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Fay Bristol gives the screen a clinical look.
Past the glass wall, skyscrapers pierce the low evening sky. Patches of pale, grey light break through thick windows that never open. It’s freezing cold out there and windy, and pleasantly warm in here: Controlled environment, bright neon lights, multiplied by shiny marble tiles, shiny glass walls and shiny plastic letters, “Constancy in a Changing Environment”, the corporate catchphrase of AionCorp.
Fay Bristol shakes her head. Golden brown hair curls down her shoulders, no less outrageous than her overpriced grey suit or designer shoes. Her mood is changing fast. My eyes dart away to the scarce slices of sky beyond the glass.
“What the hell is this, Brian?”
“A mistake.” My palms are all sweaty, but I manage to sound calmer than I feel.
It is, to put it lightly, a huge one. On paper, it translates as numbers that failed to add up. Past the wall, in the zillion-story jungle of Trade Borough, it’s about reserves nobody had bothered making. Further away, in the real world, where people don’t get to wear designer shoes, it amounts to money: A helluva lot of them, 1,780,000 to be precise. I’ve spent hours in front of the screen, scrolling through the numbers over and over again, adding them up. It had taken me weeks to come up with the nerve to do this, although deep down I’d known from day one that I would.
“Did we file this?”
I run my hand over my face. “End of last quarter.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
I nod, is all I can do. That pretty much covers it, but I don’t dwell on it. I’ve currently closed my mind to how the corporate tax statements register revenues of 1,780,000 that have vanished from the accounts. Plus the obvious implications: internal audit, criminal investigations, reputational risk, fines, the clear an imminent wrath of Fay Bristol.
I picture instead the number of things such amount can buy in the business district, where everything is counted, weighed and divided, and how that number multiplies an infinite set out in the real world, where maybe the one, the seven and the eight make sense but all the zeros sure as hell don’t.
I’ve never lived in the old boroughs. I’ve been born and raised in the Palisades, went to the good schools, pretty much had it all handed out to me on a silver platter, which is maybe why throughout my life I’ve never valued it all that much.
It’d been Ian who’d opened my eyes, once in a long string of overnights when we’ve been working late again, sometime in between the mid-term futures total returns and cumulative performance charts, and I’d forgotten.
It slipped my mind how I’m supposed to double-check the numbers, and Ian is supposed to bring me coffee and not the other way around. It escaped my memory how I’m not supposed to be chatting with the corporate indentured assistants whose names I’m not even supposed to remember half the time. I’ve discarded Jen from my memory, and that it’s really up to her, and how it wouldn’t be fair of me to pressure her into moving over when she’s already told me she needs more time. I forgot and I talked to Ian, and he had listened and then he seemed to have forgotten, too.
Ian didn’t recall how he doesn’t speak all that much, even when he’s being asked directly, how he’s this quiet, uber-efficient automation that fades into the office backdrop, in his grey and black corporate outfit. He’s brushed off how his whiskey-coloured eyes stay always dull, the sharp lines of his face rigid and how his sentences always end with the word ‘sir’.
Ian has spoken to me that night. He had hollows under his eyes, and the coffee was one too many, but I’ve listened because Ian spoke of things that are real and happening, both in the world and inside his head. And now I hate this city, with its skyscrapers and the ramshackle façades of the old boroughs, dirtier and crowded, with a significantly higher level of emissions and people that live short and fast.
Ian comes from the boroughs, but he’s been with AionCorp for nearly ten years, since he was nineteen, and all this time we’ve been underestimating the brilliant, calculated mind beyond the dull eyes and the veneer of obedience. So, I’ve listened because I am young and want to live forever, and the future with AionCorp that Ian describes for me doesn’t sound in the least like what I want for myself.
The other revelation Ian has brought about is how suffocating I find my proper, already scheduled life meant to lead me up the chain to corporate royalty. How I’m not really that eager for Jen to move in, not when I’d rather have Ian’s full lips wrapped around my cock.
As it is, it has taken me a while to grasp that the whole time Ian has been negotiating with me, painting the whole thing as a win-win, when it’s not one at all. It’s a lose-lose, but it’s taken me a while to figure that out too, since I’m really that young and stupid, or Ian is simply that much of a son of a bitch, or both.
Fay Bristol brings her vape to her mouth, literally sucking the live out of the damn thing, and I don’t want to think about what’s in there, or what it’s doing to her brain when she’s already amped up. She glares at me, green eyes burning and narrow.
