| From: | Paul J. Adam ShadowTK@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Opportunity Costs |
| Date: | Sat, 15 Jul 2000 15:25:29 +0100 |
>>>>>[Back in the badlands, my man...
Three weeks to plan and prepare. Thirty minutes to execute. Shame about
the mess.
+++++begin video
The camera's mounted in someone's clothing. Near their shoulder, it
seems, as they climb out of a metallic-blue Westwind. Parked in a
private, fenced lot, amidst some equally handsome rolling iron, it's not
out of place.
The cameraperson might be, as she reaches into the Westwind's back seat:
not because of the superbly-cut sleeve of her black leather coat, not
because of the handsomely-tooled, butter-soft leather of her gloves, but
because of the exquisite, simple beauty of the _katana_ she's lifting
out and slipping into its home inside her long coat.
Walking through the revolving door into Reception (past plastic fake-
plants, with two overweight guards looking bemused as she unwinds a
black silk scarf from around her head and removes sunglasses) the camera
closes fast on the receptionist: pretty, young, Elven, wearing a blouse
cut two inches too low and a skirt that's at least as much too short.
"I'm here to see the site manager and the security chief." The
camerawoman's voice is female, with an accent split between Georgia and
Tarislar: that and the sword, are enough to identify her.
"I'm afraid you can't-"
"You'll find I can. Get your site manager, your acting security chief,
and some good coffee together in a room with usable chairs." Easy's tone
is entirely reasonable. "You have two minutes. After that, you can shake
your ass out onto the street and look for trade, 'cause you'll be
fired."
"Okay, miss, that's enough. You're leaving." One of the guards grabs
Easy's shoulder.
Easy turns, and smiles. "If you want to keep that hand, move it."
"Look, lady, if you want to make trouble, we can-" The guard is over two
hundred pounds of flesh, and obviously quite happy that the slender
Elven woman might make 'trouble' that would require her to be detained,
stripped and body-cavity-searched at leisure.
Until Easy does something blurringly fast and he staggers backwards.
Blood pours over the fingers of his hands as he tries to hold his
slashed throat together, making a hideous gargling noise from his ruined
larynx.
The second guard, who had been ambling over to join in the fun, is
beginning to reach for his holstered pistol when Easy aims both the old,
serviceable and adequately lethal Beretta M92FS automatics at his face.
"Go for it. Draw. Move. Please."
There is a tense moment, broken only by the sounds of the first security
guard falling to the floor where he continues drowning in his own blood.
"Uh... if I could know who you _are_?" the receptionist asks, with the
mechanical routine of deep, deep fear.
"I'm Julia Wolfe. As of nine a.m. today, I own this site and everything
and everyone on it." Easy says, clicking on the safeties of both pistols
and holstering them inside her coat. "Give me one of those tissues." The
receptionist, still in shock, complies, and Easy begins wiping blood off
her glove. "Now, you have less than a minute to get that meeting set
up."
"You... _own_ the site?" the security guard asks, shocked.
"Bought it yesterday. You're fired for being stupid."
"Hey! You can't do that-"
Easy blows smoke from the pistol's muzzle. Again, the draw was very,
very fast: the shot, rather accurate: the guard falls like a tree,
bleeding from the 9mm hole in his forehead. "You bore me. And you, miss,
are inefficient and slow."
"I'm trying! I'm trying! Ms. Pruge isn't answering her phone!"
"Is that _my_ problem?" Easy asks, amused.
Another security guard runs into the reception area, this one waving a
submachinegun: stopping dead at the sight of the two corpses, the
terrified receptionist, and the Elven samurai, who asks him "Yes?" over
the sights of her pistol.
"I... I... oh, God... I..."
"Take your time. What were you trying to say?"
The guard bends over and vomits on the carpet, splashing his shoes: the
submachinegun dangles, forgotten, on its sling. Meanwhile the
receptionist is babbling into her telephone, having finally got through.
"Five... four... three..." Easy counts down.
"Executive conference room!" the receptionist shrieks.
Turning to the vomiting guard, Easy takes his submachinegun (a Sandler
TMP - the bolt's forward, the weapon uncocked) by cutting the sling.
"Take me to the executive conference room, please."
"You killed them!"
"Yes, and I'll kill you unless you start walking. Move." Easy makes her
point clearer by bending the Sandler's barrel through about thirty
degrees, then handing it back to the guard: who, startled and afraid,
leads the way into the building.
