Deep Space Accountant: The Sphere of Influence, #1

To Sarah

As a qualified chartered management accountant, the author is entitled to use the letters ACMA after his name. However, in choosing to adopt the letters ACRA the author pays homage to The Chartered Institute of Relativistic Accountants, which does not exist. Yet.

O N E

Elton found himself unmarked and floating through wide open space. The defence was split. Eight seconds remained on the clock, and it all came down to this:

Goal. Trajectory. Pig.

Hangball! It’s all about belief.

He picked out Walther, moving along the meridian, in possession. They made eye contact.

Game on.

Walther rotated, arms windmilling, and released the pig with perfect timing. The pig rifled along an imaginary line intersecting Elton’s own vector line.

Elton licked his lips. He rubbed his hands together. This was what it was all about. Glory. Triumph. How many years had they waited?

Goal. Trajectory. Pig.

And – at last – belief that was tangible.

He closed in on the hurtling pig; two hundred pounds of pink, low-friction, tactile-plastic-encased ballast. In the FHA rule book they called it a ball, but it wasn’t round and it didn’t bounce. Everyone else named it for what it most resembled: a pig – even though nobody knew what a pig was – something to do with Old Earth and sausages. Something from once-upon-a-time, something alive and not very nice.

Where the vector lines intersected, pig and player would meet and cross the goal line together. Three points. An outcome as inevitable as the movement of the planets in their orbits. An outcome driven by immutable laws.

Five seconds.

Elton’s team trailed five points to six, but there were three points if you carried the pig over the line.

Victory was possible. No, victory was assured.

Unless Elton dropped it.

Because, as the pig drew nearer, Elton felt his body begin to twist.

Use your legs! Jim’s voice, in his ear – Jim, his loyal and ever-present imentor.

Shut it, Jim, I’m concentrating.

"You’re losing it, Elton. You have axial rotation. You have to use your legs!"

Elton kicked and blustered and squirmed. His movement demonstrated all the qualities of a lifelong sports loser.

The gap narrowed.

No cheers. Few sounds, just the occasional squeak of Nikes off the Octahedron walls. Elton’s team, Third Floor Finance, coming from behind. The KP Audit Atoms, on the verge of losing a hard-fought lead. Each could only watch the drama unfold, and pray.

Goal. Trajectory. Pig.

Elton.

Pig.

Impact!

Elton twisted, arms flailing in a desperate search for a catch. The pig smacked him in the face – a meaty, sweaty, prize-fighter kind of wallop – and ricocheted harmlessly away to one side of the goal. Elton bounced off to the other side.

Game over.

The hangchamber lights dimmed, leaving just the red safety lamps.

Silence from both teams. Then the KP Audit Atoms exploded into whoops and jeers of delight.

Elton’s teammates gaped. KP were only in this league to make the other teams look good. They were ecstatic. The final game of the season and now KP Audit were only the second worst team in the Kenilworth Transit Hangball League.

The background whine of the ZG generators dropped in pitch. The sense of up and down emerged, and the players sank to what was now the floor. They left the hangchamber; KP leaping and high-fiving; TFF trudging, heads down.

Elton walked out last. Alone.

In the changing rooms, the smell of old trainers and sweat.

Don’t give up the day job, someone muttered.

Why? said another. He’s a crap accountant, too.

Walther came over to Elton and put an arm around his friend’s shoulder.

We’ll get them next time, compagno. At least they didn’t thrash us. We gave them a game tonight.

Elton pulled his shirt over his head and threw it onto the bench. It slithered down between the grey plastic slats into a netherworld of finger-burning steam pipes, darkness and dust bunnies. He dropped onto the bench and held his head in his hands, sprouts of glistening black hair sticking out through his fingers. His pale, wiry frame, all angular lines and jutting bones, gave him the appearance of a sad bundle of sticks.

"Why do we bother? Why do I bother? Who am I trying to kid, Walther? I can’t play hangball. Never could. I’m quitting the team. The guys are right. I am an accountant. He said the last part in a loud voice aimed at his teammates. Then, in a quieter voice, I do numbers. Finance. I should be more… serious."

You can’t quit, Elton. We’re the guys; me and you, the Strike Force. We lost because the others didn’t understand our tactics. One day the premiership scouts will spot us and our bean-counting days will be over.

