[ 4.2 ]
After they dock, Serafin follows Ramani through a series of hallways where cartoon animals dance under a laughing yellow sun and tiny adventurers race across the surface of Pluto. Some of the murals appear to have been rendered simplistically as a deliberate aesthetic choice, others are rough and sloppy but hopelessly sincere, the best effort of an artist who lacks the dexterity and experience to match their imagination, but possesses more than enough enthusiasm to carry them through. After another turn, the visual onslaught mercifully surrenders to observation windows looking down on a nursery, where infants flop and wail and attempt to fit their mouths around the edges of a vast pastel playset as caretakers watch with infinite, saintly benevolence.
“There‘s so many of them,” Serafin says, as a pack of boys and girls about the same age as Billy pass by, uniformed and orderly, following a teenager who nods politely. The children appear similar in ways that can’t be attributed to their matching wardrobe and haircuts. “And they‘re all…?”
“Not all,” Ramani says. “Some are from families of eligible employees, along with some of the more promising Bennett sponsors. But most of them are related to the Bennetts in some form or another, yes. Ibrahim thought it would better if we went in this way. Less eyes on you than if we went through the offices.”
And why should that matter? Serafin wonders.
“What’s he like?”
Ramani shrugs. “Very sharp, although he can be hard to follow sometimes. Might seem like he‘s off-topic, talking sideways, but he’s… an elliptical thinker, you might say. Might not seem like he‘s paying attention, but he is, I assure you. Be honest. He’ll grumble a bit if he doesn‘t like what you have to say but he always comes around.”
They arrive at a small changing room, where an attendant is waiting. “Please surrender all objects at this time; pens, knives, papers, glasses, keys, fads, portable monitors, sharp objects, et cetera,” the attendant says. “They will be returned to you on your departure.”
“My arm’s prosthetic,” Serafin says, holding it up.
“Standard or modified?”
“Standard.”
The attendant runs a scan, seems satisfied by the results. “That won‘t be a problem, sir. Please enjoy your visit.”
“He takes security pretty seriously,” Serafin says.
(Too seriously, in Serafin’s estimation. He‘s always been of the mind that if you need this much protection, you’ve made a mistake somewhere else — no need for a raised drawbridge in kingdoms at peace, after all.)
Of course, you were kidnapped and held hostage by uprisers for months, so who are you to judge?
“Oh, that?” Ramani says, with a chuckle. “That was just the first round.”
“Is this your idea?”
Ramani shakes his head. “Can‘t say I blame him, though. These are tumultuous times — great opportunity, great danger All sorts of jackals and hyenas lurking in the brush, looking for their chance to sink their fangs into us. I’m afraid this next bit‘s just for you, though. Best of luck.”
The full security check proves to be extensive, lasting nearly an hour. Redundancy seems to be the order of the day: he is scanned repeatedly, then asked to remove his clothes, which are processed and returned to him. They use state of the art medicorders to ensure he isn’t carrying any pathogens and take saliva samples. They ask him tedious questions about his intentions and then run him through an implicit knowledge detection machine, flashing a hundred images too quickly to register consciously, gauging his subliminal responsives. There‘s even a good old-fashioned pat down thrown in near the end for good measure.
Finally, Serafin gets a sense that the indignities may at last be drawing to a close. Ramani returns and guides him to a luxurious lobby where vased flowers are arranged beneath portraits of members of the Bennett family. Two security drones and two human bodyguards are waiting at the far end; Serafin has no doubt more stand at the ready in the unlikely event some actual threat ever makes its way through the gauntlet.
One of the securitors at the threshold raises a hand.
“We need access to your personals.”
“You’ve got them,” says Serafin. “I have standard permissions allowed.”
“We need full permissions. Comms, biometrics, history—”
“Well, you‘re certainly not getting that.”