The "executive conference room" is. in fact, conveniently close to
Reception, so that important visitors might not have to walk far.
Inside, are five more security guards, weapons nervously raised, and a
thirtysomething woman in a remarkably nice suit. "Ms. Wolfe. A pleasure
to meet you." is her opening line to Easy.
"Annabel Pruge, correct? Good. Take a seat and lose the meatballs."
"The... meatballs?"
"The bozos, the goons. Either they put the peashooters down and leave,
or I'll kill them for you."
Pruge pauses a moment, weighs the options, turns to one of the guards.
"Get them out, Tony."
"But -"
"Get them out or you're fired. Assuming Ms. Wolfe leaves you alive."
With just Easy, Pruge and 'Tony' left, the room is rather more roomy.
Pruge breaks the silence first. "So, Ms. Wolfe, you've... bought the
Chardy site. May I ask what you intend to do?"
"Take it over, run it my way, all the usual." Easy replies amiably. She
sits, carefully adjusting her coat-tails so the long sword sheathed
within isn't fouled (though its simple but elegant grip and hilt are
clearly visible). "Which reminds me - one moment?" Taking her 'phone
from a pocket, she autodials a number, says a short sentence, hangs up
on the acknowledgement. "Your security force are surplus to
requirements. I've got Serenity on contract for the site."
"Serenity! How the hell do you expect to afford-"
"Tony, be quiet. Ms. Wolfe has her plans. Where does Tony fit into your
scheme?"
"He doesn't. If he's a good boy, he gets his full severance package. If
he misbehaves, I kill him." Easy shrugs. "I'm planning to alter the
extraterritoriality of this site, but while I've got it I can use it."
"That extreme?"
"You _have_ the capital offence of 'activities detrimental to the well-
being of the Company', don't you?" The Elf laughs. "I own the company, I
decide what is or isn't good for it. Judge, jury, executioner. Tony,
here's the deal. You turn over all Morant's files and data. You lead
your men out of the door without trouble or protest. And you all get a
full month's salary plus I won't screw up your references or make
trouble with the cops over all the shit you did here. Or, you try to
fuck with me and I kill you. Decide."
"I'll get the files." 'Tony' rises, leaves.
"You seem to have scared him." Pruge comments.
"Quite the opposite." Easy shakes her head, switches chairs and draws
both pistols. "He should have listened better."
"You mean he's...?"
"I'll give you good money he comes back through that door screaming
abuse and shooting." Easy sighs. "Oh, well, it saves me some money."
"Tony? I doubt it. He's never seemed the type to-"
The door flies open, revealing Tony and at least one other guard, who
fire a fusillade of bullets at the chair Easy had previously occupied:
both are downed before they can correct their error. Easy moves, fast
and fluid, to the door and checks the corridor outside: clear. Tony
makes a coughing noise, and gets another two bullets in the head, before
Easy returns to her seat.
"Now, where were we?" she asks.
"About to negotiate my position."
"I don't need you, and you'd be in my way. How much do you want to leave
quietly?"
Pruge doesn't bat an eyelid. "Thirty thousand, cash, and excellent
references. I can get another job easily, as long as you don't screw
with me. For that I'll give you my home 'phone number and all the
confidential files. Including Morant's data. Tony never had it."
Easy nods. "That's fair. You've got a deal." She hands over three
credsticks.
"You trust me?"
"No. Look outside." As the women were speaking, two armoured vans have
pulled into the visitor's car park, next to Easy's metallic-blue
Westwind. A dozen security guards are disembarking, as unlike the site
rentagoons as wolves are to cattle. "I trust _them_."
"Touche." Pruge smiles. "But I'd have kept the deal anyway."
"Yeah, I know, you're most interested in that next job. Don't your ex-
owners want you back?"
"They may do. But since they didn't see fit to keep me informed, or to
offer me a new post, I'll check the market first. The files are in my
office: here are the access codes."
A quick bustle of activity follows. The last of the dispirited guards
are disarmed and herded off-site, the four corpses hauled away, Easy
verifies that she's got full access to the former manager's files, and
she spends a little while reading through them - especially the private
records kept by Tom Morant, the late head of site security. Finally, she
makes a call. "Get Joe Lee up here."
Lee is nervous, and tense, as he comes in. Easy definitely wasn't what
he was expecting, though. "Uh... I was here to see the manager?"
"As of this morning, _I_ am the manager. Didn't you hear?"
