The Economy, Stupid

14th of Culminations through 19th of Culminations, in the fifth year of the reign of House Redwater, on Alshain Magna and Al Niyat

Marcus Laurent, staring at the desk-screen in blind panic, knew that he did not, in fact, cause the crash.  That whether or not he was there, the crash had far more significant causes than a barely-noticed change of who the head of a still-small-and-growing House's Mercantile section was.  That didn't stop the blame coming to him from all sides--and from inside himself. 

It couldn't be a coincidence, could it, that Vincent left and things fell apart?  Sure, Vincent hadn't been pleasant to work with, but most of the people were used to him, and Marcus sometimes felt as if he were made of knives, cutting and cutting everyone around him.  How had Salamah trusted him, why had he trusted him?  Didn't Salamah know that Marcus would be crushed by this!

He slumped in the comfy seat of the interplanetary transport that was taking him to Al Niyat for an emergency meeting. 

Several minor local parties had been revealed as double-dealing and corrupt and that, combined with a scandal involving a false plague scare.  And there was the simple fact that the boom that had started five months before was entirely unsustainable.  Hundreds of thousands were out of work already.  And it was going to get worse long before it got better.  The prosperity had led to rising prices, and dozens of unions across the planet had gone on strike at the beginning of Culminations, demanding a cost-of-living adjustment to match the growing economy.  And then, just as suddenly, even their current pay wouldn't be afforded.  That would be a few hundred thousand more, probably.  Then there were the riots, and the disasterous interview with Senator Herrin, who had been her usual charming self.

And then there was that eruption...

It was a mess, and looking down at the notes, at the way the profits had dropped through the floor, he knew there were no simple solutions.

*****

"We can still save it," said the Chairman of the Al Niyat Art Institute, "And we can also save the Narcotics division," he said, nodding at his colleague, "If we just cut a few things here and there...the contracts for next year are already submitted for finalization...there's nothing the shippers and workers could do to stop us from cutting their benefits, a bit, and they'd still have their jobs..."

Marcus, who had been having this conversation for the past four hours, groaned and said, "No.  We close down the art institute, we let everyone go with full benefits and a months salary and--"

When Salamah made decisions like that, everyone started nodding in agreement or acceptance.  Here, they all started yelling at once.  The conference room was filled with twenty people, and suddenly nineteen of them were yelling at the bewildered twentieth man, or thrusting holo-plans in his face, filled with ideas of how to make it all work without having to really change anything.  It washed over him as he trembled, seeming to shrink in his seat.

Finally, after a dozen more minutes he shook his head, "We are closing down the Narcotics trade, but not the facility.  The Al-Niyat art institute is also going down, and if anyone doesn't like it, they can quit!"

He hadn't expected anyone to actually quit, let alone half of the directors, leaving him alone with eight other resentful men and women.  "What are we going to replace all of that lost revenue with?"  The Narcotics trade had been making a slim profit, unlike the art industry.

Marcus felt ill.  Not only had he lost half of the planet's top people, but his brother had relied on the art institute as a funnel for pieces into his soon-to-be opened Museum, and the name of the Institute had already been printed up--with fully three-dimensional advertising--in all of the programs for the opening ceremonies, only twenty-one days off.  It sounded like a lot of time, but it wasn't, really.  "We're..."  he trailed off, groaning.  He hated hard work, but at this point, nothing but it was going to salvage a damn thing.  "Get me everything you have on the current economy, and all the records from all the trades we've made on Al Niyat and I'll...I'll figure something out," he said without much confidence.

*******
24th of Culminations through the 26th of Culminations, in the 5th year of the reign of Yale Redwater, Al Niyat

Marcus had forgotten how good booze tasted.  It wasn't of any recognizable vintage, but he hoped it would fortify him for the (luckily one-way) message he was going to send Salamah.  Since it would taken a few hours to go through the transmission queue and get there, that would give him an excuse to avoid hearing a reply right away, especially since he was already tipsy by the time he pushed play.

