He walked to the elevators. The down button was lit, though he hadn't touched it. The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. The car was empty.
It was 4:45 PM on a Friday. The acquisition paperwork for the Meridian merger—a stack of paper thick enough to stun an ox—sat on his desk. The problem wasn't the legal work; that was done. The problem was the physical reproduction. The copier on the forty-second floor, a beast of a machine that usually hummed with the confidence of a German luxury car, was currently displaying an error message that simply read: FATAL EXCEPTION.
Two days later, Arthur was working late. The office was empty. His phone buzzed. A text from Unknown.
"Copyfaxes," Arthur said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. copyfaxes com
Deadline: 5:20 PM.
"Penhaligon!" The voice of Mr. Vane boomed from the end of the hall. "The couriers leave at five-thirty. If those documents aren't in the basement by five, we miss the filing window. No filing, no deal. No deal, you’re fired. Simple economics."
COPY COMPLETE.
"Am I done?" Arthur asked. "Is the favor repaid?"
Arthur stepped out. "I... I'm a lawyer. I don't work for you."
He handed Arthur the top sheet. It was dense legal text, but the parties involved weren't corporations. They were cities. Nations. Dates that hadn't happened yet. He walked to the elevators
The grey man smiled, a gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "Then we issue a refund. And we reclaim the data we restored for you. Along with the memories attached to it. You will forget your name, your career, and how to read. Fair trade?"
At the bottom, in small print, it read: We prefer to remain unindexed. We appreciate your business.