It was a frequent line of make-believe.

Walther clapped him on the shoulder. Let’s shower and go up to the bar. Your shout. You owe us tonight, compagno.

A hangchamber is a truncated octahedron. An Archimedean solid consisting of eight hexagons and six squares. The Kenilworth Leisure Dome boasted four hangchambers, positioned around the lounge bar. The lounge’s location at the hub created a fussy, hexagonal room with complex angled geometry for walls. Picture windows looked out into each hangchamber.

Elton hesitated at the door.

A mocking cheer went up from a large group clustered around a table near to the Chamber Four window. They’d seen Elton.

Ignore them, said Walther. Or then again we could go over there and fight them.

Oh, perfect. You want to round off the day by getting our asses kicked?

Walther shrugged and headed for a table at the opposite end of the room. Tonight they’d be drinking alone; their teammates had left by the back door. Elton weaved through the tables to reach the bar in the centre of the room. It was hexagonal, as were the tables and chairs, the mirrors and light fittings; even the drinks glasses.

I hate it here, said Elton, after setting two drinks on the low table, taking a sip and dribbling beer down his shirt. I hate these glasses. Whose stupid idea was it to do six-sided glasses? How are you meant to drink from this?

Well, I like to go for one of the angles. Then I just pour it down.

I hate this room. It’s all angles… and glass, and hexagonal floating lights. Everything’s hangball. I hate hangball, said Elton.

You don’t.

I do.

Not very happy tonight, are we, compagno?

He’s not very happy any night. The second voice came from Elton’s beer-stained shirt. It was Jim, his imentor.

You’re meant to be supportive, Jim. And you’re not meant to butt into conversations.

He turned back to Walther. Does yours do that? Does your Jim keep sticking his oar in when you’re trying to talk?

Yeah, all the time, said Walther. I buy cheap clothes from the bodged AIs down the market, though. Most of their stuff’s dumb, so you get to take a break from your Jim now and again.

Is he with you now?

Yeah. Smart pants, said Walther, patting his trouser leg. The shirt’s dumb, though, so my Jim’ll have to shout if he wants to contribute to our conversation. It’s a cool shirt, don’t you think?

Walther pulled the shirt to stretch the wrinkles out so that Elton could read the writing across the chest.

Abel Bartholomew Smith: Shrinking the Sphere.

Who’s Abel Bartholomew Smith?

Protest singer. He’s doing a gig in town in a couple of months, at The Revolution. You want to go?

It’s not country, is it? Elton asked.

No. It’s not country. Why do you have to put that tone on when you say ‘country’, like it’s contagious? You have a real downer on good music, don’t you?

I don’t have a problem with good music, Walther. I just have a problem with your weird, Earthy cowboy music, that’s all. I mean, the music’s bad enough, but all that dressing up, the boots and the funny hats. It’s… I don’t know, it’s kind of deviant if you ask me.

Well I’m not asking you, and you don’t have to worry. ABS is nothing like that. But he’s good. Kind of profound. Songs with a message, yeah?

Elton shrugged. Okay, why not. It isn’t as if we have much else to do. Life’s kind of predictable these days: sleep, work, hangball, beer…

Elton took a sip of his drink and pulled a face.

Beer’s terrible here, too. What are we doing, Walther? What happened?

Walther shrugged.

I’m thirty years old, said Elton.

I know. Bummer.

You are too, Walther. Well, almost.

I have no problem with thirty.

Really? Hand on heart? So come on, thirty years; what have we done? What have we seen? How many worlds are in the Sphere?

Walther ignored him.

I’m serious. How many worlds are there, in the Human Sphere of Influence?

Well, hey, number boy, I should think you’d have a better idea than me. Fifteen thousand? Sixteen?

"I’m not talking about the whole bag of gravel; moons, planetissimals, asteroids – though you’re well shy of the number: it was 27,018 as of last Thursday’s Data and Statistics Digest."

Walther gave a wry smile and a hand gesture that said; there you go, see?

"Come on, Walther, how many inhabited worlds; proper colony worlds?"

Including the Ring?

If you like.

Twenty-seven.