“Mister Bennett’s very clear about the protocol—”
“So am I.” Serafin puts weight on his heel, emphasizing his willingness to turn around and go back the way he came. “I‘m perfectly happy to return to the summit—”
“Jim is here at Mister Bennett’s personal invitation,” Ramani says, with considerably more patience than Serafin could muster at this late stage. “Best if check in with him, I‘m sure he’ll make an exception. Let him know this is Mister Serafin. From Hardlight.”
The securitor nods. “Yes, sir.”
A message is sent; a response is received. Satisfied at last, the guards step back and the door slides open.
The first thing Serafin notices are the cables.
Cables on the floor. Cables coming out of the walls. Cables coming down from the ceiling, weaving around and through the garbage and treasure that has been scattered around the room. Thick cables, thin cables, chained cables, cables interwoven with one another, some connected, some not.
Two in particular immediately capture Serafin‘s focus, as they are attached to two more security drones, top of the line machines. It’s a baffling choice; surely those tethers must limit their mobility. They turn their heads like they‘re watching Serafin — which is odd, since these sorts of machines don’t really need to rely on their own personal visual systems. But perhaps they‘ve been disconnected from the network?
On the ceiling, a series of tracks and clips and clamps has been installed, an elaborate festoon system which allows the drones to move around the room without getting tangled up. There is a third cable, thick and dark green, which hangs down slack and loose, where it enters into the back of Ibrahim Bennett’s head.
Astonishing, is the only word that comes to mind. There was a time, perhaps back in the ‘50s, when physical lines were considered the best option for security, but the notion of someone using them now — let alone using a biological port — is like watching someone use a mercury thermometer.
Serafin glances at Ramani, who closes his eyes and tilts his head slightly — I know, I know. Don’t get into it.
“Mister Serafin to see you, sir,” Ramani says.
“Thank you, Mister Ramani,” says Bennett‘s voice, through the nearest drone. “That will be all.”
Ramani gives Serafin a wink, which seems inappropriately cavalier, given the strangeness of this all, and makes his retreat.
Most of the room’s light originates from a series of round orbs set on pedestals, each filled with brilliant blue liquid. At first glance, Serafin takes them for small aquariums, but realizes upon closer inspection their inhabitants are not piscine but pediatric: fetuses, drifting through the ether, sleeping, twitching, kicking, some small enough to hold in your hand, others nearly ready to enter into the world.
The elder Bennett is watching one nearby, resting his hand against the glass; the light painting his hand and face with a sickly, pale pallor. He does not look up at Serafin, but the drones broaden their stance, arms raising as if ready to pounce, but then relax — synced to him, Serafin realizes.
Bennett watches the unborn, coming and going. “Beautiful, aren‘t they?”
“A striking display. I take it these are….”
“Clients, Mister Serafin, yes. Our most important clients. We take live data from expectants in various Bennett-Crescentum clinics around the system and project them here via consensus… a reminder of how VITAL our work truly is: indeed, a sacred calling. Have you any children, Mister Serafin?”
“A boy and a girl. Both grown, more or less.”
“Only the two?” Bennett shakes his head. “We are charged by the Creator to be fruitful and multiply, Mister Serafin. And not just by the Creator, but by our governance, as well — all free citizens have a duty to provide our governance with sons and daughters. We cannot very well colonize the solar system without colonists, yes?”
“I suppose not.”
“I’m at sixty-two, myself,” Bennett says. “Forty-five boys, seventeen girls.”
Serafin struggles to contribute. It wouldn‘t be good fortune, exactly, since Bennett would have presumably employed the Perrier Technique. A joke about how that’s an awful lot of diapers to change or mouths to feed is probably a non-starter. Serafin suspects his honest feelings on the matter (in brevis: while he has no objection to fecundity, he believes it best to raise only so many offspring as you can take an active role in rearing) would also not be well-received.
So he falls back on the old standby: “God is great.”
