“A penny scammed is a penny earned’
-Saint Paolo the Perfid
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The red light blinked.
“Damn! Not now. Of all the bloody times to…”
Kelly checked the connector - there had been errors before…
The light continued blinking, unrelenting as a level three audit.
In desperation, the mole poured his mug of hot coffee over the interface.
The light winked out for a second, then came back on, glowing steady now.
“Damn!”
He cut his connection to the mainframe.
The light on the little blue box disappeared. So did 573,329 loan applications.
Kelly hid the box under his robes, stood up, and left the stone walled cubicle. He strode quickly through the data catacombs, not daring to glance at the other novitiates peering into their links, oblivious to his passage.
He took the stairs three at a time, catching his breath before stepping into the massive lobby of the One True Bank.
Crowds of worshippers flowed past him, chanting as they swirled through the Great Hall. Rushing to take part in the morning loan rituals; to watch lives made and souls lost in the click of a wheel.
Allowing himself to be swept along, Kelly maneuvered his way to the fringes of the crowd as he approached a side exit.
Two praetors stood by the door watching the people. They looked perilously bored.
Drawing near, Kelly flashed his ident, hoping they wouldn’t notice the tremor in his hand.
One of the Praetors scanned the card, looked into his vid, then grunted. There was a click. The door opened. He waved Kelly through with the blunt end of his disrupter, and went back to scanning the crowd.
The Praetors didn’t even look up as he left the main branch of the One True Bank.
Novitiates like Kelly were a sub caste - high enough to get into sensitive areas, but low enough to be ignored.
Most moles were in the sub castes.
He stepped outside into the bright light of day, walked left down Bank Street, turned at the corner…
…and ran like hell.
The Great Hall of the One True Bank was filling quickly.
Pompaeo83 looked down from the window of his private chambers to the spectacle below. The first and second grade acolytes stood in rows on each of the wide steps leading up to the golden wheels. Hands clapping, bodies dipping and weaving to the beat as they sang the ancient hymns of praise, they skillfully set the emotional tone of the Morning Loan Ritual. Rows of sub priests in crimson and gold weaved like living veins through the throngs of applicants, grey-blue spirals of incense smoke from their thuribles marking their progress through the mass of hopefuls. Around them, the unwashed crowd pulsed back and forth like a living thing, each person straining to press their numbered supplications along with their contribution and genetic sample into the gilded chialii strapped to the priests.
Below his penthouse window, the crowd surged and faded back, beating like a heart.
The heart of the One True Bank.
A deep hollow horn blast announced the end of loan supplication and the arrival of the Higher Archics and Diacons.
The crowd hushed as they pulled back reluctantly from the priests. The successful supplicants pushing to the front of the crowd, the ones who failed in thrusting their applications into the Chialii fading to the back, dejected.
The crowd parted like water, allowing the splendid procession of sacred dignitaries to make its way to the Pompaeo seat. Surrounding it, they settled in groups, clearly defined by rank and the color of their robes. Indigo closest to the throne, crimson and gold to either side, Cobalt blue fading to pale blue in the back.
“Like flowers in my personal garden, to plant or pluck as I wish…”
A secret smile touched the Pompaeo’s lips and faded just as quickly.
The Holy Bank was in place.
The muffled stamp of footmen from the back of the hall announced the arrival of the Secular Board.
The porticoes swept open. Ranks of Accountants in their slate grey Armani suits marched in perfect step, satchels clutched in their sinister hand, right hand of God describing precise arcs back to front with each cracking footfall. They moved in unison, aligning their perfectly squared divisions around the Material seat in parallel rows, much like the papers and pencils on the lord Owner’s desk.
Praetors moved efficiently through the open space in the middle of the crowd now, their black robes evenly spread along its edge. From this height, their disruptors, held at the ready, looked inelegant and deadly. It was overkill of course, but Pompaeo could not allow any more of the bank artifacts to disappear from off the walls. True, it had only happened once in three hundred years, but the Praetors did not take failure lightly. Neither did the Pompaeo. Despite the banks best effort, there were still were no leads to the real thieves, so the Praetors watched the crowds, while the Auditors covered their Holy Assets.
A second sharp blast from the horn echoed through the hall.
A rather large man, top hat and tuxedo jarring in their contrast with the colors of the priestly robes surrounding him, walked slowly down the hall toward the grey ranks of the auditors. From his vantage point, it seemed to the Pompaeo that he was progressing at a stately rate. He knew though, the Lord Owner would in fact be florid, wheezing, and cursing every step of the way. The head of the secular board paused, swaying slightly at the foot of the material seat, waiting. The horn blew a third, final, and more ornate call.
“Showtime,” Pompaeo said stepping into the elevator, admiring his reflection in the polished metal doors as they closed.
Nikkolo D’Allessio pressed his hands against his tired eyes. When he opened them, the pale beige walls of his office were still there.
He sighed.