"Twenty-eight, actually, but the number’s not important, not for what I’m saying, which is this: How many have we seen, you and me?"

I can manage that one, compagno.

"Yeah, well even you can count to two, Walther. Do you remember the dreams we shared back on Erymanthus? Let’s get off this dung ball? See the Sphere? Build a career?"

"We’ve got careers."

We’ve got jobs, said Elton. "Not careers. I’m supposed to be gaining post qual. experience. I’ve been a passed finalist for three years, and I’m no nearer to CIRA membership than I was when I started. I’m supposed to do stuff. Finance. Post Qualification Experience."

"At least you passed your finals," said Walther.

"You could pass. You could bluff it if you turned up for the exams once in a while. But then why bother? You, Walther, are just like me. If you scraped through your finals you’d just be stuck in zero-experience, passed-finalist limbo for all eternity. Qualified but not qualified. We don’t do anything, Walther. We count beans. When do we ever use the good stuff, like relativistic depreciation techniques, or WACC, or DCF?"

What’s WACC?

"Weighted Average Cost of Capital, in… you know what WACC is. You passed paper fifteen in your technicals before I did."

Walther pointed to his ear and twirled his finger. In and out, he said. "Long gone. You’re different to me, Elton. You know this stuff."

"I know the theory – knew the theory. I’ve never used any of it, and for me too it’ll be gone soon. Poof." Elton waved his hand in the air with an effeminate flourish to indicate the nebulous quality of all accountancy knowledge.

I want the letters, Walther.

They’re no big deal.

To me they are. ACRA. I want my junk mail addressed to Elton D Philpotts ACRA. Associate Member of the Chartered Institute of Relativistic Accountants. I want to make my dad proud. I’ve done the work. I’ve passed the exams. But I have to demonstrate post-qualification competence before they’ll make me a full member.

"Can’t you just join one of the ordinary institutes?" said Walther.

"You know it doesn’t work that way, and no. Boring. I’m relativistic qualified. I know the difference between the time value of an asset in local space, and that of an asset pegging along at near light speed. I can calculate it."

Can you?

Okay, no. But isn’t that the point? If I had the chance to apply some theory now and again. If I could put a real starship on an asset register, capitalise it, and see what happens when it zips off into the cosmos and its relative life dilates with time. Isn’t that how we learn?

It’s how we learn that it’s time to get out more.

"I need to do this, Walther. I want the reward. I need that post qual. record of experience."

Walther set his glass down on the rickety hexagonal table. He gave Elton a look that suggested he was about to become serious. He pushed the beer glasses to one side, reached into his pocket, and took out his paper. He unfolded it on the table, smoothing out the creases. If it had been real paper it would have soaked up the spilt beer. Instead the beer stuck it down onto the surface by capillary action. The lettering flickered as the power cells reacted to all the surplus alcohol.

Well, maybe now’s the time to do something about your needs, Elton. Look at this.

Elton said nothing. He watched, and waited.

Walther scrolled his finger up and down the margin, looking for a particular page, until a double-spread advert appeared.

There was a picture of a handsome young man in a red space suit (yellow was the Space Corps suit colour but artistic licence was in abundance here). His helmet was tucked under his arm. His hair, star-bleached, was blown backwards by the electron wind. In his hand he carried an ancient and preposterous leather briefcase. He was taking a step towards a cliff edge on what was clearly an alien world, for the sky was red and boasted a veritable menagerie of suns, moons and ringed planets. And there were alien trees. Red, of course. The trees were the clincher, because there were no trees, of any colour, anywhere in the Sphere. This was truly a unique and tantalising world.

Splashed across the top of the page, in red-and-yellow Buck Rogers font, were the words:

DEEP SPACE ACCOUNTANT

Walther stabbed a finger down on the page.

"This is for us, Elton. Look at it. Deep space. You’d get your ACRA letters with this gig, that’s for sure. Isn’t this why we came here, to Tsanak? Picture yourself in that spacesuit, on that hilltop. Think of the girls you could pull in an outfit like that."

We’ve applied to the Space Corps before, Walther.

"Yeah, but look. This is the real deal, not just some dull office support job. Deep Space Accountant. We’ll do it properly this time."