Bennett nods. “Yes. But He gives and He takes, I‘m afraid. We lost an entire branch of the clan in the Garriott hijra. Not just my own offspring, but three of my brothers and their children, as well. Did you know Drew Millick used to work for us? He was actually one of the lead engineers for the Ectogenitor, before he joined the cult of the machine. A very fiddly man, couldn’t sit still, always plucking at his sleeve, shuffling his notes about. I was overjoyed when I heard they‘d killed him — but even he started out like this, I suppose.” Bennett strokes the glass. “Innocent.”
Bennett turns away from the orb, shuffling to his seat, one hand holding the cable snaking up from the back of his head to ensure it does not catch or snag. “Where do you suppose the rot sets in, Mister Serafin? Puberty, perhaps? The arrival of the libidinal urge?”
“I’m sure I couldn‘t say.”
One of the drones pulls out Bennett’s chair, and the man falls into it, motioning for Serafin toward the uncomfortable antique across from him.
“I do apologize for the rather invasive precautions, by the by. We‘re in the midst of some unfortunate complexities.”
“The passing of the torch, you mean?”
That gets Bennett’s attention.
“And how in blazes do you know about that?”
Serafin shrugs. “It‘s the fourth year in a row your father hasn’t done his annual public address. Perfectly understandable during the war, but increasingly strange now that it‘s over. The Bennett subsidiaries have been buying back stock and restructuring debt while also substantially increasing charitable efforts — yet all have been recording record profits.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“There’s a rumor going around Marlon Badir is stepping down as Chief Strategy Officer, which would never happen unless he knew for an absolute certainty your father wasn‘t coming back. And your brother, August, who is explicitly out of the line of succession, has suddenly become very aggressive in shifting his subholding’s resources toward astronomics. That doesn‘t make much sense for the Concern as a whole… but it makes a great deal of sense if he’s aware he‘s likely to be bought out, and is looking to feather the bed he’s about to land on.”
Also, someone at Aphelion mentioned it. But no need to tell Bennett that.
Bennett taps his fingers on the desk, likely attempting to respond in a way that doesn‘t inadvertently disclose more about about the present state of the Concern’s inner workings. He pushes back a smile with his fingers, then finds his words:
“I knew it. Ever since I viewed you putting that dreadful little sniff Lane in his place, I said: this is a man who is clever. This man is a solver of problems. I spoke with Haldor about you, you know. He told me you were one of the finest hush-men they ever had.”
Serafin is impressed and alarmed with equal measure. The impressive: Bennett appears to be on a first-name basis with the assistant director of SIS. The alarming: Bennett appears to be on good enough terms with him that the assistant director of SIS was willing to casually violate security clearance protocols.
Now it‘s Serafin’s turn to tread carefully. “You don‘t seem to lack for problem-solvers.”
“I suppose not,” says Bennett, as one of the drones fetches tea, pouring two cups. “But I have always been of the mindset that a problem cannot be truly solved until it is fully understood. When its source has been properly identified.”
“Its original sin, so to speak?”
“No.” Bennett seems disgusted by this. “I cannot claim to be particularly devout, but I do hold to the concept of Fitra. Each of us are ultimately responsible for our decisions… although we must be careful about influence, mustn’t we?” One drone holds the tea cup for Bennett, tipping it while he takes a small sip. “We cannot live without brotherhood, but just as every nourishing meat carries within it the potential for great sickness, so too does potential corruption lie in all fellowship. I‘m sure you’ve heard of my sister, Janny?”
The other drone brings a cup to Serafin, who nods politely and gives a little shrug, to indicate he‘d prefer to the burden of holding it and managing the logistics of drinking it for himself.
“I may have heard the name,” he says, taking a sip. It’s the perfect temperature, if a touch bitter. “ Never had the pleasure.”
“Obviously she lacked the necessary qualifications for a seat at the boardroom table, but she fervently desired to contribute to our family as best should could. And so my father, in his wisdom, saw fit to make her… our social ambassador, one might say. I can‘t deny she had a gift for gregarity — it was through her relationship with Legislator Rice’s family that we were able to loosen those absurd restrictions on epigenetic rescripting.