“Whose mistake?”
Silence stretches thick, the neon light painfully bright. I loosen my tie, search my words.
“Brian?”
“I think it’s one the assistants.”
There, I’ve said it. It’s out and it doesn’t get any easier, but I’ve done it, so I go through the motions, give her all the details just as I’ve rehearsed them in my head.
Ian’s corporate code, the list of operations and transactions, and all the excuses – Ian’s workload, the time sheets that show the amount of overtime he’s pulled over the last term (not that any of it matters when it comes to indentured, overtime is what they’re here for), and that do little to help Ian, but show just how very decent I am. I’ve made a compelling point – it’s a mistake, and Ian made it, and it’s not as though I have any doubts about what Ian has done, but it still feels all kind of wrong, and I can’t breathe just right and it's like I’m someone’s puppet, hanging by a string.
“Security,” Fay Bristol dials on the intercom. Then it’s rapid fire - corporate code 72649 (Ian’s, I realize), and ‘now’ and ‘level three’ and one more word – ‘discretely’, and the look of undiluted hate in her eyes as she throws the device across the room, flings it at the wall opposite the glass, the one with the painting of the mechanic swan, pure white feathers and golden clock wheels, and how it slides down across the wall, and the glass doesn’t even scratch, “Constancy in a Changing Environment” written across in blue plastic and neon light.
Shit, this is really happening. I break in a cold sweat as all the things I’ve refused to think of earlier - audit, investigations, fines, reputational risk, the clear an imminent wrath of Fay Bristol, Ian (level three, discretely, now), finally catch up with me.
“I breached procedure,” I blurt out. I should’ve informed audit instead of coming directly to the CEO. Of course, the only reason I’ve even managed an appointment with Fay Bristol in the first place goes back to when I was twelve and Fay was sleeping with Dad, back when the name Christopher Moore meant something, before recession set in and the stock market crumbled, and AionCorp took over Martin Moore.
Back then, I was an awkward, silent kid, with my numbers and my computers, and Fay was my reluctant ally against the old man. Maybe there’s still a part of Fay that’s human under that designer suit. Maybe she remembers those summers by the ocean, and maybe that’s why she hired me in the first place, fresh out of business school and family bankruptcy. I don’t know. All I know is Fay would see me, and I’ve gambled everything on that one card.
“I didn’t – I didn’t make a report. I remembered KLB Finance, I guess. I – I could make one, though, for audit, or the police, if you want me to. I didn’t know what you wanted, Fay.”
“You’re babbling,” Fay cuts me off, and I hesitate, but no. No way in hell Fay Bristol wants to sit in a board room and explain 1.78 million missing. In my three years with AionCorp, I’ve never heard of any investigation here. At KLB Finance, they’d made this report and then deleted it, and then when the police came, they’d taken everything away and found the traces, and that had been the end of KLB - conclusive evidence that the management had been in on the whole thing. AionCorp is not KLB Finance. AionCorp is stable, and this has happened before, Ian has told me so.
Fay shakes her head and pushes her chin out. “No. No police, no audit, not one word to anyone.”
“All right. Whatever you say.” I pull my tie off, push it inside my pocket, and roll my shoulders, thinking. “Give me your pad, please.”
“Why?”
“I sent you a link to a temp file and you just looked at it, Fay. It’s not here, though, it’s on the server. If I’m to make it go away, I should do it now.”
There’s a hint of doubt in her eyes as she passes the pad to him. “You still remember how to do this?”
“I’ll need your pass code.” I run my fingers – suddenly steady, but shit, this is happening - over the screen. For a few moments there’s nothing but lock sounds and keyboard clicks, Fay’s frown of concern, and then, finally, ‘Cancel/OK’. I select ‘OK’ and hand the pad back to her.
“Here. What now?”
“Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, Brian,” Fay warns me. “Are you sure you have the stomach for it?”
I bent my eyebrows and give her a long look. “Please don’t talk to me like I’m four.”
She’s always had, and it annoys the shit out of me. It annoys me when Ian does it, too, but chances are he won’t after today.
***
The room is small, windowless, and dark, except for the yellow emergency beacon flickering in a corner, empty except for the chair in the middle, devoid of the cold comfort of the corporate décor. Distant sounds that speak of live above ground, air conditioning, lifts, coffee machines, make their way through the walls from time to time. Other than that, it’s still and quiet, the pressure of the tons of metal and glass that make the 21-story building almost palpable down here.
