Page 96 of Crocodile Tears

“It’s been a year, Dad. I’ve done everything you asked of me, but it still feels like you don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you. You’re my son, and you’re going to take over here one day, which is why… Look, I was going to invite you over to dinner for this and do it properly, but you may as well have it now.” Noah pinged something to him from his nanopad.

“What is it?” Alex asked.

“I’ve made you a director – just a junior director, mind, but you’ll see it includes a small pay rise. Now you have banking authorisation and are required to attend board meetings. See, I do trust you. You’ve worked hard over the past year. You still have a long way to go, but you’ve done well.” He patted his arm.

Alex glanced at the formal documentation on his nanopad despondently. He knew that Noah viewed this as a display of faith, but to him it was an irrelevance. He wasn’t interested in board meetings, or banking authorisation, or anything else to do with the dull end of the business. For him, it was all about the design studio. He looked at his father’s expectant face and managed to muster a smile.

“Thanks,” he said.

Noah sighed. “Your designs are beautiful, Alex – you’ve always had an eye for beauty, even as a little boy. I remember how you once studied a single bluebell down in the wood for hours on end – I wondered what on earth you were looking at for so long. When I asked, you told me how you saw it, and you made it sound so perfect that I wished I could see the whole world through your eyes.”

His voice was soft and nostalgic, but Alex could sense there was a great big “but” coming.

“But you’re not a businessman. Do you have any idea how much it would cost to build this flying duck?” Noah picked up one of his designs.

“Do you think we plan new product development on a whim? We have to budget for it well in advance and prepare for it – we don’t just wake up one day, take a look at some pretty pictures, and decide to make a product. Our market research doesn’t support this kind of frivolous leisure vehicle. People want sturdy vehicles they can trust not to drown them while they’re crossing a lost zone, not something that suspends them in the air and makes them feel vulnerable.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t suspend them in the air – it skims,” Alex said stubbornly. “And peopledowant flashier, prettier vehicles now. The world has moved on, and people are tired of the dull old stuff we keep churning out.”

“Damn it, Alex – listen to what I’m trying to tell you. We can’t bloody well afford it!”

Alex took a step back, shocked by the outburst.

Noah looked away, rubbing his forehead distractedly. “Look, I’ve probably shielded you from this for too long, but the company’s in trouble, son – much bigger trouble than you realise. We simply don’t have the money to develop anything like this.”

“If people aren’t buying the Lytton Classic, then surely that’s all the more reason to invest in something new?”

“If that was the problem, then maybe that would be the solution, but that’s not it.” Suddenly, his father looked old and defeated.

“You see, I’ve always had certain principles. I don’t cut corners – we look after our indentured servants well, and make sure they have everything they need, but that costs money.”

“Then why don’t you hire free workers?”

“Because they cost even more!”

“I don’t see the issue,” Alex said, frowning. “The company now only employs IS labour, which you’ve said is cheaper, so?—”

“The issue” – Noah looked as if he was struggling to keep a grip on his temper – “is that our competitors don’t have the same values that I do, Alex. They don’t treat their indentured servants like we treat ours. Their servants don’t have a nice village, or good childcare, or first-class medical insurance like ours – but all that costs, so our margins are being squeezed all the time, and we’re losing money, year on year.”

“I still think it’s the product,” Alex said stubbornly. “If that was better we could sell more AVs, and?—”

“Shut up about the bloody product!” his father roared. “For the past few years, all I’ve heard from you is complaints about the Lytton Classic. You make no effort to understand any other aspect of the business – you’re just obsessed with your designs. Let me tell you, this entire company was built on the success of the Classic. After the Rising, when people needed cheap, reliable AVs to get around, it was my father who saw that need and gave them what they wanted. That design is the foundation on which this company is built.”

“That foundation is crumbling. People aren’t grateful for any old duck that’ll get them from A to B anymore. The world is moving on, old man, and if you don’t move on with it, then Lytton AV won’t survive.”

Alex gathered up his designs, shoved them back into his portfolio, and strode from the room, feeling as angry as only his father could make him feel.

“That went well,” he muttered to himself, ignoring the scared look Spencer shot his way as he marched towards the exit.

He threw the portfolio into the back of his duck and made straight for his favourite pub: a small dark place, dating back centuries, where there was no chance of ever bumping into anyone from Lytton AV. It had crooked doorways, creaky floorboards, and nooks and crannies where he could sit and nurse a drink in peace without anyone bothering him.

That worked until the pressure in his bladder forced him to visit the toilet. As he weaved his way back to his table, via a trip to the bar to buy his fourth pint, he stumbled into someone and his drink spilled – all over her pristine white tee-shirt.

“Shit… sorry,” he mumbled, reaching out to mop up the liquid with his shirtsleeve.

“It’s fine, leave it… wait… Alex?”

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