When Good Plans Go Bad, page 2
part #2 of DimWorld Series
Quentin nodded. Having money available changed his whole perception of their situation. In some ways he appreciated the irony of DimCorp unknowingly funding them, but it also grated on him how much easier everything became when you didn’t have to worry about how you were going to pay for things. Having spent his entire life on the other side of the coin, living from one paycheck to the next, he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. It would be ridiculous to not use DimCorp’s money just on principle, right? Yes, that would be ridiculous.
The maître d’ appeared at the door with a flourish. “Good evening, lady and gentlemen. If the party is ready to be seated?” His heavy French accent perfectly complimented his role, and he swept his arm towards the door, his white-gloved hand outstretched.
They followed him into the dining room, weaving between tables and waiters laden with trays of food. The room was huge, but it was divided into pockets of ambience with low walls and small trees in a way that made it seem cozy and private. They arrived at their table and were seated as the maître d’ made a show of fussing with the tablecloth and accoutrements. He smiled at Tocho as he leaned past him to light a candle. “I love your suit, it’s very fetching.”
Tocho beamed. “Why, thank you, you’re very kind.”
Quentin blushed, and quickly looked down at the menu. Watching Tocho flirt with a guy that was at least forty years younger than him was a little awkward. His stomach growled in anticipation of a good meal, something other than fish, for a change. Granted, the diet on the island had done him good. He had lost some weight, and the training regime included more exercise than he had ever done in his life. Still, it would be nice to eat some chicken or pork.
Once the maître d’ had announced the specials and left them to look over the menu, Quentin took a moment to look around. Outside, this dimension was loaded with futuristic technology. In here though, in what was probably one of the finest restaurants there was, it looked like it could be in any dimension. There were no robots delivering food, no screens on the table to order from, nothing advanced at all.
Quentin cleared his throat and glanced around to make sure there was no one within earshot. “I sort of expected something different. This is really nice, but it’s not what I thought it would be like at all.”
Bob raised his eyebrows. “What were you expecting?”
Quentin shrugged. “You know, some kind of advanced technology. Floating trays, automated servers, something like that.”
“Oh, no,” Bob said. “I think you’re misunderstanding the situation. Every fast food place in town is automated. Delivery is automated. Cars are automated. Shopping is automated. That’s commonplace. The very best that money can buy is personal service from another human being. That’s what they offer here, the personal touch. It’s a rare commodity.” He took a roll and passed the bread basket to Quentin.
That was a lot to think about. In Quentin’s dimension, automated services like self-checkout and automated ordering kiosks at restaurants were still new technology, and sort of a novelty. The idea that it might become so common that a real live waiter was the novelty made him take a mental step back.
“They give you a wicked-awesome tux to wear, too,” Eissa pointed out. “That has some value.”
“To be sure,” Bob said with a grin. “Especially when you’ve been on the island for a month.”
The menu was also surprising to Quentin. He was expecting exotic things that he’d never heard of, and while there were a few items like that, most of it looked familiar. There was a page dedicated to steaks, a page for seafood, salads, and all the other usual fare. He wasn’t normally a steak eater, but this was a special circumstance, and it sounded appealing. He glanced at the dessert page, and then flipped back to the steaks.
“They’re really specific about their steaks,” he said. The information beside each steak option was different than what he was used to. “They list all these different fat compounds and stuff. Weird.”
Tocho leaned forward conspiratorially. “That’s how you choose the flavor,” he explained. “This meat is grown in a lab, it’s not actually from live animals.”
Quentin glanced at Eissa, then back to Tocho. “Are you serious?”
Tocho nodded.
“Oh my God, that’s awesome,” Eissa said. “Somebody finally did it.”
Quentin grinned, nodding his head. This dimension was winning him over pretty quickly. Clean energy, clean food, high-speed transportation that didn’t require fossil fuels, there was a lot to like. “I might need some help with the flavor selection, then. Any recommendations?”