I stand by the Plexiglas wall and stare into darkness. I stare at Ian, who sits in the chair, wishing I’d catch a glimpse of his face and at the same time, immensely relieved that I can’t. Ian’s head hangs low. His hands are handcuffed behind his back, and he keeps so still he doesn’t seem to be breathing, though surely, he is, they won’t kill him – or so I hope.
“What now?” My fingers tremble. My shirt is soaked in sweat. I hide my hands inside my pockets and curl them into fists.
“You go in there and make him talk,” Fay says. “Make him tell me where my money is.”
“Make him tell you? Jesus Christ, tell you what? It’s a bloody mistake!” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, can’t keep it from showing on my face, but maybe it’s OK if Fay sees some of it. “I can’t! What do I know about making people talk, Fay?”
“Listen to me, you little son of a bitch!” Her face is frozen, and her voice takes on a shrilling note. “You knew damn well this was not going out of that office when you came to me. You figured this was your ticket to a promotion, didn’t you, Brian? Daddy’s spoiled baby boy thinks he’s ready to play at the grown-ups’ table?”
“You’re a heartless bitch.” My face burns with humiliation, and anger, but she’s guessed right. I want my place at the grown-up’s table. That has been the plan all along.
“Exactly what I am,” Fay says unperturbed. “Now if you want that promotion, Bri, I suggest you get your ass moving and fucking earn it.”
***
The Plexiglas door slides open, and someone somewhere flips on a light switch.
Ian blinks a couple of times. His short, dark hair takes bluish hues in the milky, mercury glow. The side of his face is bruised and swollen, but the look in his eyes is steady, his expression the usual, professional blankness. I’m relieved to notice he doesn’t seem scared. I must be, though, mainly because I am, heart pounding in my chest and stomach churning with anxiety. Or maybe Ian is, too, but knows how to hide better.
I make a show of deliberately taking out my suit jacket and rolling my shirt sleeves. Why not? It all feels like a B movie anyway. I can’t tell what Ian’s thinking, but he’s watching me, his slanted glance raking over my skin. I close in on him, and his eyes drop to the floor, zero in on my overpriced shoes.
I should tell him to look at me. One was supposed to say that when interrogating the suspect, but it seems altogether stupid since there are no suspects, only investment bankers and Ian, the corporate indentured assistant restrained on god knows which underground company floor, has done it for certain.
“1.78 million,” I say instead. “Hedge fund returns, transferred into a bucket, and from there into the company’s offshore accounts. Apparently transferred; on paper, because they never got there, though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you all this. You’re the one who made the transfer. So where is the money, Ian?”
I cross my arms over my chest, taking advantage of my physical superiority. Ian runs on the treadmill every morning in the company’s gym. He’s built like a runner, too – light weight, slight bone structure, long legs, and absolutely no match for me. I know exactly how he’s built, how each of those muscles tastes and feels, every little patch of his skin. Me, on the other hand, I’ve played football at uni, and I’m still eating three big meals a day and work out three days a week more than three years later.
No match even if he wasn’t handcuffed, even if he’d be allowed to fight back, but as it is, as he raises his head and slowly meets my gaze with his own, Ian doesn’t look any more impressed than before.
“In a bank out there, I imagine, sir.”
“Try again,” I say, and backhand him – hard, hard enough for Ian’s teeth to rattle from the sheer force of the blow. Hard enough for the small bones in my hand to crack, sharp enough for my vision to flicker. But I can see enough to watch in horror as blood oozes from the split corner of Ian’s lip.
Shit, I’m this close to being sick, but Ian just grimaces and twists his head to wipe his mouth on his raised shoulder.
“I don’t know.”
“All right.” I force a smile his way before my hand closes around his arm and I haul him to his feet. I shove him straight into the wall. Behind it, Fay Bristol is watching, waiting to see me prove myself. I need this. I need her to believe in me. My skin crawls as I dig my fingers into Ian's shoulder.
“If you change your mind at any given time, let me know.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ian breaths out. “My hands are tied.”
The subdued, professional tone belies the irony. I take it as my cue, swing my fist back and slam it into Ian's stomach. Ian cries out and doubles over. I draw my fist back and hit again, following a pattern - face, stomach, face, not giving Ian the time to breathe right. He goes down, the fall made clumsier by his bound hands. Ian’s groans of pain echo off the empty walls and gradually die out, replaced by subdued moans. A thin layer of sweat brakes out on his skin. I’m starting to lose feeling in my hand and take a moment to look into Ian's bloodied face before I lift it again.
