2.4 Things Go Swimmingly

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a rising company in possession of a good fortune must be in want of complaints. Well, maybe not, but it is a poetic way to open a chapter.

It was Fireline that took the merciless bludgeoning of the partisan masses. With instant messaging beginning to breach the ever-shrinking expanses of Oldeburgh, Silven and his assistants found themselves not in want of complaints, but rather in want of power for their Expertminerium smelters in the new industrial town of Limetop. Every week, more and more demons were shipped off for boilers new from their Overwall portal. This was all, of course, quite undisruptive until the otherworld threshold decided to spew forth little evil polar bears in curious red hats for Slaughterday. This was apparently an annual event, theorised to have been arranged by marketing conspirators to draw new heroes to the kingdom’s shops. Silven, who still had no recollection of his days as Sylvia, was not amused.

Neither were the people of Solmond City. Temperatures of bathwater plummeted by an entire degree, the greatest outrage in the capital since Gorzug the Interloper razed the whole lot back in the barbarian days. 72% of the entire customer base would later report they would have taken to the streets in protest, had they been able to reasonably wash a smock in which to actually protest in. Thus, the complaints naturally took care of themselves. It did, however, take Silven himself to put the cherry on the cake.

Two weeks and three days after the big freeze, Silven put in his plugs, gathered his staff in the public relations cottage, and nodded reluctantly. Someone nearby muttered something under their breath, and a vibration buzzed through Silven’s ears.

“Hello, Silven. This is Fango Kulpie, IM editor of the Solmond Soundsystem.” Silven gave a grunt of affirmation. The voice came in quickly and firmly once more. “Just remember you’re on two-groove. I’ve got three hundred listeners here. They can hear every word.”

Silven laughed. “Well then. That makes all the difference. ”

Fango spluttered. “Errrr.... nice to be speaking to you. I think. Let’s get started; I’ve got to be over to the Rockborough Battle of the Choirs in four minutes. We all know the story behind Bathgate. What we need to know now is.... why the Bluebay stunt? A bitter retort at the complaints? An arrogant dream to rise above the laws of physics?”

Something lit up in Silven. It was time to take matters into his own hands.

“Neither. Sorry about all that. We’ll get back on track, once this silly festival’s over. And by the way, if you used the all-new Silverview 2 with rapid response soft-press parchment technology, you’d be over at your next meeting in two and a half minutes. It’s by some good company called Silverlink. If only we could be like them. Fare thee well!”

He pulled out his plugs and cast them across the floor. His team gasped and scrambled after the earpieces. “Quick! Get back on!” they cried like so many babbling geese. One familiar voice rose above the rest, full of genuine concern. “What’s going on, master?” warbled Olgred desperately.

All at once, Silven had had enough. “Alsen, get over to that horrible little office and sort this out.”

The blob in the corner raised a fist and groaned. “Oh, come on boss. My fingers don’t work on this twenty inch map. What if I miss? I might have to use me legs!” Silven glared. His minion blinked away.

He left his clamouring underlings to pick up the pieces, literally and figuratively, and ushered his business partner out of the room. He spoke quickly and to the point. “Okay, remember how we had that little game set up for the Financial Explorer’s Guild Awards next Friday?”

Olgred trembled, visibly distressed. “I was going to claim for Silverlink, you for Fireline. We were going to pretend to get obnoxiously drunk and cause a scene in the foyer about who employed the most gremlins.”

Silven chuckled. “Only the first part my friend. The next was just a prediction.”

Olgred swept his master out onto the street, into the designers’ private tavern, and over to the nearest booth. “Come on, what of it? Your eccentricities scare me.”

“Well, if we’re calling them eccentricities, we’ve made the big time. A year ago, you’d say I was a raving madman. I have to amuse myself some way, you know, being cooped up in this little village with nothing but drivelling directors for company. The point being, anyway, that no-one realises we’re working together. I’m always here; they hardly know I exist. And I wanted to keep it that way in case something happened like this. So, you’re going to absorb Fireline and press on with the launch of the shared butler service and the map advisor. I’m going for a little walk.”

Olgred opened his mouth but said nothing. A bartender handed them each a tankard of ale, nodded politely, and went on his way. Silven carried on.

“I started these companies to escape my fate. To stay away from that cursed tavern and that eerie voice and those pushy mice.” Olgred nodded enthusiastically, pretending to listen to the crazy mouse man for the hundredth time. “Now, however, I’ve reached an unhappy normality. When we made our first profit, we were doing just enough to get by. It kept me busy, gave me purpose, no more. Recently though, I’m getting too involved with people again. I could have killed hundreds at Bluebay.”

Olgred sniggered. “What?” snapped his friend. “Aren’t you listening?”

The merchant’s smile dropped in an instant. “You really couldn’t have. No-one would be that stupid, begging your pardon. To actually try touching the water, I mean.”

Silven sunk his head into his hands and wiped at his eyes in frustration. “But, but- it’s only water, for Ugwin’s sake! Fireline gets a bad reputation, and I try and get things going again with a few free swimming lessons for the kids. There’s the link with control of water; I even had the perfect tagline lined up. Something about not letting your sprog get in hot water, wasn’t it? I just don’t understand!”

Olgred placed a hand gently on Silven’s shoulder. His words were slow and soft. “You poor sod. They really did knock you senseless in that jail, didn’t they? It’s seared into every human being’s brain. Water is death!”

Silven pulled away and shook his head. “No, it’s not. We need it to survive. We drink it every day. We willingly crawl into bathtubs every month. We’ve had seaside towns for centuries. Why would they build on rivers if it was so bad? And I can see it! Almost..... people.... swimming!”

Olgred’s face screwed up once more. The corners shook with mirth. “Like.... a duck?” he managed.

Silven flung back his chair and stood, eyes blazing. “It’s not funny. I don’t care how many people you’ve seen crumble to dust dipping their toes in the Freeflow. I know it can be done!” He slammed back the door and stormed off into the night.

Long ago, under the windmill of Thornyhedge, he had decided to seek out the true meaning of his life. He had been forced to reject that route, but over the past year, he had forged an alternative. Silverlink was changing life as the citizens of Oldeburgh knew it. People had information at their ear-lobes. They could talk to friends half the kingdom away, or go on holiday at the touch of a finger. When Silven decided to sell his secret spy-pieces to the king, his company stopped the revolution in Solmond and saved countless lives. It was paving the way for fresh guilds, taking beggars off the streets and paying for bread on everyone’s tables. Olgred even swore he had seen a slice of cake in Grimy Alley. Silven recognised that it was no coincidence that he had brought about most of this change; he had a way of looking at the world that no-one else he associated with came close to matching. The incident, however, had reminded him that there was another side of the coin, an uneasy sense of not belonging, and that it was more curse than blessing.

And then, Fango had asked that snide question. It had brought forth an echo of a conversation, about Rosa from the apple stall, and testing the limits of the Elsenberg principle. Perhaps he could transcend the laws of the world. Every time he tried to push his dreams directly, he forged death and drama and doom. But maybe he was being too tentative. What if he pushed beyond?

He willed an end to this suffering. Perhaps, if he marched on, reality would adjust for good.