“Mmm,” Bob mumbled around a mouthful of bread. “P3 is a pork-based fat. You can’t go wrong with that, especially on a filet mignon. I guarantee it will be the best steak you ever had.”
Quentin glanced over the selection of side items and finalized his order just as the waiter came and delivered drinks. When he had taken their dinner orders and walked away, Quentin changed discussion topics. “Alright Eissa, tell me how you got through the DimGate so fast.”
Eissa set her glass down and dabbed at her smiling mouth with a napkin. “It was stupid easy, really. When Tocho took you into the cabin, Bob was supposed to take me down to the beach and tie me up, right?”
Quentin nodded.
“Well, I decided not to go to the beach. We’re training for escape skills, so I escaped. I used that ninja hip toss we learned on Bob right there in front of the cabin, and just walked to the DimGate and crossed over. Two minutes, job done.”
Bob grunted. “Took me by surprise, I’ll admit. Tocho had to help me up. By then, the plan was out the window, so we just came on over to wait for you. I wasn’t about to wrestle with you after Eissa knocked me on my ass.”
They laughed. Quentin knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he couldn’t help feeling a little peeved. That was just Eissa being Eissa, but still, it sucked being the only person in the game who followed the protocol. “Well, since you didn’t play by the rules, I shouldn’t have to do your chores.”
“You go ahead and follow the rules, Quentin. I’m going to survive.” She scrunched up her nose and stuck her tongue out at him. “In case you’ve forgotten, one of us got captured by DimCorp, and one of us performed a daring rescue, and it wasn’t me that got captured, so don’t criticize my technique.”
Quentin sighed. She reminded him about that at least three times a week. He’d given up arguing with her about it or defending himself. It was better to let her get it out of her system, so they could move on. He had to smile as he picked up his glass. Eissa might not color inside the lines the way he did, but it was hard to argue with her results. She had saved his butt in the Genesis Dimension, which was the worst jam he’d ever been in, but she’d gotten him out of a lot of other scrapes and tight spots over the years, too. When they were kids, they’d gone exploring in an old, abandoned cement plant. Quentin fell through a hole in the floor, and she made a rope out of their jean jackets and pulled him up. It took years for her to stop reminding him about that one.
His mood brightened at the memory, and he pushed the irritation away. This was a special dinner, signifying the end of their training and the beginning of their next mission. It certainly wasn’t the time or the place to get an attitude.
Tocho tapped his glass with his fork, breaking the spell of the moment. “I’d like to propose a toast. We’ve come a long way in a short time, and I’m proud of us all for what we’re doing. So, here’s to the Fearsome Four.” He raised his glass in a salute.
“Here, here,” Bob said, raising his glass. Quentin and Eissa followed his lead. “To the Fearsome Four.”
Quentin raised his glass next, and the others looked at him expectantly. “I just wanted to thank everyone. I’ve had to change the way I think about a lot of things, and you’ve all taught me a lot. I’m looking forward to our mission tomorrow, and I’m proud and honored to be a part of this team.”
The others intonated affirmations, clinking glasses. “And to Eissa,” he added. “Who always has my back.” He winked at her and raised his glass.
The food arrived, and any further toasts were abandoned in favor of eating. Bob was right. It was the best steak Quentin ever had.
Chapter 2
Vincent Macalister sat behind his desk, brooding. The barren walls of his office seemed to reflect his sullen mood. He had known this was going to happen from the moment the DimGate powered back up two weeks ago. At some point the DimCorp brass would send someone through the Gate to see what he had done with their cacao plantation for the last three years.
In all reality, the meeting had gone well. After all, it wasn’t as if he had shut down the plantation and gone fishing. No, quite the opposite. He smiled to himself, thinking about how impressed the corporate messenger had been. The cacao grove was almost twice the size that it had been when the Gate shut down, and now there were sugarcane fields, too. They were producing chocolate like a goddamn factory out here in the middle of the jungle, and trading on a major scale with the Inka and the Aztec both.