“Don’t,” Ian whispers, curling into himself. His eyes stand out, huge and glassy, pinned on my arm, and panic grips me because I’ve not been ready for this, not by far. “Please, sir,” Ian pleads. “I don’t know anything. I just moved them.”
God, finally! Ian releases a ragged breath and whimpers when I grab him, pull him up and toss him back on the chair.
“You admit to embezzlement and expect me to believe you don’t know where the money went? Who authorized the transfer? Your level isn’t high enough.”
“I only performed the operation, sir,” Ian rasps. “The instruction had been recorded in the electronic system. The screen blinked green, which means a superior access code. I’m never told whose, sir. It's restricted.”
“But not normal procedure,” I comment. “You must have at least suspected something is wrong.”
“No, sir, I didn't. I didn’t want to suspect. I didn't want to know, and with all due respect, you don’t want me to know either. Respondeat superior.”
“What?” Latin? Ian is bright and all, but I can’t stop feeling he’s overdoing it a bit. "What the fuck are talking about?”
“Master’s liability, sir,” Ian repeats, stumbling a little over the words. “I’m corporate property. In the eye of the law, my wrongful actions are the actions of the company. The money belonged to the shareholders. If I took them, AionCorp’s management embezzled them, unless I didn’t, and then the company didn’t and it’s just wilful destruction of property that you’ve just perpetrated right now."
I’ve never been good at this legal stuff. A fake smile stretches Ian's broken lips. “You might get out of that one with a fine, but good luck finding a job after because the company won’t be able to keep you, it goes against the by-laws, and it goes on your employment record also.”
“Bullshit,” I manage to utter, but my blood has gone cold as I listen to Ian so eloquently listing the consequences. I’m at a loss. I just stand there like an idiot and watch the mess Ian’s pretty face has turned into. Fay’s shaking voice reaches me through the intercom not a moment too soon.
“Come out, Brian.”
***
“He’s right.”
I lean into the cold wall, feeling weak at the knees. “We did a polygraph on him earlier. He knows more than he's willing to admit but has no idea where the money is. He’s telling the truth about that, and he's correct about the law. Metaphorically speaking, I cannot touch him. If I do, I might as well put the money back myself.”
“You knew? Jesus, Fay, why did you send me in there if you already knew?”
“Think of it as your promotion test." She snickers at me. “Congratulations, you passed.”
“Fuck you very much, Fay,” I snap. It’s not my promotion test, or not only that. This is blackmail material, going straight into the little folder she has on me - the kind she has on everyone to keep them controlled. “What about the money?”
“Oh, I’ll find the money. I’ll have to do an upgrade of the entire accounting system, of course, but it will offer a good pretext to check everything in detail.”
Relief floods me. I rub my hand over my eyes. Could it really be this easy? “What about him?”
She arches a high eyebrow. “The indentured?”
“Yes, him! If there’s nothing on his file and he won’t pass the next inventory, he’s sure to tell audit about me.” I’m starting to grow anxious again, and my fist bloody hurts. “In case you’ve failed to notice, he just threatened me in there!”
“Relax. He won’t have to be inventoried if he’s not company property anymore. A private sell should fix it.”
“I’ll take him.” I’m shocked by the intensity of my own words. Shit, I should fucking get a grip! But I can’t let Ian end up just anywhere. “Think about it, Fay. Why would you give up a corporate asset with a perfect record all of the sudden? It doesn’t look good. And then, if he’s sold, who knows where he might end up and what he might say?”
“You’re a pussy, Bri.” Fay’s scathing gaze cuts into me. “No one listens to them.”
I make my voice as firm as I know how. “It’s my reputation. I want to keep an eye on him. And you can always think of it as my promotion bonus.”
***
“Are you going to be sick?” is the first thing I ask.
In the passenger’s seat, Ian presses his lips together and leans his forehead against the window. Before we left the building, after all the papers have been processed, I’ve had the cuffs removed and insisted he got clean up. I’d rather not have a CCTV recording of me exiting AionCorp with a broken bleeding mess tagging behind. I can’t afford more evidence, so Ian’s now in a clean uniform, face paper white under all the black and blue.
“Maybe.”
“Fucking awesome.” I press my foot on the pedal all the way down and tighten my grip of the wheel. The motorway is nearly deserted late at night. The lights of the Palisades flicker against the empty winter sky. As soon as I spot the service area, I turn on the exit and push down on the break into the parking lot.