”But I‘m afraid that in her enthusiasm for networking, Janny has not always been… punctilious. She began holding these elaborate salons, inviting her friends to come and listen to all sorts of radicals and controversialists pontificate on the pressing issues of the day… eating food that might as well be protein paste and floater mush, for all their palates could discern, in a habitat with a heating bill that costs more in a day than all their yearly salaries combined. I’m sure you know the type: revolutionaries whose boldest act of revolution will be the bedding of some prominent corporator‘s daughter.
“But these soirées enjoyed a certain cachet, and their provocations drew in some of the more ideologically promiscuous of the brightest young wolves of the new generation — my son, Othman, among them.
”I should state, Mister Serafin, that there is a long-established custom in the Bennett family that our children are permitted a certain wastrel period, once they reach the age of majority. We have been blessed by the Creator, and even distant branches of the Bennett family tree are heir to considerable fortunes; thus, it is held that it is better for them to get it out of their system, or so the thinking goes. I am led to understand that the Amish of Earth are known to practice a similar tradition, although they of course lack the prodigious resources we have to make a proper showing of this custom.
“I have heard it remarked,” Bennett continues, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on the desk, “that our modern anti-senescent technologies have had something of a dilatory effect upon our lifespan, which has necessarily resulted in the extension of adolescence, to such a point where our modern space-age male does not arrive at true maturity until their third decade. Do you believe this claim to have merit, Mister Serafin?”
Serafin, mildly entranced, needs half a moment to realize he is expected to respond. “Given my experience at Firnas, that sounds a little optimistic.”
“How droll,” Bennett says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t care for drollness.
“I was aware that Othman had fallen in with a disreputable crowd, and had made some indecorous public remarks that reflected poorly upon the company. Attempts at discipline were made — vigorous remonstrances, certain temporary reductions in funds, and so on — that I believed at the time to have the intended effect. Indeed, his behavior improved drastically, and he began to demonstrate a greater interest in our business dealings. And so when he began spending more time with his aunt, I assumed he was merely drawn to the power and influence on display.
”But I now know, of course, this was not the case. We Bennetts have always had a flair for deception — essential for any corporator, of course; my grandfather was West End icon, down on Earth — and my son unfortunately seems to have inherited those talents as well. Dazzled by some of this anti-capitalist twaddle, he appears to have taken the opportunity to outfox his security detail and disappear off to… God only knows.“
”I‘m very sorry to hear that,“ Serafin says.
The first drone takes Serafin’s tea cup, even though he hasn‘t quite finished. The other begins to adjust some of the trinkets on his desk for him. ”We’ve called in some favors, kept it off the broadcomms, but you know those stunted little creatures… certified or not, all they do is invent scandal and exaggerate misfortune. All those disgusting rumors they spread about your uncle. I knew your uncle, did you know? We were both in the Posh, back in the day. Friends — not close friends, exactly — but we did travel in similar circles. He stayed at our estate on Butler Bay with us, on summer holiday, our senior year.“
The drone hands Bennett a small globe, which he raises into the air. ”Have you ever been to the ocean, Mister Serafin?“
”I‘ve never even been to Earth.“
”Can’t say I recommend it,“ Bennett says, spinning the globe gloomily. ”All that heat and light. And the ocean… all those songs and poems, they never stop carrying on about the ocean. It looks pleasant enough, to be sure, but the smell— Good God! They never mention the stench. One can hardly breathe for it; the awful, choking miasma, rising up from the waves.“
Serafin isn‘t sure where this is going. Serafin isn’t even sure where they‘ve been.
