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"And I didn t want to break up the set, I know. We stay here much longer, and
none of us will be able to leave a financial black hole. . . . Look, tap your
programs and tell me what happened to the downside personnel credit
account about 1600 London time tonight."
"Hm?" Her fingers conjured up arcane and colorful data displays from her
holovid console. "Oh, dear. It shouldn t have done that. Now where did the
money go . . . ? Ah, direct override. That explains it."
"Explain it to me," Miles prodded.
"Well," she turned to him, "of course when the fleet is on station for long at
any place with any kind of financial net at all, we don t just leave our liquid
assets sitting around."
"We don t?"
"No, no. Anything that isn t actually outgoing is held for as long as possible in
some sort of short-term, interest-generating investment. So all our credit
accounts are set to ride along at the legal minimum; when a bill comes due, I
cycle it through the computer and shoot just enough to cover it from the
investment account into the credit account."
"Is this, er, worth the risk?"
"Risk? It s basic good practice! We made over four thousand GSA federal
credits on interest and dividends last week, until we fell out of the minimum
amount bracket."
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"Oh," said Miles. He had a momentary flash about giving up war and playing
the stock market instead. The Dendarii Free Mercenary Holding Company?
Alas, the Emperor might have a word or two to say about that. . . .
"But these morons," Lieutenant Bone gestured at the schematic representing
her version of Danio s adventures that afternoon, "attempted to tap the
account directly through its number, instead of through Fleet Central
Accounting as
everyone has been told and told to do. And because we re riding so low at the
moment, it bounced. Sometimes I think I m talking to the deaf." More lurid
bar graphs fountained up at her fingertips. "But I can only run it round and
round for so long, sir! The investment account is now empty, so of course it s
generating no extra money. I m not sure we can even make it six more days.
And if the credit transfer doesn t arrive then . . ." she flung up her hands, "the
whole Dendarii fleet could start to slide, piecemeal, into receivership!"
"Oh." Miles rubbed his neck. He d been mistaken, his headache wasn t
waning. "Isn t there some way you can shift the stuff around from account to
account to create, er . . . virtual money? Temporarily?"
"Virtual money?" Her lips curled in loathing.
"To save the fleet. Just like in combat. Mercenary accounting. . . ." he clasped
his hands together, between his knees, and smiled up at her hopefully. "Of
course, if it s beyond your abilities . . ."
Her nostrils flared. "Of course it s not. But the kind of thing you re talking
about relies mostly on time lags. Earth s financial network is totally
integrated; there are no time lags unless you want to start working it
interstellar. I ll tell you what would work, though . . ." her voice trailed off.
"Well, maybe not. . . ."
"What?"
"Go to a major bank and get a short-term loan against, say, some major
capital equipment." Her eyes, glancing around by
implication through the walls to the Triumph, revealed what order of capital
equipment she had in mind. "We might have to
conceal certain other outstanding liens from them, and the extent of
depreciation, not to mention certain ambiguities about
what is and is not owned by the Fleet corporation versus the Captain-
owners but at least it would be real money."
And what would Commodore Tung say when he found out that Miles had
mortgaged his command ship? But Tung wasn t here. Tung was on leave. It
could be all over by the time Tung got back.
"We d have to ask for two or three times the amount we really needed, to be
sure of getting enough," Lieutenant Bone went on. "You would have to sign
for it, as senior corporation officer."
Admiral Naismith would have to sign for it, Miles reflected. A man whose
legal existence was strictly virtual, not that an
Earth bank could be expected to find that out. The Dendarii fleet propped his
identity most convincingly. This could be almost
the safest thing he d ever done. "Go ahead and set it up, Lieutenant Bone. Um
. . . use the Triumph, it s the biggest thing we ve got."
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She nodded, her shoulders straightening, as she regained some of her
accustomed serenity. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Miles sighed, and shoved to his feet. Sitting down had been a mistake; his
tired muscles were seizing up. Her nostrils wrinkled as he passed upwind of
her. Perhaps he d better take a few minutes to clean up. It would be hard
enough to explain his disappearance, when he returned to the embassy,
without explaining his remarkable appearance as well.
"Virtual money," he heard Lieutenant Bone mutter disapprovingly to her
comconsole as he exited, "Good God."
Chapter Four
By the time Miles had showered, groomed, and donned a fresh uniform and
glossy spare boots, his pills had cut in and he was feeling no pain at all. When
he caught himself whistling as he splashed on after-shave and adjusted a
rather flashy and only demi-regulation black silk scarf around his neck,
tucked into his grey-and-white jacket, he decided he d better cut the dosage in
half next round. He was feeling much too good.
Too bad the Dendarii uniform did not include a beret one could tilt at a
suitably rakish angle, though. He might order one added. Tung would
probably approve; Tung had theories about how spiffy uniforms helped
recruiting and morale. Miles was not entirely sure this wouldn t just result in
acquiring a lot of recruits who wanted to play dress-up. Private Danio might
like a beret . . . Miles abandoned the notion. Elli Quinn was waiting patiently
for him in the Triumph s number six shuttle hatch corridor. She swung
gracefully to her feet and ahead of him into their shuttle, remarking, "We d
better hustle. How long do you think your cousin can cover for you at the
embassy?"
"I suspect it s already a lost cause," Miles said, strapping himself in beside
her. In light of the warnings on the pain pill packet about operating
equipment, he let her take the pilot s seat again. The little shuttle broke
smoothly away from the side of the flagship and began to drop through its
orbital clearance pattern.Miles meditated morosely on his probable reception
when he showed up back at the embassy. Confined-to-quarters was the least
he might expect, though he plead mitigating circumstances for all he was
worth. He did not feel at all like hustling back to that doom. Here he was on
Earth on a warm summer night, with a glamorous, brilliant woman friend. It
was only he glanced at his chronometer 2300. Night life should just be
getting rolling. London, with its huge population, was an around-the-clock
town. His heart rose inexplicably.
Yet what might they do? Drinking was out; God knew what would happen if he
dropped alcohol on top of his current pharmaceutical load, with his peculiar
physiology, except that it could be guaranteed not to improve his
coordination. A show? It would immobilize them for a rather long time in one
spot, security-wise. Better to do something that kept them moving.To hell
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