Of course, he hadn’t fully explained everything he had done. Some secrets were better kept as secrets, like the gold. He hadn’t mentioned the gold. That was the real problem here. Three years of being cut off from DimCorp had been a boon, and he was making a fortune trading chocolate for gold. Now that the DimGate was working again, his whole operation was going to have to change, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to retire yet. He had to figure out a way to liquidate the gold he had, and hopefully, figure out a way to keep it coming in without DimCorp taking it away from him. Sending the cacao to headquarters was fine, but he wasn’t about to part with the gold.
There was a knock at the door. He grabbed a pen and pulled some paperwork over to the middle of the desk.
“What is it?”
Morgan Gage opened the door slightly and poked his head in. “You wanted to see me, boss?” His dark hair was combed neatly, and his uniform and boots were immaculate, as always.
Macalister glanced up from the paperwork. “Sit down,” he grunted, nodding at the folding chair across the desk.
Gage closed the door and sat down. Macalister pretended to be busy reading the pages in front of him, jotting a note here and there. Gage didn’t fidget as he waited, nor did Macalister expect him to. This was a battle of wills, and while Gage was experienced, he never got to win this game. This was one of the tools Macalister used to remind Gage of his place in the grand scheme of things. The longer Gage had to wait on Macalister, the more time he had to think about who was in charge.
Morgan Gage was his second in command. He was a good leader, at least in the respect that the men responded well to him, but he was weak, spineless. He had come from the Academy four years ago with a lot of big ideas, such as trying to be friends with the guards and the slaves both, which made him look soft. He didn’t think it was important to discipline the slaves publicly. Things like that.
Macalister knew that Gage thought he could do a better job of running the operation. Gage had even begun to question Macalister about various things lately, and that was totally unacceptable. He had complete control over Gage while the DimGate had been out of operation, but now that it was back up, he was going to have to change direction slightly. It galled him to approach Gage in any way other than with the iron fist, which was his primary method of diplomacy, but this was a special situation, and a room full of gold hung in the balance. He let the silence drag out for another minute.
“The corporate monkey said they’ll be ready to start pulling cacao out of here in about a month,” he said at last, tossing the pen on the desk with a sigh and putting the papers in a drawer.
“He seemed pretty satisfied with things on his tour,” Gage said, glancing up at him. “The part that I saw, at least.”
Macalister shrugged. “He fucking-well ought to be.”
“So, what are we going to do about everything?” Gage’s expression was unreadable.
Silence fell over the room as Macalister looked out the window. This was a delicate tightrope he had to walk. He needed Gage to commit to him. Gage knew everything that was going on, and had the ability to sink him if he blabbed to Corporate about the gold. It might be best to just kill him, but that wouldn’t sit well with the rest of the guards. Better to beat him into submission or find a way to incriminate him, so he couldn’t blow the whistle without taking himself down, too.
“Well, that’s what we gotta figure out. They don’t want the chocolate, at least not right now; they just want the cacao nibs. The Inka and the Aztec want the chocolate, though, and they’ll give us all the goddamn gold in the world to get it. The way I see it, we ought to figure out a way to do both.”
Gage’s eyes widened, and Macalister grinned inwardly.
“That’s going to be tough,” Gage said. “Corporate is going to want all the cacao we can produce, right? We don’t really have any way to do both.”
“We’ll have to make some adjustments. I think we’ll have to turn two of the cane fields into cacao groves. We’ll cut down on the chocolate production and raise the price, so we won’t lose too much on that side, and DimCorp will just have to be patient while the two new groves get going. Hell, they’ll still be getting just about as much as they were before.”
Gage shifted uneasily in the chair. “You mean that we keep some of the cacao, and keep making chocolate on the sly?”