”Mister Serafin, when I was given charge of Crescentum, it was piteous and weak. But I saw its potential. Over the decades I transformed this company into one of the Concern’s five essential holdings. I innovated the cradle to consumer model every other company has attempted to replicate since. I oversaw the development of cutting edge technologies which will ultimately save our governances from the foolish counter-natalist decisions its so-called leaders. I believe our interests align: I believe my sister‘s meetings may have been attended by Communist sympathizers, and I suspect they played some role in the regrettable actions of my son.“
”Really?“
”There is no doubt in my mind. It makes a great deal of sense, don’t you think? Considering the influence we Bennetts have in capitalist affairs, it only stands to reason the enemy would make attempts to disrupt our business. And this behavior is so unlike Othman… why, I don‘t think it’s unreasonable at all to suspect this could be precisely one of these so-called ‘signifiers’ you‘ve described in your proposal, another strand of the poison spider’s web being spun across the solar system.“
”I see,“ Serafin says, pleased, if somewhat disoriented, by the switchback to his intended topic. ”Well, I suppose I couldn‘t rule that out….“
Bennett rises from his seat; Serafin follows his example. ”There is opportunity here, Mister Serafin, for a collaboration I think might be exceeding beneficial to all parties. I should be eager to put the full resources of my company behind you. My only condition being that the first thread you might pull, as you begin your great unraveling, should be the one connected to my son.“
”I’d be happy to look into the matter,“ Serafin says, cautiously. He means to explain why he‘s skeptical about the connections Bennett has drawn but the drones are ushering him out of the office before he can really articulate his doubts.
”Excellent! Very good!“ Bennett says, clapping his hands as he retreats back into the gloom. ”Please speak with Mister Ramani and my nephew; they’ll see to the details.“
Afterward, Serafin is led through another set of corridors to a mercifully dull conference room, where Ramani is waiting with yet another member of the Bennett clan: Alman Oxenstierna, the roll call says. He looks a lot like a younger Ibrahim, although much shorter, and the Oxenstiernas have added a distinctive widow‘s peak to the mix as well. It only takes a few sentences to note he lacks Ibrahim’s formidable self-assurance and intensity as well.
”Good to meet you, Mister Serafin,“ Alman says. ”My uncle has asked me to overwatch this matter and provide you with anything you need.“
”A pleasure,“ Serafin says. He gestures toward the small child napping in one of the chairs at the far end, adopting the sort of pose that only children can sleep in without waking up in pain, using a stuffed camel on the arm rest for a makeshift pillow. ”It would appear there‘s been an escape from the nursery?“
”Oh, no, that’s my boy.“ Alman laughs. ”Tagging along with his baba Don‘t worry, you can speak freely. He won’t blab!“
”How was your meeting?“ Alman asks.
”Somewhat inscrutable, if I‘m being honest,“ Serafin says.
”Yes,“ Alman says. ”My uncle’s quite brilliant. Each word, artfully chosen; each sentence, heavy with significance. You cannot simply take his language at face value, you must reflect on each word, ponder his deeper meaning.“
Serafin glances back at Ramani — is he being serious? — and Ramani somehow manages to sigh without actually sighing. Yes. I know. But the money spends.
”All well and good,“ Serafin says, ”but in my experience, it‘s best to make your objective as plain as possible if you want someone to work for you. Perhaps the two of you, being more familiarity with Mr. Bennett’s wisdom, could bring some clarity to the matter?“
”Certainly,“ Alman says. ”My cousin, Othman, did a runner about three months ago.“
”I gathered as much, yes.“
”We need you to find him,“ Ramani says.
”Why?“
”Othman Bennett has grown somewhat… ideologically unstable, over the last few years, is probably the best way of putting it,“ Ramani says.
Alman finishes it off: ”It‘d be one thing if he simply pissed off to some pleasure dome and drowned himself in booze and curves, but he made some rather… somewhat… provocative statements to the media, last year, and, well….“
”Should Othman’s absconsion become public knowledge, it could do significant harm to the company‘s image.“
”Particularly if he kicks up another fuss out in the wild!“ Alman agrees. ”Depending on how extreme my cousin’s remarks became… well. Whatever the scandal, the Concern and the company could weather the storm… but it could potentially derail my uncle‘s claim.“
Serafin can imagine the critique easily enough. ”’How can he run the company if he can‘t keep his own son in line?’“
”Precisely!“ Alman agrees, nodding vigorously. ”The sins of the loudmouth son. You‘re familiar with what happened with A.H. Griggs Interplanetary?“ With the CFO’s sons?”