Elton turned the paper and studied it. He looked over at his friend, who was fidgeting and animated, pushing his glasses up his nose every few seconds because his head was nodding with excitement.

You’d have to get your eyes done, you know. They wouldn’t let you into deep space with glasses.

Nonsense. Besides, they’re like that briefcase; they’re a badge, a statement. They say: Here comes a serious, full-macking accountant. And you’re changing the subject. What do you think?

Elton scrolled down to the small print.

They want qualified or studiers.

You’re qualified.

I’m not qualified, I’m a PF, a passed finalist. And you haven’t looked at a textbook in four years.

And as of today, I’m studying level two CIRA, said Walther. I’m a studier.

Really?

Well, I am if we do this together. I get full exemption from level one because I passed my technicals.

You’ve gone into this, haven’t you?

"I’m serious, Elton. You’re right. What have we done since we came here? It’s time we got our asses into gear. In fact, listen in, I’ll show you commitment."

He bent to shout under the table.

Jim! Can you hear me down there, Jim?

A muffled voice came up from below. Oh, so now you want conversation?

Enough of the attitude, Jim. Send off an exam application for CIRA, level two, next sitting.

You realise the next exams are in six weeks? said Elton. He shook his head. "The sorry truth is, you probably could do it. I had to lock myself away for months on end, and work, and still I only ever managed to pass on resits. You can stroll and bluff and pass without effort even when you don’t understand a word of it. You just never managed to turn up for the exams."

"Meh! Pass? Fail? Irrelevant. I just need to be a studier. I don’t know what you’re whining for; you’ve already done it. So, come on. Elton? Are you in?"

I’m not impulsive, like you. I like to think things through.

"Oh come on, Philpotts, you dried-up old turd. Deep space! You started all this, tonight. You know you want it."

T W O

Tsanak had long been the planet of choice for sharp young professionals seeking fast-track advancement and good suits. The Space Corps adopted the planet as its corporate home decades earlier, after it realised the universe was not teeming with blood-thirsty, psychopathic aliens as everyone expected. In fact, the universe was not teeming with much, really. Not a lot of vegetation and the only aliens with any kind of evolutionary sophistication were the Teddies, and they were cuddly and not very bright.

So in a deft sleight of hand exercise, the Corps undertook a rapid rebranding program away from its military roots in order to maintain the high levels of funding to which the organisation and its officers had become accustomed. The Space Corps became the controllers of space: Its gates, its starships, its aspirations, its people. It became the most powerful and cohesive force of all the corporations in the entire Sphere of Influence; stronger by far than the scattered and isolated governments of the individual colony worlds; stronger even than the royal families of Old Earth.

When the Space Corps moved to New Leicester, corporate humanity scrambled to move with them. Land prices soared and, in a financial feeding frenzy, the other major corporations bribed, cheated and kneecapped their way to ownership of any old contaminated scrap of wasteland that became available in the city. To maximise their prestige and square footage they built high. Executives hot-bunked their desks, moved staff into their stationery cupboards and held meetings in the toilets when conference space ran dry. New Leicester became a sizzling, seething cauldron of corporate posturing.

So the Space Corps moved again. In an expression of individuality and impudence, they planted their sprawling new campus smack in the middle of the desert, miles south of the city limits. It was typical Space Corps, a stiff-fingered gesture right in the face of convention. The new headquarters was low, sleek, bright, airy and spacious; with grassy banks, water features and expensive corporate sculpture.

It was also far, far away from all of Tsanak’s transport infrastructure. A nine-thirty AM job interview – that’s what the email said – meant Elton had to coerce his Jim into a four AM alarm call. Four AM! Elton D Philpotts hadn’t seen four AM since he’d last woken his mother for breast milk.

Elton’s home was on the outskirts of Kenilworth, a town more than thirty miles north of New Leicester. It was not a fashionable town. Kenilworth could not lay claim to being in the sticks; it wasn’t even in the twigs and leaves.

Fifty years after colonists first arrived on Tsanak, the low, domed Kenilworth shelters, with a ten-year maximum life span, were still the predominant architecture in one remote settlement, so when it became a town they named it after the shelters. When the architects got around to redesigning downtown Kenilworth, they could have erected lofty, handsome towers and wide green parks. Instead they stayed with the grey motif and the single-storey look. A space that was in-keeping, was an oft-quoted phrase. They built downtown Kenilworth as if they were in a hurry to leave. A century on, and the shelters were still there.