"Just the buzz that we'd changed security companies." Lee still stands,
in stained blue work overalls, squeezing his cap in one hand.
"True. The new guys are much more professional, you'll find them a lot
more pleasant to deal with. That's not what I brought you here for,
though. Sit. Please."
Lee does, though he seems fearful that the chair might bite him.
"I understand you were trying to organise a union here?"
The Elven man's face is a picture of terror. "Look, that was a mistake,
I straightened it all out with the management and we agreed to let it
all drop, it's dead and buried-"
"Resurrect it." Easy says mildly.
"...what?"
"Resurrect it. I'm prepared to recognise a labour union here at Chardy."
If Easy had hit Lee in the head with a two-by-four, he might have looked
less stunned.
"And what's in that for you?" he finally recovers himself enough to ask.
"Short term, a big black hole in my balance sheet. Medium term, a big
opportunity." Easy leans forward. "Joe, you know that mercenary unit
based down south? I've got close ties with them. They have a lot of
specialist repair work. One-off jobs that need skilled machinists. We
could handle a lot of that for them here. Pays well for us, still
cheaper for them. But we'd need reliable, trained workers, good at their
jobs. We'd need a clean room, because some of the work is aerospace-
grade. We'd need to really cut down on labour turnover, we'd need to
slash our defect and rework rate... I can't do that with slave labour."
"So what's the deal?"
"I figured on a twenty per cent raise across the board, for everyone who
signs up to this." Easy hands over a document: Lee reads it carefully.
"Then... well, the last couple of pages are the first cut of the new
bonus scheme."
"This is... interesting. You've got _less_ power under this, than you do
now?"
"Keeps people honest. I won't be running the site personally, and anyway
I'm not a very nice person."
"You're not?"
"Nope. I killed four of your security guards this morning." That
definitely rattles Lee, as Easy continues "But once this goes through,
the extraterritoriality gets cut right back. Full extradition, most of
the UCAS code of laws, just some administrative conveniences."
"Like minimum wage?"
"You need a SIN to qualify for minimum wage, Joe. Which is why we'll try
to get people registered."
"And how's that meant to happen?"
"Simple. We _make_ it happen. You need a job and references. Well, what
do you think this is? Get people SINs and they get more protection, in
and out of work, which I need if I'm going to build up the skillbase
here."
"You'll also lose a lot of people to uptown companies."
"Some. Not many. You any idea how much an uptown apartment costs? It'll
be a while before anyone's able to jump ship. And we'll just have to
keep training. Skills equal salary, Joe, results equal dough, and a SIN
gives you more clout and more voice."
"This is an... unusual proposition for a Barrens plant." Lee says, still
suspicious.
"Yep. I have my reasons and they're good ones. One I _will_ share - I'm
just really curious as to whether it'll work or not. I made it work once
before, now let's see if I can do it again."
"Where was that?"
"The Easy Eight. My place. You drink Eightball or Infinity, you're
supping my brew." Easy grins, leans back.
"Damn! You - hell, okay. You got a deal." Lee shakes his head. "Why
didn't you just say?"
"Because this is a business deal, and if we lose _too_ much money here
and aren't turning the corner then I'll sell up and move on. Because I
need you to understand where we're going, so you can sell it to the
workforce. You with me on this?"
"I am _not_ getting in the way." Lee rises. "Look... I need to talk to
some people around the site."
"Go for it. Come see me again over lunch. Oh, I changed the caterers,
too." Easy chuckles. "See you soon, Joe."
+++++end video
It's going to cost some, turning that around. Luckily, I have a large
stash of cash and this is a perfect way to launder it. And, even with
higher manpower costs, we should be breaking even within six months or
so.
Thoughts?]<<<<<
-- Easy <15:13:45/07-15-61>
*****PRIVATE: Easy
>>>>>[Nicely done, Boss. A little violent, but then that's always your
style, and for once it's all legal...
I'd say nine months rather than six for break-even, with a loss of about
four million nuyen until then. Don't forget we've got some seriously
antiquated machinery to repair or replace - the last owners were just
running the factory to destruction.
After that... well, you'll never make it 'profitable' in a conventional
business sense, you'd be better off uptown for that. But we can get it
earning, even if it's not the best return, and it lets us launder the
Vegas cash.
And even if you don't admit it, I feel good about it. That place was a
drekhole, now it's not.
No fuss, no notice, no attention - yet. Wonder if anyone noticed?]<<<<<
-- Vincenzo <15:32:16/07-15-61>