“Get out of the car,” I bark, rolling my eyes when Ian returns a puzzled look. “I won’t have you throw up all over my leather seats, so move!”
Understanding shines in Ian’s eyes. He nods and all but crawls out slowly, keeping his moves economical. Fuck, how many ribs did I crack? He stumbles by the car, staggering on his feet under the cold wind.
“I’m definitely going to be sick.” His lips are white and shaking. I hug my arms around my body and bite into mine.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
God, I’ve done this. I’ve really, really done it. I feel a little like smashing my own head into the light pole. I don’t. I walk back to the car, powerless anger flowing all through me. My gym bag is still in the trunk. I reach inside, cursing under my breath. When I turn around, hands full, Ian is kneeling on the gravel, a few steps away from a small dark puddle. My stomach rebels, nausea surging quickly, so I tear my eyes away.
“Here,” I say, holding out the towel and energy drink first. I already opened the bottle. I wait for Ian to take the first careful sips before I hand him the hoodie and the pills. His eyes cut to me, suspicious.
“What’s this?”
“Good old ibuprofen, you dimwit,” I snap, and Ian obediently swallows two pills down. He eyes me again slowly, head to toe.
“Are you all right, kid?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve just beaten you to a pulp.”
“It’s fine,” Ian says in what’s no longer his mild, professional voice. It’s the calm, shooting tone he takes on when he talks to me like I’m four. “She wouldn’t have bought it otherwise.”
My eyes sting. “You didn’t have to let it get this far.”
Ian’s face contorts in pain as he pulls my dirty gym hoodie over his uniform. He says exactly what I expect him to say, what he’s been telling me for months. “You can trash me around for 1.7 million.”
Now my temples pound, too. He cooked up this whole scheme years ago, he just needed the right man for the job. I was a mark from the start because of my family name. Because of Dad and Fay. Also, because Dad is rumoured to have used the loopholes in the financial system to hide assets before he went bankrupt. If he did, I never knew. I’ve not seen him since before the trial, never spoken to him after his stint in jail. I have no idea where he is, and I’ve been a disappointment to Ian on the Dad front, but my connection with Fay still came in handy.
“Got me into your pants, too.”
“Looks that way.” He’s not even bothering to deny it. This is not a romance. This is a business arrangement. I just kind of wish it wasn’t sometimes. “So, where is the money, Bri?”
“In a bank somewhere.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Why, I want to tell him, don’t you trust me? I’d be nice to hear Ian say it. It’d be nice to hear anyone say it, but also, I’m ashamed of myself. Ian let me hurt him. Ian let me take the money, and he let me own him, so I guess I don’t need to hear it, I’m just spoiled.
“Pacific. I moved them this evening.” I throw him my shit-eating grin. “Using Fay’s code, from her personal pad. Downside is we won’t be around to see her face when audit picks up on it. Upside is, we still have maybe half a year before we need to move. I hope you like to travel.”
“How would I even know?” Brian says, and now he just sounds drained.
“Tell me I’ve done well.” I don’t mean to sound as pathetic as I do but this one, I really need to hear from him.
“You’ve done well, Bri,” he says. Low and dark with a pinch of tease. Just how I like it. “For a spoiled rich kid.”
“Rich and spoiled kind of grows on you,” I reply, taking hold of his arm and hauling him to his feet. I like the way he leans into me a little too much, when I know it’s only due to necessity. “You’ll see.”
Ian eases himself into the passenger seat. We’ve never really talked about what we’ll do after we get the money. I don’t know what Ian might decide once we’re safely tucked away in the Pacific. Split them and part ways is a definite maybe. It’s stupid how much I don’t want to.
Ian’s voice pierces the silence, so unexpected I almost jump out of my skin. “You did.” No play, no bullshit this time, just raw and new. I know for a fact he’s never sounded like this before. A tad lost, or maybe just worn out. His long, dark lashes flicker. He peers up at me with those bright, whiskey eyes. “Grow on me. Kind of. A little.”
I want to laugh. I want to cry, too, like an idiot. “Give me time.”
The corner of his split lip twitches. “You know, I think I will.”
His eyes drift shut after this. I drive and I think to the low hum of the electric engine. One point seven million can last for a long time. A lifetime if we’re careful. I don’t have to be a spoiled rich kid, I just grew up that way. I can do financially comfortable with Ian far away from here where my name and his record don't mean anything. And I think, for the first time, that I might possibly stand a chance.