Ethereal, cont.
As Sam stood before the office doors, he felt his shoulders slump down with disappointment. He sighed as he reached up to open the door, yet stopped as he realized he was about to open the door with his currently bandage-wrapped hand. He switched hands quickly and hurried to the elevator.
Upon reaching his floor, he stepped out into a hallway connecting various offices together and turned left. The office section in which he worked was the largest, making up half of the floor it was on. He opened the glass door leading inside it and was greeted by the sounds of keyboards, pages being flipped, and the occasional phone ringing. The room was separated into four columns of desks, each separated by a semi-modern styled cubicle. Between these columns were walkways, the center one leading directly to the Boss’s office. As Sam made his way down the center row towards his own cubicle, he noticed as Paul exited Boss Boyd’s office. As Paul looked at Sam, an unintelligible emotion flashed across his eyes. Swiftly, Paul turned away from Sam’s gaze and walked towards his own cubicle—his head bent down as he made his way there. Confused but trying not to think to much on it, Sam turned his attention back towards his own cubicle, pulling out a flash drive from his pocket and inserting it into his office computer. As he went to sit down, however, he heard his name called. Looking up to see who asked for him, he saw Boyd standing at his office door as he gestured for Sam to enter. Sam nodded, standing abruptly and making his way across the office floor. Once he entered, Boyd told him to sit. While Sam pulled back one of the two cushioned chaired sat squarely in front of Boyd’s desk, Boyd closed the door. As he made his way towards his office chair, Boyd began to talk.
“What is the report on the Trade Cache assignment,” he asked, bringing one of his hands to his temple. He was a larger man whose body had not worn gracefully over time. His eyes were sunk in and his brown hair and stylized 5-o’clock shadow beard were speckled with gray. He was an older man from a bygone era, and his suspender-assisted plaid slacks were almost certainly the final nail in the coffin, “I heard you spearheaded much of the work yourself. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, not entirely sure how to answer, “I guess I have.”
“Well then,” Boyd extended his hand as if to urge Sam on, “What is your report on it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sam began to say, sitting up somewhat in his seat.
“I mean that you are presently auditing the Trade Cache—one of this country’s largest retail stores—and have thereby been exposed to some of the ins and outs of the company. I want to know what you have found. I didn’t exactly put you on this project so that you could do all the work then give me nothing to show for it. Hell, you didn’t even have to lift so much as a finger initially—that work you just put on yourself. No, I put you on this project so that we might have our own little insight into how the Trade Cache is doing, financially or otherwise, right alongside our partners in this audit. So,” he leaned in, punctuating each word with a pause, “What have you found?”
Sam grimaced, uncertain of how to explain his findings, “I don’t know,” he said, dodging the question, “Am I even allowed to do that?”
“Look, I’m telling you here and now that you can,” he said, a blank expression on his face. However, Sam couldn’t help but notice a tinge of irritation in his voice, “Even so, I promise you that, should there be any problems, I will gladly make certain you are in no way considered at fault. So, please. Continue.”
“Well, I,” Sam paused, his eyes darting across the room as he processed what words to say, “When I initially began to work on the project, I began to feel suspicious of the numbers I was coming up with. Overall, it was clear that Trade Cache was suffering losses, yet compared to their total worth, it was minimal. However, any time I used the figures from the net sum to back track to the losses—or vise versa for the matter—the end result was always considerably off. With the equations I used, I theoretically should have gotten the same numbers every time…yet that’s not what happened. Eventually, I came to a conclusion that answered for the problem and still have as of yet to inform the other branch.”
“Why is that,” Boyd asked, a frown ingrained on his face.
“Because if I am right, then it could have horrific consequences for the state of the economy as a whole.”
Boyd sat back in his chair and chuckled, catching Sam off guard, “What on Earth are you talking about,” he asked, “What sort of conspiracy theory is this? This one is most certainly new—not one I’ve heard at least.”
“Sir, I…I think this is serious. I know how it sounds—believe me, I do—but I don’t exactly know how else to say it. This is the exact reason I haven’t brought it up with the other branch, but the numbers back it up. Look,” Sam leaned forward, his arms on his knees as he explained himself, “Trade Cache is a part of a larger conglomerate of companies from different sections of the economy. Everything—from retail to digital to transportation—is a part of it. This conglomerate, Gaunt Profession Sector—”
“GPS,” Boyd interrupted. He nodded, adding, “I know of it. An uncanny company name for most, though. It’s more commonly called G-Pros, I believe.”
“Yes,” Sam stammered, “Well, once the numbers started to go South, I started to ask myself something: Where, exactly, were we getting the net sum of Trade Cache from? So, I did some digging into the files we were given for the audit from Trade Cache. It turns out what we had originally been looking at as the total worth of Trade Cache had actually been the total for the retail section of G-Pros while the net loss was, in fact, from Trade Cache. I started to search for the actual total worth of Trade Cache soon after and what I found was worse than I anticipated. It appears that Trade Cache, during the period of time we are auditing, had only enough resources to remain afloat for another year. Considering we are auditing for last year’s tax season?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Boyd said, standing, “Let me get two things straight. So, you are not only saying that Trade Cache is about to go—or already is—bankrupt and somehow saying that their being bankrupt will cause an economic collapse?”
“There is more that I found. After I made my initial discovery, I began to dig deeper. I reasoned that, if they had accidentally given us access to the G-Pros retail total, they might have also given us their losses. Turns out, we did. Lo and behold, same situation. From there, I dug and I sifted through the files we were given, coming across the various different sectors of G-Pros and finding the same problem everywhere. All of the various sections of G-Pros that I had access to was set go bankrupt this year.”
There was a pause as Sam finished talking and leaned back in his chair. Boyd stared at Sam, a new look of disbelieving concern on his face.
“How long have you known about this?”
“Around three to four days.”
“And you have not thought to bring it up until now because?”
“Because I was not certain how to bring it up.”
Boyd slumped in his chair, staring down at his desk. To Sam, his eyes looked far removed, like he was looking far out into the distance. Eventually, he stood up. Glancing at Sam briefly, he turned around and stared out of the window. He paused there for a moment before he spoke again.
“I want you to remove all files in connection to both Trade Cache and G-Pros from your possession. All files, documents, and emails regarding this topic should be forwarded to the emails I will send you later,” he turned to face Sam, “From this moment further, you are to have no roll in the continued development of the audit for Trade Cache. Is this understood?”
Sam sat in his chair in astounded shock. He stared wide-eyed at Boyd barely managing to form the word, “Yes,” as he spoke it.
“I will have a few new assignments sent to you immediately. In the meantime, busy yourself with forwarding the information as I have instructed. You may leave.”
Sam stood, his legs shaking under his weight. Blindly, he stumbled out of the office and into the lanes of cubicles.
“Oh, and Sam,” Boyd called from behind him. Sam turned, looking back at Boyd, “Do wrap your hand with something better than that gauze. I’d hate to have any contamination issues or the like.”
Sam nodded mechanically and began the walk back towards his desk.
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