A half-hour north of Downtown, Elton’s Kenilworth dome squatted low and grey in the poorer end of town. There wasn’t a richer end. Those who acquired money moved to New Leicester with all their worldly possessions tucked under their arms in small boxes.

As Elton locked his front door, it crossed his mind that today, this act of door-locking might somehow be symbolic. Today was his interview with the Space Corps. Today could be the day that his life moved onwards and upwards.

He turned to look at the street. Still dark. Good. There would be few of the usual tribal brigands hanging around on street corners to gob on him or to case his joint as he left.

It was raining. This also was good. It gave Elton an opportunity to survey his neighbourhood with a full palette of dismay. Rain didn’t make the pavements shine in Kenilworth, it slimed them. Rain, slime, yobs and the desperate domes of Kenilworth. These were images Elton needed to hold on to – to keep him motivated. Today he needed to excel. Peak performance. In just a few hours he was going to try to sweet-talk his way into the Space Corps.

His train was late. Twelve minutes. Others might fume and stomp, but not Elton. He worked for Kenilworth Transit, providers of trains, buses, overheads, and disappointment. He knew how it worked. His travel plans, as always, included an allowance. Elton didn’t need published timetables. He carried them in his head. Times were just numbers, and numbers were his thing. He knew all about the five-minute connection at New Leicester Central, a connection that was now toast. He didn’t worry; he had multiple contingencies with built-in triple redundancy.

He looked up at the sound of scraping, unlubricated metal on metal. His train. Car 59675584B in front. He recognised the sorry fifteen-degree tilt caused by age old failure in the suspension. He guessed 59674286B was connected behind, as it had been all year. Good.

Elton walked along the platform to where the rear car, 59674286B, would stop, because he knew that one particular seat in the last section, platform side, still had working form-fitting controls. The idea was for the seat to fit the unique shape of the passenger’s butt and thus provide exquisite comfort. Individual biometrics were supplied by each passenger’s imentor, his Jim or her Kim. But the seats no longer bothered to ask, or worse, they asked but were out of sync; they polled the imentor then cached the given biometrics and set themselves into the form of some previous passenger. Regular commuters were wise. They brought cushions. But Elton could go one better. He knew which seat worked.

The train pulled out and Elton relaxed in blissful, form-fitting comfort and stared out of the window at the endless vista of yellow gravel. He wasn’t looking at the scenery though; he was preparing, going through Accounting Standards in his head. Ever since Walther had talked him into applying for the Space Corps, Elton had thrown himself into CPD – Continuing Professional Development. It was all very well for Walther to fake his student status; if that worked for him then fine. But Elton had integrity. He could never fake such a thing, it would rip him apart.

That was the difference between he and Walther. Walther could fake and bluff and somehow get the answers right. Elton could study for weeks yet retain nothing. He could remember numbers, oh yes – Elton’s problem was forgetting numbers – but abstract concepts, and even facts, just never seemed to stick. He passed exams by force-feeding his brain. Walther would breeze through – all he needed was the will to turn up.

Right now Elton was trying to read GAS 57: Development Expenditure in Cultures with Predominantly Pre-Technological Political Attitudes. Number 57 out of 212 Galactic Accounting Standards. Elton could still remember the numbers but the content was gone. GAS 57 had recently been updated, so it was a worthwhile area for CPD – and it was relevant to opportunities in start-up colony worlds – just the thing for Space Corps wannabes. He’d read the standard a dozen times, or rather, his eyes had followed the words on the page. His brain, meanwhile, played fantasy hangball.

The battery time-out shut down his reader and he sighed. Elton folded it down to half-sheet size to squeeze out some power, and swiped down to page 286.

I can remember the figging page number, he thought. I can remember every irrelevant numerical connection, the coincidences; like the number 286 is also the last three digits of the carriage number in which I’m sitting. How about that?

But he was painfully aware that whenever he began reading the text of GAS 57 it was as though he’d never seen it before. Ever.

I have news.

GAS 57 provides for the amortization of certain classes of development expenditure only in circumstances where it can be demonstrated, by independent…

"Important news…"

Huh? Elton looked up.

