Terran Crescent, Sidharthe
Shibboleth Research, Inc.
151.28.36 NTD
The head of shipping finished reading the report, and tossed the sheet onto her desk. She leaned back in her chair and massaged the area between her eyes, hoping to stave off the headache she could feel building. When the door to her office opened, she turned toward her coworker as he entered.
He frowned. "I see you got the news."
"Was his death necessary?"
"You tell me." He perched on the edge of her desk. "You're the one who ordered it."
"I didn't order his death!" She slammed a hand on her desk, and stood. "I said we needed to cover up his mistake."
"With that kind of bungle, what did you think 'cover up' meant?" He waved a hand. "Never mind. The point is, the death of a shipping clerk isn't going to be enough. The word is out. The public knows we exist, and there's no going back now."
"Public? One archaeologist digging on a forgotten, backwater planet hardly constitutes 'the public.'"
"You don't understand the full impact of the report. That archaeologist's neural net ties her to countless others of her ilk. They share research instantaneously." He picked up the report sheet and activated it. "This is yesterday's version. You need to keep up! Since then, that backwater, forgotten-planet archaeologist posted a glowing review of the Shibboleth Strength Suit on her intranet. By noon, we had eighteen orders. By close of business, there were seventy-five. All because one shipping clerk forgot to hide which company sent the suit."
"Oh." She took the report, and skimmed over it. "Oh, no. This is terrible news. I didn't see this." She all but fell into her chair.
"No one but you and I are aware you-know-who has ties to Shibboleth Research. One mistake later, we're exposed. Which means he could be also."
She was quiet a moment. "How are we going to explain this?"
"In person, I imagine."
Her hands shook, and she clasped them to keep it from showing. "But he's the one who said to send her the better suit. It's not our fault."
"He approved sending it to her because she had the best shot at finding a working gate. It was supposed to be shipped indirectly. Not by us. That suit being tied to us could expose every Ch'thon."
She met his gaze. "You weren't serious about telling him in person." She folded her hands, steepled them, and then tapped them against her lips. "Were you? I mean, crossing the galaxy to tell him we made a shipping error... Surely that's not necessary."
"Of course not." He tapped the report on her desk. "We'll deal with this some other way. The important thing is to keep the public from hearing anything else about us. If our ties to the Ch'thon come out, it would have tragic consequences."
"I had no idea one mistake could have such far reaching consequences."
"Didn't you?" He stood. "More's the pity."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing." He came around her desk. "Look, it's coming up on the weekend. Why don't you get out of here? Forget this for a day or so. You'll think more clearly."
"I don't know. I think I should see this through."
"No, you've worked hard lately. Go home, see the kids." He held down a hand to her.
She took it, and stood. "Maybe you're right."
"How are your children, anyway?" He patted her hand. "Are they doing well in school?"
She filled him in on their accomplishments while picking up her belongings. They ambled toward the door together.
AFTER SHE LEFT, he returned to his office, and stood near the window. The woman's personal hover lifted from the parking deck, and he didn't turn away until it had entered the highest lanes of traffic.
He carried her copy of the report they'd discussed over to the recycler, and didn't leave until the machine had reduced it to its component parts.
"Now only one of us knows the truth." He dusted off his hands.
An hour later, his assistant burst into his office. "Oh sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's been a terrible accident on the high-level traffic over the city. Our shipping manager has been killed. First one of our clerks dies in a factory accident, and now this."
He rose, bracing his hands on his desk. "Are you certain? She was just here. I walked her out."
"Oh yes, sir. I took a report to her a few hours ago. It's hard to imagine such a thing. She was such a nice lady."
"She had three children. She was telling me about them before she left." He passed a hand across his brow. "This is so unexpected. What happened? Do they know what caused it?"
"They think an android taxi driver changed lanes and collided with her hover head-on. Apparently, he malfunctioned. Both vehicles were destroyed. This is so sad. I suppose I should send flowers."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Thoughtful of you to do that, my dear. Keep me posted on any funeral arrangements her family makes. The company has procedures in place for this sort of thing as well."
"Yes, sir. I will." She paused near his desk, and set a hand over his. "Are you all right, sir? I know you weren't friends, but you did work together. This must be such a shock."
"It is." He sank into his chair. "I-- I suppose I'll be fine, but it is a shock. A sad thing for all of us." He paused, shaking his head. "You know, there's a lesson to be learned here."
"What is that, sir?"
"Details are important. So important. We can't afford distraction. A moment's inattention is all it takes, and mistakes happen. Look what can result." He held her gaze, willing her to see his regret. "Mistakes can be tragic, can't they, my dear? Tragic. And someone always has to pay."
The End -- or is it?
More Trace, Rescue, and Identification League stories are on their way. Look for a new series featuring the Ch'thon.
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