He had liked the walls at first. The restful, ivory tones were the best thing about Holy Alphonse’s Salvation and Loans, or so he thought until he moved the ancient pinup calendar behind his desk.
What he had mistaken for good color sense was in fact a thin patina of cigar tar over flat white paint. He left the pinups, classic cars, and dreadful dogs playing poker in their traditional places on the walls, hiding their flat white shadows. Sometimes it was just better to leave things dirty.
He looked down at the worn burnt-orange carpet, and sighed again.
Three months after Fonz’s sudden retirement, he was still waiting for the new carpet to be approved.
In fact, he was still waiting to hear from Fonz. The last contact he had was the letter asking him to take over Holy Alphonse’s day-to-day operations. That was the plan from the start, but Nikko’s sudden and unanticipated promotion was so unexpected that…
Nikko sighed again. I’m not ready for this.
There was no “Heretic Branch 101” taught in the seminaries. The only mention of heretic banking had been in Church History, where the focus was more on the evil consequences of heresy rather than its fiscal policy. He was a quick study though. In the past three months, Nikko learned that heresy required the equilibrium of a tightrope walker. He had to balance fiscal responsibility with the needs of his clients, something that never bothered the One True Bank. He had to be effective enough to make a difference, but somehow stay under TrueBank’s radar. If they ever found out he was going far beyond his charter to minister to the Repossessed…
A melodious chime, alerted him to the arrival of his Nine o’clock meeting.
The vidlink showed a rather scruffily clothed middle-aged man, nervously shuffling his feet in the lobby.
“Please come into my office, Mr…” Nikko paused slightly as he read the man’s name on the Printout. “…Svenson”
There was a timid knock on his office door. Nikko walked across the embarrassing carpet and opened the door, extending his hand.
Mr. Svenson shifted his hat from hand to hand, dropping it in his haste.
“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, swooping down to pick it up again, clutching it to his chest like a shield between him and everything Nikko represented.
Nikko sighed and waved to the chair in front of his desk.
“Please have a seat Joseph. May I call you Joseph?”
“If it pleases you sir, I’ll stand”
Nikko took his place behind his own desk, and put on his most reassuring smile.
“What can Holy Alphonses salvation and loans do for you today?”
Mr. Svenson shifted his hat from hand to hand, dropping it in his haste.
“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, swooping down to pick it up again, clutching it to his chest like a shield.
“I should tell you right from the start Mr. Svenson, the True Bank doesn’t know what I’m doing here. If they did, I’d be dead.”
Svenson looked Nikko up and down, taking in the modest tweed jacket, brown pants and green paisley bow tie.
“Well…you don’t look like a priest true enough. He nodded his head once, and sat down in the cracked leather chair.
Nikko leaned slightly forward, hands opened.
"So… how can I help you?”
Joseph stared at his own hard work stained hands, clutching his cap even tighter now. Oddly, Nikko noticed that the man smelled of rose petals and earth. His clothes were scrupulously clean, if a little threadbare.
“Well sir, the roads in my part of the city is getting rough, seeing as the Bank don’t send crews to fix ‘em no more”
He had obviously practiced his spiel. This was a good sign.
“Go on…” Nikko encouraged.
“Well, it’s hurtin’ my wagons ain’t it? The buggers break down, two or three every night. It’s cutting my business. It hain’t efficient.”
“What is your business Joseph?”
Joseph, who had become earnest and relaxed while explaining the problem, suddenly stammered awkwardly again.
“ I am as what people commonly call…head Crapmaster, sir.” He looked down at his feet and clutched his tattered hat even tighter.
Nikko knew better than to smile. Innovation was everywhere in the fallow part of the city. His job was to nurture it.
“What exactly does a Crapmaster do?”
“Well, I send out the wagons every morning to pick up the night soil, don’t I? And they bring it back to where the old park used to be for to compost it.”
“What if the err… night soil… is infected? If the people who put it out are sick?”
Joseph smiled, warming to his favorite subject. He looked Nikko in the eye for the first time.
“Well sir, that’s the beauty isn't it? The piles heat up when the shit breaks down, beggin’yerpardon. It gets right hot inside, and kills the pather…patter…kills the germs.”
“How do you know that?”
“My son keeps the piles stoked sir. He worked with the Bank sewage department fifteen years, so he knows his shit, beggin’yerpardon. He’d be there yet if he waren’t repossessed.” A shadow of anger crossed the man’s face. “Friggin bank took everything ... I told him there waren’t nothing worth following to the City”
"Change the subject" Nikko thought…
“How do you pay your workers?”
“Well sir, now here's the pretty part see… After the shit, beggin’yerpardon, is become dirt, we moves it to our morel farms in the forest don’t we. The forest what used to be the playground when my da’ was a gipper. My son sells the mushrooms to them fancy restaurants in the city. Five hundred credits a pound if you can believe it. No one asks where they come from, do they?" He touched the side of his nose and winked knowingly... "And them Poshies pay cash.”