“I am,” Serafin says, but Alman tells him anyway. Belaboration seems to run in the family.
“Those two nitwits — who I went to school with, by the way! — spent too much time in the grey, got indoctrinated, and decided it would be a good idea to borrow one of the company frigates and provide support to the uprising on Luna! They didn‘t even bother to hide the company logo, let it be widecasted across free Copernica — the revolution, brought to you by Griggs! And in the midst of a major merger, as well… the stock still hasn’t fully recovered!” Alman‘s tone suggests he’s more offended by the optics than the actions.
“So I‘m not just supposed to find him,” Serafin says. “I’m to bring him back, as well.”
“Othman is a sweet and generous young man,” Ramani says. “But he‘s not well-versed in the ways of the worlds. It would be better for everyone, including him, if he came home.”
“Quickly,” Alman stresses.
“I sympathize,” Serafin says. “But he is a legal adult, yes? If he doesn’t want to come back… kidnapping is a ten-year charge, minimum. I‘d prefer not to spend the next decade in a glass box.”
“No need to be concerned,” Ramani says. “Othman Bennett is a legal adult, as you say, but he also remains a fully bonded employee of Bennett-Crescentum. We are entirely within our rights to compel his appearance.”
“’… should any matter arise which, by failure to appear his post, there exists the potential for significant harm to the continuing economic viability of the business,‘” Alman quotes. “All conditions of our contracts have been thoroughly vetted and validated by the Judicative; as an agent acting on behalf of the Concern, we would share any liability for actions we have directed you to undertake. Othy wouldn’t press charges, at any rate. Not really in his nature.”
“I see. And with all due respect, Mister Ramani, why aren‘t you handling this?”
The obvious answer is that Ramani is still technically an SIS employee, which means he’s only allowed to advise and consult with clients, not engage in actual intelligence work himself. But there are ways around that, for a clever man, and Serafin wants to see if there‘s any nasty surprises in the lurking places.
“A fair question,” Mister Ramani says. “Two reasons: first, I’m still technically under contract for another year. Second, while I may have… disagreements with Mister Bennett about the specific security measures he‘s currently employing, he isn’t wrong about the elevated threat level. I need to stay and see to the safety of the family and continue to ensure we maintain the informational integrity of it all.”
“Fair enough,” Serafin says. “But why me?” He gestures toward the gauntlet leading to Ibrahim‘s office. “The Concern doesn’t seem to lack for security.”
“My uncle likes you,” Alman says. “He has a talent for talent, he likes to say.”
“Company security is part of the problem,” Ramani says. “Their first loyalty is to the company. They can be trusted as far as physical protection of personnel and assets are concerned, but anything beyond that is… less certain. We need someone willing to prioritize Mr. Bennett‘s interests; someone with the necessary skillset, who is capable of discretion, and navigating the, ah, sociopolitical complexities of this unfortunate situation.”
“So, what do you say?” Alman asks, eagerly.
No, would be Serafin’s immediate inclination. The job is, to put it bluntly, beneath him — the sort of work you‘d foist off on some rookies fresh out of the Intensives. And he has his doubts about his chances: the security detail assigned to a major corporator’s son would not have been easily to slip past. That suggests Othman possesses a level of cunning and sophistication that will make him difficult to run down. And the young man likely wouldn‘t be the typical frantic fugitive, either — he could have easily squirreled away enough resources to run silent for months if he was so inclined.
And if Ibrahim’s innuendo is true, there‘s a chance Othman might be in real trouble, of the sort that will require UFA intervention. Or, God forbid, have gotten himself killed….
