It was Tuesday afternoon, on what should have been just another day of service for the Customs Patrol.

Sergeant Baxter of Southern District Airport’s Customs and Vetting Division was nearly ready to wrap up his shift. It had been quiet, this one. He’d normally hit his quota by the first few hours, after which he could busy himself with paperwork or checking out for anyone else he could justify not letting in. Today the planes had been few after a storm on the eastern border grounded more than a few flights on the way in. He’d only just managed to cancel enough visas to make sure central command wouldn’t think he was slacking off.

The last bus of shackled detainees was on their way off to holding, now before evening shift came on. He checked his report. Ten would-be tourists who came well-equipped for long-term residence or employment, five spouses with not enough photos, one or two who’d been a little too politically active on social media. He’d only had to find another five more to lock up, and he could sign out for the rest of the day.

After which Sgt Baxter could happily consider it a job well done. Either he’d done his bit to keep the country safe, or he’d done enough to keep himself on fast track for promotion, depending on mood.

He stretched out in his chair, signing off the report. Enough time to grab a coffee from the breakroom before handover, then he was out of here. Might even grab a drink with Bruce from luggage inspection before heading home.

It was then that he got the call.

“Hey Bax?” came the Captain’s voice. “Got a moment?”

He swung his chair back around towards the screen. Probably another audit. Easily fixed, usually.

“Sure thing, sir,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Can we check on a Mr Geoffrey Aruso, should have been in on the 3 p.m. flight from Northern, XG177. Bigwig corporate, didn’t show at his hotel, local cops want to know if he was on the flight.”

“Hang on a second, sir,” Baxter said, punching in the name.

Oh yeah, there he was. Picked up this morning, irregularity on his paperwork.

“Yep, got him, sir. He was on the flight. Screening picked him up, in holding now.”

The Captain didn’t speak for a moment.

“Picked him up? In holding?”

“Yes sir,” Baxter said. “Whatever the local cops were after him for, we’ve got him, they can come pick him up if they want, otherwise we’ll shove him on a return flight tomorrow.”

“No, we bloody won’t, Baxter!” the Captain shouted. “Why was he picked up?”

“Um, let’s see, mistake on the visa form, signature was on the name line, not the signature line. Why?”

“He was coming here to visit us, Baxter! You know that new contract’s been in the works? FastScreen or whatever it is?”

Baxter’s blood ran very, very cold.

“I’ve heard of it, sir.”

“Where is he now? Holding? The bus left?”

“Um, yeah, I mean, yes sir. Bus left already. Um, should I — "

“Get down to the jail, Baxter, and get him back. Understood?”

Baxter’s heart was racing. “You want him back, sir?”

“Yes, right now would be good. And think up an apology while you’re at it. Do it!”

Baxter stumbled out of his office, making a dash for the lift. He stopped at the break room on the way out, pouring steaming water onto about three sachets of instant coffee. He got the very distinct impression he was going to need it.

It was about twenty minutes’ drive down the road to the jail. Baxter did it in about ten. It took him the better part of thirty minutes to get inside, explain to the desk sergeant what he was doing, and yes, he needed to speak to the supervisor, and yes, he needed to do it right about now.

The cellblock was a steel-and-concrete ensemble illuminated in blueish white lighting. Cell fourteen was on the upper level, at the back of one of the corridors. Baxter shielded his eyes against the light glaring on the concrete. He found who he presumed was Geoffrey Aruso sitting on a bunk, the only one in the cell who didn’t have any tattoos.

“Mr Aruso?” he said.

“That’d be me,” said the man.

“Mr Aruso, Sgt Baxter, there’s been a mixup. Um, if you’d, um, come with me.”

Geoffrey Aruso stood up, turning to the four other men in orange jumpsuits. “See ya, fellas, I guess,” he said.

“Take care of yourself, man,” said one.

They went to a hastily repurposed meeting room, sitting at an old wooden table. Sgt Baxter sat across from Geoffrey Aruso. “So, um, sorry about all this, sir,” he said. “We’re here to get you back into the country, and — "

With that, Aruso held up a hand. “Wait, wait,” he said. “You had me going home tomorrow. Now you want me to enter the country?”

“Yes, sir, we’re sorry for — "

“Hmmm,” Aruso said. “No.”

Baxter did a double take. “I’m sorry?”

“No.”

“But you were — "

“Yes, I know,” he said. “And I’m very looking forward to the return flight home.”

Baxter felt the sweat beads pooling on his forehead. “I understand you’re here for the contract, the Fast Screen thing?”

“Oh yes,” said Geoffrey Aruso. “Your agency’s new automated computer system. Faster screening, quicker processing. You know it even tracks your performance against your own quota system, all automatically? But sadly not anymore. Not until I get back to head office.”

The sweat beads were growing larger. He thought through his usual plays.

“Listen, if you don’t play ball, we can — "

“Cancel my visa and detain me, Mr Baxter? Yes, well, unfortunately someone beat you to it. I do suppose you could keep me here. That might work. You see, I was meant to be meeting your commissioner at, um, ten o’clock tomorrow morning, so you’d only need to keep me here a little longer to miss it.”

“That’s kind of the issue, sir,” Baxter said. “We need you in the country, right now, and — "

“I know, Mr Baxter. But, of course, your people were very clear that I didn’t belong, so I’ll happily take my leave on the next flight out. I’ll of course email the commissioner upon my return to explain why I didn’t show up to the meeting and the twenty million dollars they’ve spent on the project so far will be wasted, but I suppose that’s higher up the chain than you or your colleagues would have to worry about.”