“That’s called a fringe perk,” Macalister said carefully. It was time to dangle the bait. “It’s an unwritten rule, but that’s how they expect us to supplement what they give us to live on. Everyone does it; you just can’t be obvious about it. Hell, you want some of that gold for your retirement, right? So, how do we make that happen?”
He watched as Gage digested the idea. The anger that he always felt towards Gage rumbled just below the surface, and he forced it back down. He needed to get through this without losing his temper, regardless of how maddening Gage was.
“We’ve got one cane field empty that we just cut last week, and another one that’s due in a few weeks,” Gage said. “I can pull some workers from the mill and have them take cuttings and start planting cacao in Field 6.”
Macalister nodded.
“I still think DimCorp’s going to question the low amount we’re sending them,” Gage said. “The guy today saw how many fields we have.”
Macalister’s temper flared. “DimCorp will take what we give them. If we tell them there’s ten bushels a week, then that’s what they get.” He stopped, reminding himself to stay in control.
“What if they send an auditor over?”
“The auditors don’t know shit about cacao. All they’ll see is piles of beans fermenting in one spot, and sheets of them drying in another spot. They don’t know how much is there.” Macalister got up and walked over to the window and looked out over the square. “No, the problem is going to be when they want to count the warehouse, and there’s a pirate ship’s worth of gold treasure sitting in a locked room in the corner. That’s the part we gotta figure out.”
“I take it you didn’t tell him about the gold, then.”
“Fuck no, I didn’t tell him about the gold.” Macalister spun around, his face livid. “I’ve been slaving away in this miserable goddamn jungle for fifteen years. They didn’t do any of the work that earned that gold. They didn’t plan, they didn’t struggle, they didn’t try to teach a bunch of goddamn cavemen how to make chocolate. They didn’t go meet with the chief of the spear-chucking locals and try to negotiate a trade deal without getting sacrificed by their goddamn priests. You think I’m giving them my gold? You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Gage remained silent, his face impassive. Macalister dropped back into his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He blew out a deep breath and tried to get his temper under control. The sweat trickling down his back didn’t help his mood. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, and he rubbed his face, determined to get through the conversation.
“Now that the Gate’s up, we’re going to start getting supplies again in a month or two. I’m changing the price of the chocolate. It’s all gold from here on out.”
Gage stiffened in his chair, and Macalister glared at him. “Look, Gage. We had a windfall with this chocolate business. Now, we can be good boys and shut it down, and hope that what we’ve got is enough to retire on, or we can keep going. Now, personally, I’d rather live in the Caribbean somewhere when I’m old, sitting on the beach with young girls running around. How about you? Do you want to freeze your ass off in Ohio, or do you want to retire in style?”
“The beach sounds nice,” Gage mumbled, looking at the floor.
Macalister blew out a breath. If he really intended to share the gold with Gage, this conversation would be unbearable. There was a small amount of joy to be had in knowing that he was keeping it all for himself, and he held on to that joy tightly.
“Send a runner to the Inka. Tell him the price is going up, and we only want gold this time, no clothes, no food.”
“We need that food, boss. The supplies aren’t here yet. Besides, some of the food we get from the Inka is a lot better than what Corporate used to send us.”
“Send the fucking runner!” Macalister screamed. His face contorted with rage, and a fleck of spittle flew from his lips. “I’m the motherfucker in charge here, do you understand that? Don’t you ever question me again, Gage. Goddammit, you make me so mad I can’t think straight.”
“Sorry, boss.”
Gage stood and walked to the door. Macalister stared out the window and ignored him until he closed the door. He felt a headache growing behind his left eye.
The corporate monkey had assured him that he had a paycheck coming with the three years of backpay on it. He needed to figure out how to cross over to the Genesis Dimension, empty his bank account and get back here without raising any red flags. Then he had to find a way to get all the gold melted down into bars that he could transport by himself. After that, he needed to find a dimension he could escape to for his retirement. The headache was getting worse.