All of which is to say there’s a very real risk of putting significant time and energy into an impossible endeavor, and Serafin has the distinct impression Ibrahim Bennett does not hold to the ‘at least you tried your best’ school of thought.
But the Bennett companies are formidable. With limitless resources, including considerable influence in the Corporative and significant sway over the broader governance. And if Ibrahim does wind up in charge of it all, well… after Serafin‘s lackluster performance at Aphelion, this could be a chance to win the support of someone with enough power to help actually fix the damn problem.
“I couldn’t make any guarantees,” Serafin says. “There‘s an ebb and flow to this sort of thing, and you’re coming to me fairly late in the cycle. If he‘s already made of Earth-Luna space, nobody will be able to find him unless he makes contact first.”
“Of course,” says Ramani, smoothly, clearly recognizing Serafin’s reluctance. “And it would be premature for Mister Serafin to accept the contract before we discussed the matter of his fee, don‘t you think?”
“Oh,” says Alman, as though the topic hadn’t even occurred to him until now. “Yes, I suppose so. What‘s a fair wage for this sort of thing, anyway? Do we pay now, or on delivery?”
“I believe the traditional rate is half up front.”
“Plus expenses,” Serafin adds.
“Expenses?” asks Alman.
“Travel, lodging, equipment, baksheesh, the usual. I might need to hire some personal securitors as well, depending on how resistant your cousin is to returning home.”
“Yes, fine, of course,” Alman says, waving dismissively. “Money isn’t an object. We‘ll spin up a contract and build an auditor.”
“No auditor. A line of credit or a lump sum would be best.”
“Surely you can’t think I‘m going to provide you with access to company resources without an auditor!”
“You’ll have to, if you want me to take the job.”
“Mister Serafin, I do beg your pardon—”
“If I‘m to find your cousin, there’s a good chance I‘ll need to speak with a variety of unsavory and disreputable folk,” says Serafin. “Which means privacy, which means cryptos. I can’t do my job if I‘ve got some squawker on my shoulder recording the names and faces and biometrics of everyone I’m dealing with.”
Alman frowns, but sees the logic. “Well, we could send someone with you—”
“You could, but I‘d advise against it. I believe Mister Ramani’s instincts are correct. You can‘t trust anyone inside of the Concern. Even if someone isn’t compromised, there‘s a risk they may be in contact with someone who is. Better if I hire people with limited knowledge as the need arises.”
Alman glances at Ramani. Ramani gives a sympathetic nod. This is the way to go. Alman’s son begins snoring softly.
“Very well. If Mister Ramani trusts you, then so do I. But there‘s practicalities here we have to contend with. I can put you on the payroll as a consultant, that makes sense enough — you’re a veteran with a respectable pedigree — but the sorts of resources you‘re asking for will get us flagged internally. I can certainly get the money, but not without people asking questions.”
“Perhaps you might consider the debt pool, sir?” Ramani asks, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t enjoy having to baby-step Alman through all this. It‘s the obvious solution, of course, standard practice, but Serafin felt it would be improper to suggest it himself.
“Oh!” Alman says, excited at the prospect. “Would debtings work, Mister Serafin? We do hold a considerable amount through our standard course of business — families who wish to sign up for our premium services and our various contractors — and we hold a certain percentage from the other subsidiaries, of course.”
“That ought to be fine, so long as it’s stacked,” Serafin says.
“Of course,” Alman says, running some quick calculations. “We could go as high as five to one?”
“That should be plenty.”
“Well, don‘t start there, of course! And as for your fee… I think Othman draws a monthly allowance of five million a month — or did, until he scarpered. Suppose we offered you half that in total, upon his successful return? Seems appropriate.”
That simplifies matters nicely. Serafin’s initial no drifts away and out of range, like an old space probe leaving the solar system. Rising to his feet, he says firmly, “Let’s not waste any more time then, shall we? Time to bring your cousin home.”