“Is there anything you’d want? Like anything?”

Aruso thought, pondering for a few seconds. “Exactly how far does that extend?”

Baxter paused. They hadn’t said anything about that. They’d just said “get him back,” hadn’t they?

He wasn’t sure.

“I suppose, sir, well, anything you need?”

“Well, Mr Baxter, now that you mention it…”

Three hours later, Sgt Baxter and the Captain stood outside Geoffrey Aruso’s room in the Hilton Hotel. Two more officers stood inside, keeping an eye on their detainee, who, still in his orange jumpsuit, was enjoying a few snacks from the minibar. He was still officially in holding, of course. Nobody was allowed in or out. Except room service.

Sgt Baxter and the Captain eyed each other nervously.

“Do you reckon this is gonna work, sir?” Sgt Baxter said.

“I hope so, Bax. It’s costing me thousands to get this place designated as emergency temporary holding.”

“Exactly why did we do that, sir?”

“Only way we could get him the hotel room for free. Now we just need to get him a visa.”

That was the hard part, Baxter thought, given he’d oh-so-cleverly cancelled Geoffrey Aruso’s visa earlier that day. He could have applied for emergency protection (takes two weeks), sought a review (next court session is in a year) or enter a formal complaint (nobody reads those). Unfortunately, Geoffrey Aruso currently seemed more interested in browsing the cable channels than anything else.

“Would he qualify for asylum?” Baxter said.

“He would, if he agreed to sign the declaration and pay the fee. Which he didn’t.”

“Work visa, sir?”

“Already cancelled. Needs to go back home to reapply.”

“Um… spousal?”

The Captain thought for a second. “Hmm, that could work. We’d just need like, a spouse, or something.”

Baxter’s eyes lit up. “I think Jenny in payroll’s back on the dating scene, sir! We could call her!”

“She be interested?”

“Well, he’s a big corporate player, so that means he’s rich, right?”

Before this particular line of enquiry could extend any further, the door creaked open and Geoffrey Aruso, looking as out of place as one could imagine, offered a smile. “Do come in, gentlemen!” he said.

Baxter and the Captain went inside. The suite was huge. Plenty of space, a fully stocked minibar that was being steadily deprecated, and a large plush couch on which their detainee promptly sat.

“So, gentlemen,” he said. “I didn’t know the Customs Patrol invested in such excellent facilities.”

“It’s all, um, part of the service, sir,” said the Captain. “Anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable? Until, um, uh — "

“Until my presentation to your Commissioner, let’s see, tomorrow morning? No, I wouldn’t think so. Perhaps you’d like to be there. I’m sure FastScreen has excellent potential for both your agency and other public services. I’m quite excited, now, actually. After that I’m sure you’ll assist with my immediate deportation. I do hope so. I’ll have a lot to work on for FastScreen once I land.”

Sure thing, Baxter thought.

The presentation was the next morning.

The Customs Patrol Commissioner’s office was back at central command. Baxter escorted Geoffrey Aruso, who had by special dispensation been allowed to change back into his suit, and snuck him in through the back entrance before the Commissioner got in. They sat in a cool, warmly lit waiting room, before the Commissioner welcomed them in.

“Welcome, Mr Aruso,” the Commissioner said. “I trust you had a pleasant trip over?”

“Never better, Mr Commissioner, never better,” said Geoffrey Aruso. Baxter and the Captain sat at the back of the office while he ran through the merits of the FastScreen system, which Baxter learned to be an enhanced computer system that screened incoming passenger records, x-ray results and even the Customs Patrol’s own internal systems in next to real time. Apparently, it would shave off hours of processing every day, cut paperwork down and replace it with automated paperwork instead, and allow the officers on the ground to get on with their job of finding and removing more people coming in through the airport.

“Excellent, excellent,” the Commissioner said. “I’m curious to see the results of the trial. And you say it can help track internal resources as well, sir?”

“The tender process is competitive,” Geoffrey Aruso said. “But I’m confident our system has the potential to revolutionise the way Customs Patrol does business. And yes, it does indeed track internal resource allocation. For instance, I could click here, and it could tell you exactly how much Baxter’s district here spent on accommodation, even down to the last twenty-four hours.”

Baxter’s heart ascended several centimetres.

“I see,” said the Commissioner. “You know, I’m sure we’ll be talking again. How long are you staying?”

“Only the day,” Geoffrey Aruso said. “My visa was only short-term, you know.”

“You will be back though, of course?” said the Commissioner.

“Of course, sir,” said Aruso. “I’m sure we’ll be talking a lot in the future.”

Another few centimetres.

“Ooh, what’s that?” said the Commissioner. “The red mark there?”

“That’s a quota flag, sir,” said Aruso. “Says here, oh, your airport, Southern District. Says that Baxter and the Captain here, their district removed, hmm, one less person than expected yesterday. Apparently twenty-two suspicious arrivals were flagged for removal, but only twenty-one have been deported.”

“Dear oh dear,” said the Commissioner. “Not good.”

“Well, it’s a preliminary,” said Aruso. “Could be mistaken — I’d have to rerun the software to be sure, you see.”

“You never know,” said the Commissioner, getting up to leave. “Still, gentlemen, I’d keep an eye on your numbers if I were you. Audit’s around the corner, you know.”

“I sure hope so,” said Geoffrey Aruso. “Otherwise, they’d have to, I don’t know, find someone who passed through the airport yesterday and fly them out of the country!”

They sat there in silence.

“First class?” The Captain said.

“That’d be nice,” said Aruso.