowed them to create a fabric that regenerated.
The fabric’s beauty made it in demand for fashion reasons. Its toughness meant it was often a component in the armor worn by law enforcement agencies, other first responders, and even soldiers.
No one had yet been able to replicate the Weavers’ feat with a competing product. One day someone would do so, and then the price of Weave would collapse.
So, on top of all the other considerations for his new business, John had to keep an eye on the inevitable exit. Into what investments would he spread his capital, as soon as he had enough cash to diversify?
Other posts on Sarovar Alpha collected other products: gemstones, woods, food, some animals. There would be investments to make, when the time came. He might have to transfer away from Arrowhawk Post to make them.
When he had put in an eleven-hour day, John returned to the office. A torrent of rain hammered Company House, drumming on the windows and making the bones of the building creak. Keckley had returned and gone again—a meeting with Post Chief Carlton, DeBoe said. DeBoe in turn was stuffing himself into a clear plastic rain jacket, and only urged John to lock up before disappearing into the storm.
John locked up, bought four rain jackets at the general store across the street, looked at a solar power unit as well, but decided he should consult with Ruth on a purchase that big, and then jogged home.
A line of people waited outside his gate when he reached the khat.
They stood in ponchos and coats, or under umbrellas. John noted, flicking rain from his face with one hand, that the street was fifteen centimeters lower than his own yard, so water seeped out underneath his gate and into the street, where it sank into the gravel.
As he approached, the line of people turned to look at him and began shouting, all at once. “Hey mar, you reddy work? You reddy kat?” “Big par, I clean!” “I guard khat, mar, you mo!” “Nefer bak! Nefer bak!”
John couldn’t remember his Sedjem fast enough to interpret any of the individual sentences, much less reply to them, but he understood that the people wanted work. He looked up toward the house and saw Ruth standing in a second-story window, barely visible over the wall. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was watching him.
He raised the raincoats to show her and waved. She shook her head, laughed, and pointed at the gate.
“Okay, okay,” John called, “let me in! I live here.” He decided to try a little Sedjem. “I am mar. I mar here!”
The crowd mobbed him, hands supplicating.
“We may need help,” John said to them. He tried to think of useful Sedjem words, and couldn’t. “I don’t know if I’m going to hire anyone tomorrow. I definitely can’t hire anyone tonight, and I can’t hire anyone until I can get into my house and talk to my wife!”
The crowd closed in around him more.
John heard a sharp whistle. He turned his head to follow the sound and saw a man thirty meters down the street. He wore a tunic and loose, knee-length pants, both the color of faded roses. His long hair was plastered to the side of his head and neck, even though he stood under a pink frilly parasol, its loops and fringes battered by the rain. His skin was tan, with a hint of Mediterranean olive, and he beckoned John to come to him, then pointed at the khat wall next to him.
“Let me in my house!” John cried. The crowd surged forward.
“Mr. Abbott!” the man with the parasol yelled.
John tried to drag himself from the crowd and found that two men had taken hold of him physically, one grasping him by each elbow. He yanked and hurled himself backward, and then the pink parasol was there. Rolled up like a thick, wet club, it crashed down on one man’s neck, knocking him sideways, and then poked the other in the face, and then John was free.
“There is an alley!” the man with the parasol barked.
John ran. The raincoats felt suddenly very heavy, and even though the drained gravel road provided good footing, he felt as if he were slogging through mud. The crowd shouted more Sedjem at him, and when he got to where the parasol man had been standing, he saw the alley.
It ran between two khat walls, and seemed to go right through the block. It was ungraveled, and the muddy lane was broken up by tree roots, puddles, and the occasional chest-sized rock.
He ran.
His heart beat loud in his ears. Exercise wasn’t bad for him, he reminded himself. He was a regular jogger. An elevated heartbeat because he was running wouldn’t cause his heart to separate from the tissues around it and kill him.
Getting hit might do the trick. Getting dragged to the ground and trampled was a bad choice for any man, and maybe an especially bad choice for John. But running wouldn’t hurt him.
Almost certainly.
“Left, Mr. Abbott!” he heard the voice behind him shout.
The alley split abruptly, left and right. Following the parasol man’s instructions, John turned left. The man with the parasol was right behind him, and the crowd was several steps farther back.
John had run twenty meters when the parasol man shouted, “This is your home, Mr. Abbott. Over the wall to your left!”
But the wall was three meters tall, and John was standing in mud. He jumped, and jumped again, gamely, but couldn’t grab the top of the wall.
Then the parasol man was there. “Quickly now, on my back!” The man crouched, offering his shoulders to John. John wanted to demur and back away, but the crowd was too close.
He stepped onto parasol man’s shoulders, smearing the pink fabric with mud, then dragged himself up and over the wall.
On the far side was a small shed, standing in the back corner of his enclosure. John dropped the raincoats in a heap. Then he crouched and offered a hand to the parasol man, who was standing up as the crowd reached him.
“No, thank you, Mr. Abbott!” he said. “I will see you again later, perhaps at your office!”
John had to strain to hear the man over the shouted pleading for jobs.
“Perhaps tonight!” John said. “I thought I might go out and get a drink, maybe meet some of the traders!”
“Ah-ha! In that case!” The parasol man took something from a pocket and tucked it beneath the plastic nipple at the end of his parasol. Stretching the soggy sunshade out like a limb extender, he handed the object up to John.
It was a business card. Faisal Haddad, it read. Knowledge-setty, Interpreter (Sedjem, English, French, Arabic, Hebrew), Guide, Acquiror. It had a number and an ethernet address.