He slid a paper across the desk, showing his production for the past three years. Nikko whistled.
“The only problem being that that the park fills up pretty quick, so in the spring we send the wagons out to bring compost back to all the people what gave us their night soil. When you spy a garden on the rooftops and such, it’s old Svenson the Crapmaster giving back some of what he took” He beamed proudly now, not ashamed for his contribution.
"This is what I live for," thought Nikko. "A closed loop of innovation, taking from the city, and giving back to the people, making everyone’s life a little easier… "
He glanced back at the sheet.
"...And turning a tidy profit, helping people earn a living without contributing a penny to the True Bank."
He looked up at Svenson the Crapmaster, smiling.
“About those wagons, Joseph: how much do you think you’d need to modify them?”
Joseph produced some rolled up sheets from under his coat. “It’s like this sir…” he started, pressing the sketches flat on Nikko’s desk…
There was complete silence in the great hall as Pompaeo83 slowly ascended the Twenty-three steps to his golden throne. He took his time, not because of protocol, but because he knew the Lord Owner would have to wait until the Pompaeo was seated before he could ascend to his own plush throne. The Lord Owner, who was never late and hated to wait for anything, would become more incensed at every slow step.
I should start a new ritual. One where I have to stop and say a prayer on every step
He imagined the look on the Lord Owners face, unable to hide the growing anger, resentment and contempt as he was forced to wait while the one person more important than himself paused to raise his arms heavenward on every step.
Pompaeo almost burst out laughing at the image in his mind. He controlled himself though, completed his slow ascent, arranging his ceremonial coat to show at its best advantage as he sat down on the golden throne of power. He knew that the second he sat down, the Lord Owner would stomp up the Twenty Two steps to his equally opulent green leather armchair, his face naked in its loathing for the spiritual head of the One True Bank.
At precisely the right moment, Pompeo casually gazed over to catch him. Yes, there it was – the raw rage. Pompeo coughed to mask his chuckle, then, with his personal pleasure over, he gazed across the tableau spread below him.
Everything was in place for Morning Accounts.
He raised the right hand of God.
As one, twenty-three priests reached both hands into the chialii strapped to their chests and withdrew with the right hand an application, and with the left hand, the small wad of cash wrapped around a tiny vial, containing several hairs pulled from the head of the applicants.
Each priest clipped an application onto the arm of twenty-three wheels of fortune, stepping back to place the requisite offerings and genetic sample into the Ciborium on the stand holding the wheels. The cash would go into general accounts, and the samples sent to the Order of Genetic scanning, to be encoded and compared to the massive database, presumably to prevent fraud.
Only a select few in the higher orders of the Bank knew the real reason for the scans… Insurance.
Insurance that there would be no “surprise” to send the prime all over the place, Insurance that the Pax Dinarii would continue to maintain modest fiscal growth…
Insurance that the one thing both the holy and secular boards feared… would never happen.
With the last supplication secured to its golden disk, twenty-three burly sub priests stepped up to the wheels, pulling them hard downwards. A loud clicking filled the hall. On cue, the chanting started again. This time, the crowds joined in, growing louder and more fervent as the wheels slowed. One by one the wheels stopped, until a single click announced the final judgment.
twenty three Higher Archics noted the results, and carried God’s Judgment up the twenty three steps to the Pompeo seat. The righteous voice of God’s steward boomed forth…
“Applicant 44321 REFUSED - Bad credit risk.” Pompaeo smiled. It was auspicious to start with a refusal.
“Applicant 57690 Small Business loan, GRANTED - Prime +15% Holy interest compounding.
“Applicant 00130 REFUSED - Bad credit risk…” He felt the ancient thrill of power at lives made and destroyed with the turn of a wheel.
“Applicant 70791 credit card GRANTED - 28% Holy interest, compounding.” He only had to read the first twenty three results. The Diacons would take care of the rest.
“Applicant 46905 REFUSED - No reason given…”
And so it continued until, his part of the morning rituals finally completed, Pompeo stood to thunderous applause. He raised his arms in an all-encompassing blessing, solemnly descended the gold plated steps – faster this time since no one was waiting for him- then down the platform and through a black curtain. A wide wood paneled hallway opened into a bank of elevators. He stood in front of the last one. The door hissed open as his hand link vibrated.
What does that imbecile want now?
He touched the yellow icon. The Lord Owner’s face appeared. It was redder than usual.
“There’s been another breach. One of your damned Novitiates.”
Pompeo took it in. “Accountants are responsible for Bank security.”
“Don’t quote charter at me you…” The Lord Owner struggled visibly to control himself.
Pompeo put on his most infuriating smile. “Private meeting in my chambers I presume?”
“In ten!” The link went dead.
Pompeo83 was thoughtful all the way up to the twenty third floor.
“I can use this…”