… for you.

The eyes were blue and wide open and they hovered less than six inches away from Elton’s face. They were goggling eyes filled with wonder, and they belonged to a girl with no hair, dressed all in green. Monk’s robes. With a hood. She was sitting in the seat opposite Elton and leaning across, hands reaching out.

Excuse me? Elton jerked backwards to regain his personal space until he could retreat no further. The blue eyes moved in, coming so close it became hard to focus.

"Bram Lee loves you," she said, in a husky stage whisper.

Elton laughed without humour. His eyes flicked left then right, seeking help. The train had filled with grey, wet raincoats and commuter misery. But there were non-Monday smiles breaking out on some of the faces. Here was unexpected high-calibre entertainment to brighten their morning.

Look, miss…

Bram Lee, the bringer of tranquillity, has opened His heart to you this day. Will you not open your heart to Bram Lee?

Where was Jim when he needed him?

Jim!

Elton looked down, giving a wriggle to agitate his trousers and catch Jim’s attention.

"Wake up, Jim!" But Elton was wearing a raincoat – a pH ProtectorTM static repellent raincoat. Jim’s sensors couldn’t penetrate it. One of the problems with Tsanak rain was, if you got wet your clothes dissolved. So you wore pH protection and isolated your imentor. Elton’s trousers were top-of-the-range smart, but only the lower six inches protruded beneath the hem of his coat, and what could Jim do for him with just six inches of trouser-leg, down amongst the gum-wrappers?

Miss, look, this sounds like a religious thing. I’m, you know, not really into religion.

Elton knew about religion. His case study, the one that had haunted him for six whole months during his finals, had been about a nutty religious sect who’d bought an old starship so that they might go where no religious nut had gone before, and establish their own colony. As their financial advisor in the role-playing scenario, it had been Elton’s job to keep them solvent and well-advised throughout all the pitfalls and disasters that the evil examiner invented. One of the pitfalls had concerned sub-optimal revenue streams from street-corner evangelists.

I do not speak of religion. I speak of life, she snapped. The girl’s voice broke with passion. There was a desperate edge to it: panic, almost.

In the carriage, a carnival atmosphere. Smiling faces. Joyous relief that it was happening to someone else.

"I have opened up my heart to Bram Lee. Why can't you do the same?"

I’d like to, really, but... Elton showed her his reader, I’m trying to study, you see? I have a job interview.

An interview? How can you expect strangers to reach any conclusions about your place in the cosmos until you have studied the teachings of Bram Lee? Let Bram Lee be your teacher and life coach. Then go to your interview.

Well, okay. How is he on Galactic Accounting Standards and Ethics?

Do not make jokes. You should understand the intolerable sufferings that Bram Lee has had to endure – she leaned in even closer – "for you."

Elton knew all about intolerable sufferings.

The girl reached out and grabbed Elton’s lapels. She reeled him in. Their noses almost touched. Elton detected an aroma of mothballs. The green habit smelled like it had been inside an old suitcase for a long time.

Bram Lee cared for His children. Nurtured them. A tear formed in her eye and slowly rolled down her cheek.

"See how His children repay Him? He gives them a home; they flood it with their verminous offspring; they destroy that which He gave them. And then they leave. They spread out into the four corners of the universe, a slick tide of darkness and depravity, stealing worlds that do not belong to them!"

The lone tear turned to uncontrolled weeping and dribbling. Tears and snot flowed and splashed and bounced off Elton’s repellent raincoat, turning the air moist. The elderly male passenger next to Elton shrank away to one side, but his shoulders trembled in spasms of mirth.

Okay, look. Elton pushed the girl away as gently as he could. Just tell me what you want, yeah?

The tears stopped. She smiled.

With a conjurer’s flourish she produced a data wafer from the folds of her robe.

This contains all the teachings and philosophies of Bram Lee. It is for you. A gift. You may take it without obligation.

Oh. Okay. Thank you. I’ll look at it as soon as I can.

Elton took the wafer and moved to slip it into the pocket of his raincoat.

Disciples usually offer a small donation. We are reluctant to accept charity but production overheads are an unwelcome constraint on our teachings.

Elton’s hand stopped