Elizabeth Moon - The Speed of Dark

Had Crenshaw already made deals with someone in HR, in Accounting, in Legal, in Research? What kind of deals? He didn’t want to use Crenshaw’s name at first; he wanted to see what reaction he got without it.

Shirley was still in Accounting; Aldrin called her. “Remind me what kind of paperwork I need if someone’s being transferred to another section,” he said to start with. “Do I take it off my budget right away or what?”

“Transfers are frozen,” Shirley said. “This new management—” He could hear her take a breath. “You didn’t get the memo?”

“Don’t think so,” Aldrin said. “So — if we have an employee who wants to take part in a research protocol, we can’t just transfer their pay source to Research?”

“Good grief, no!” Shirley said. “Tim McDonough — you know, head of Research — would have your hide tacked to the wall in no time.” After a moment, she said, “What research protocol?”

“Some new drug thing,” he said.

“Oh. Well, anyway, if you have an employee who wants to get on it, they’ll have to do it as a volunteer — stipend’s fifty dollars per day for protocols that require overnight clinic residence, twenty-five dollars per day for others, with a minimum of two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, with clinic residence they also get bed and board and all necessary medical support. You wouldn’t get me to test drugs for that, but the ethics committee says there shouldn’t be a financial incentive.”

“Well… would they still get paid their salary?”

“Only if they’re working or it’s paid vacation time,” Shirley said. She chuckled. “It would save the company money if we could make everyone into a research subject and just pay the stipends, wouldn’t it? Lot simpler accounting — no PICA or FUCA or state withholding. Thank God they can’t.”

“I guess so,” Aldrin said. So, he wondered, what was Crenshaw planning to do about pay and about research stipends? Who was funding this? And why hadn’t he thought of this before? “Thanks, Shirley,” he said belatedly.

“Good luck,” she said.

So, supposing the treatment would take, he realized he had no idea how long it might take. Was that in the stuff Crenshaw had given him? He looked it up and read it carefully, lips pursed. If Crenshaw hadn’t made some arrangement to have Research fund Section A’s salary, then he was converting technical staff with seniority to low-paid lab rats… and even if they were out of rehab in a month (the most optimistic estimate in the proposal) that would save… a lot of money. He ran the figures. It looked like a lot of money, but it wasn’t, compared to the legal risks the company would run.

He didn’t know anybody high on the tree in Research, just Marcus over in Data Support. Back to Human Resources… with Betty gone, he tried to remember other names. Paul. Debra. Paul was on the list; Debra wasn’t.

“Make it snappy,” Paul said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“One of the famous ten percent,” Paul said. Aldrin could hear the anger in his voice. “No, the company’s not losing money, no, the company’s not cutting personnel; they just happen to be no longer in need of my services.”

Icy fingers ran down his back. This could be himself next month. No, today, if Crenshaw realized what he was doing.

“Buy you coffee,” Aldrin said.

“Yeah, like I need something to keep me awake nights,” Paul said.

“Paul, listen. I need to talk to you, and not on the phone.”

A long silence, then, “Oh. You, too?”

“Not yet. Coffee?”

“Sure. Ten-thirty, snack bar?”

“No, early lunch. Eleven-thirty,” Aldrin said, and hung up. His palms were sweaty.

“So, what’s the big secret?” Paul asked. His face showed nothing; he sat hunched over a table near the middle of the snack bar.

Aldrin would have chosen a table in the corner, but now — seeing Paul out in the middle — he remembered a spy thriller he’d seen. Corner tables might be monitored. For all he knew, Paul was wearing a… a wire, they called it. He felt sick.

“C’mon, I’m not recording anything,” Paul said. He sipped his coffee. “It will be more conspicuous if you stand there gaping at me or pat me down. You must have one helluva secret.”

Aldrin sat, his coffee slopping over the edge of his mug. “You know my new division head is one of the new brooms—”

“Join the club,” Paul said, with an intonation of get on with it .

“Crenshaw,” Aldrin said.

“Lucky bastard,” Paul said. “He’s got quite a reputation, our Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Yeah, well, remember Section A?”

“The autistics, sure.” Paul’s expression sharpened. “Is he taking after them ?

Aldrin nodded.

“That’s stupid,” Paul said. “Not that he’s not, but — that’s really stupid. Our Section Six-fourteen-point-eleven tax break depends on ’em. Your division is marginal anyway for Six-fourteen-point-eleven employees, and they’re worth one-point-five credits each. Besides, the publicity…”

“I know,” Aldrin said. “But he’s not listening. He says they’re too expensive.”

“He thinks everyone but himself is too expensive,” Paul said. “He thinks he’s underpaid, if you can believe it.” He sipped his coffee again. Aldrin noticed he didn’t say what Crenshaw was paid, even now. “We had a time with him when he came through our office — he knows every benefit and tax trick in the book.”

“I’m sure,” Aldrin said.

“So what’s he want to do, fire them? Dock their pay?”

“Threaten them into volunteering for a human-trials research protocol,” Aldrin said.

Paul’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding! He can’t do that!”

“He is.” Aldrin paused, then went on. “He says there’s not a law the company can’t get around.”

“Well, that may be true, but — we can’t just ignore the laws. We have to subvert them. And human trials — what is it, a drug?”

“A treatment for adult autistics,” Aldrin said. “Supposed to make them normal. It supposedly worked on an ape.”

“You can’t be serious.” Paul stared at him. “You are serious. Crenshaw’s trying to bully Category Six-fourteen-point-eleven employees into stage-one human trials on something like that? It’s asking for a publicity nightmare; it could cost the company billions—”

“You know that and I know that, but Crenshaw… has his own way of looking at things.”

“So — who signed off on it upstairs?”

“Nobody that I know of,” Aldrin said, crossing mental fingers. That was the literal truth, because he hadn’t asked.

Paul no longer looked sour and sulky. “That power-mad idiot,” he said. “He thinks he can pull this off and gain ground on Samuelson.”

“Samuelson?”

“Another one of the new brooms. Don’t you keep up with what’s going on?”

“No,” Aldrin said. “I’m not any good at that sort of thing.”

Paul nodded. “I used to think I was, but this pink slip proves I’m not. But anyway, Samuelson and Crenshaw came in as rivals. Samuelson’s cut manufacturing costs without raising a ripple in the press — though that’s going to change soon, I think. Anyway, Crenshaw must think he can pull a triple play — get some volunteers who’ll be too scared for their jobs to complain about it if something goes wrong, push it through all on his own without letting anyone else know, and then take the credit. And you’ll go down with him, Pete, if you don’t do something.”

“He’ll fire me in a second if I do,” Aldrin said.

“There’s always the ombudsman. They haven’t cut that position yet, though Laurie’s feeling pretty shaky.”