The office at the North Coast Consolidated port facility was a world away from the damp salt air of the docks. It was a sealed environment, humming with the quiet, constant sigh of climate control. The air smelled of recycled air, freshly brewed coffee, and lemon-scented disinfectant. Through a wall of tinted glass, Mark Keating had a panoramic, soundproofed view of the port. The Atlantic Star, a hulking beast of painted steel and rust, was being unloaded with robotic precision. It was a ballet of efficiency. His ballet.
He took a sip of coffee from his NCC-branded mug. Black. No sugar. Efficiency.
His computer monitor glowed with spreadsheets, shipping manifests, and production reports from the cannery. The numbers were good. Better than good. Fuel costs were down. Throughput was up 3.2% from the previous quarter. The new automated sorting line at the cannery had reduced labor costs by eighteen percent.
A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. This was progress. Measurable, quantifiable, real.
A soft chime sounded from his desk phone. "Mr. Keating? Sheriff Miller is here to see you."
"Send him in, Sharon."
The door opened and Sheriff Mike Miller stepped into the room. He looked uncomfortable, out of place in his uniform amidst the sleek modernity. He took off his hat, holding it in his hands.
"Mark."
"Mike. Coffee?"
"No, thanks. I won't take up much of your time." The sheriff shifted his weight. "It's about the Henderson boy. His truck got stuck out by the old mill pond last night. On your property."
Keating leaned back in his chair. "I see. Any damage?"
"No. No damage. Just a dumb kid being a dumb kid. But his father's worried… well, he's worried you'll press trespassing charges. The family's had a tough go of it. The mill closure hit them hard."
Keating steepled his fingers. This was the part of the job they didn't teach you in business school. The human calculus. The Henderson boy was a nuisance. A liability. The optimal outcome was a firm, legal response to deter future incidents.
But the optimal outcome for the corporation was not always the optimal outcome for the community it operated within. And a hostile community was an inefficient one. It created friction. Delays. Bad press.
"Tell Mr. Henderson that NCC won't be pressing charges," Keating said, his voice even. "But also tell his son that our security patrols will be increased in that area. If it happens again, we won't be so understanding. Our insurance premiums are high enough."
The sheriff's shoulders slumped in visible relief. "I'll tell him. I appreciate that, Mark. Really."
"We're all part of the same community, Mike," Keating said, the words smooth and practiced. "We have to look out for each other."
After the sheriff left, Keating's smile faded. He turned back to his window. The community. It was a fragile, irrational ecosystem. He saw the town council fighting over a lighthouse paint job while the port's infrastructure—the real economic engine—needed millions in upgrades they couldn't afford. He saw fishermen like Sam Gunderson clinging to a dying trade, blaming NCC for the changing ocean instead of adapting.
He didn't dislike these people. That would require an emotional investment he couldn't afford. He saw them as variables in a complex equation. His job was to manage them, to keep the equation balanced in NCC's favor.
His phone chimed again. "Mr. Keating? The daily environmental quality report is in. There's a minor anomaly."
He opened the email. It was from the onsite lab that monitored the cannery's wastewater output. The numbers were all within mandated limits. pH, turbidity, heavy metals. All green.
But there was a note at the bottom.
*Sample 4B (Intake Pipe - Seawater) shows a slight, persistent elevation in unknown organic particulate. Levels are well below any action threshold. Hypothesis: Seasonal algal bloom or sediment runoff from last week's rain. Recommend continued monitoring.*
He deleted the email. A non-issue. Algal blooms were common. The system was functioning as designed. The filters would handle it.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking past the freighter to the town itself. He could see the rooftops of Main Street, the tiny cars moving like toys. He saw the Quick-Stop, the diner, the high school.
He thought about his meeting with the teacher, Ms. Sharma. Her polite resistance was a variable he hadn't fully calculated yet. She was sharp. She saw the "internship program" for what it was: a talent pipeline, a way to shape young minds to fit NCC's needs. She was a potential source of friction.
He'd have to manage that. Perhaps a donation to the school's art program. A strategic concession to gain goodwill. It was all a balance.
His eyes drifted to the lighthouse on the bluff. A pointless relic. But the town had voted for it. They wanted their symbol. Fine. Let them have it. A pretty lighthouse distracted people from the rusting pipes and the struggling boats. It was a cheap price to pay for social license.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Down on the public docks, he saw Sam Gunderson heaving crates off his boat. Even from this distance, he could see the slump of defeat in the man's shoulders.
A wasted variable. A man fighting the tide of progress.
Keating turned his back on the window. The town was a problem to be solved, an equation to be balanced. And he was very, very good at his job.
He sat back down at his desk, the leather chair sighing softly. He opened a new spreadsheet, the glow of the screen reflecting in his glasses. There was work to do. The numbers wouldn't crunch themselves.
Outside, the sweet, cloying smell from the cannery's processing vents drifted on the sea breeze, a scent he'd long since learned to ignore. It was just the smell of industry. The smell of efficiency.