He outlined his situation hotly, annoyance clear in his voice, and summarized all that he'd learned: a damn lot of information, inferences and ideas, but most of it useless, and then moved to get out of the way the most important matter in order to get to what he was really looking forward to...yelling at Salamah from a safe distance with no way for the Duke to reply back...at least not yet.

He'd determined that some, but not all, of the money might be made up in a slightly off-kilter field.  Luxury items and goods.  It wasn't what one would expect considering the crash, but those who had emerged untouched suddenly wanted to show it off, and Laurent Trading could be the supplier to all the companies and groups whose target demographic was out-of-touch-rich-idiots.  The profits wouldn't be amazing, but they'd keep what remained of the Al Niyat business afloat.

"But," he said, chugging some more, spilling it all over his already-dirty shirt, his eyes as red as a gaping wound, "I shouldn't have to do this shit, you asshole!  I shouldn't be here in this..."

He ranted on and on for a full hour, ending it with, "And I'm not sorry, and I hate you, and I would have been better off if you had just left me back on  Canopus!"

Four hours later, almost sober, and having had to be bailed out--after punching a bystander in the head--by one of his subordinates, he was starting to regret what he'd said.  He checked to see whether there was a response.

The next day passed, no response.

And then on the twenty-sixth the message was, "I have received your communication," Salamah said without a hint of emotion one way or another, "Note you will not be allowed back into the compound drunk.  Have a good trip."

Angrily, Marcus reached for the hooch.





***********
24th of Culminations through the 26th of Culminations, in the fifth year of the reign of House Redwater, Alshain Magna


Salamah stared at the wall, and reached for the wine, taking a carefully small sip.  He wanted to fire back with angry words, or...or something, and the fact that this was his first hot instinct meant it was no doubt the wrong reaction.

So he took out the date Marcus had sent, and began to marvel.  A thousand implications, ideas, suggestions, not all of them good, and none of them huge on their own, leapt into life.  The mining industry on Al Niyat had been battered horribly by the crash, even though, already, there were signs that the economy was beginning to pick itself up.  He could scoop. up facilities on the cheap, use easy-bought data to all but find directions to untapped and somewhat undiscovered veins.  There was wealth in that volcanic world.

And the fact that Al Niyat wasn't actually having a love affair with its Senator might be just a brief problem, nothing important, or it could be a way in.  And the decision to switch to luxuries had been an inspired one, really.

And yet that rant, and the way...

He called his wife, and she picked up.  Her smile faded into nothing at his face, and Salamah said, bluntly, "Marcus is cracking and breaking.  If he is torn to pieces by this," he promised, "There will be consequences.  Dire ones."  He checked that the connection is secure, "I am fully willing to destroy any cancerous, harmful entity that is tearing my family apart.  I will not hold back, and I have long learned that mercy is a strength best cultivated by the well-bred."  He looked deep into where her eyes would be, his face hard and without the least semblance of mercy.

She had suddenly realized that not only would he go through with it, he wouldn't hesitate for a moment.  She cut the connection with a nod, looking sick, and drained.

And then he spent a long time trying to figure out what to say.

In the end, he couldn't find the words, so simply said.

"I have received your communication," and here he had to fight to keep the tears, the shouts, the emotion from his face.  He could hardly stand it.  "Note you will not be allowed back into the compound drunk. Have a good trip."  He couldn't find any other words and, in desperation, he shut it off, tried again a dozen more times, and each was worst than the last.  Finally, realizing he'd already stalled for two days, he sent off the first, and put his head in his hands.

Cast:

Marcus Laurent, 38:  The alcoholic brother of Salamah Laurent, suddenly thrust into a role he was entirely unprepared for, Head of the Mercantile arm of the Laurent family.

Salamah Laurent, 50:  A man who loves his brother, and cannot say it, hates his wife, and will not say it, and despises fools, and should not say it.

Jamilla Laurent, 57:  Salamah's wife.  Her well meaning attempt to help Marcus seems to have gone wrong, as evidenced by her realisation that she is married to a man who would murder her if her accidents, however intentional, led to Marcus' self-destruction.