This can’t be real, thought Gary. The email seemed official, and what the officials seemed to be offering was a truckload of Government Subsidies. Tax breaks. Price support. Reduced costs on resources. Cold storage access. Even additional funds for marketing.

  What’s more, they had already begun rolling out the subsidy plan without even consulting Gary.

  Doubtless, you’ve heard by now, Gary read, of the massive economic shortfall caused by Even Madder Cow Disease.

  What this means for you is that the Government will be throwing its full support behind the success of Fish Direct?—effective immediately.

  In return for your cooperation in saving the country’s economy, you will be richly rewarded—both financially (with the suggested subsidies), and with a knighthood in the forthcoming Queen’s honours.

  Yours Faithfully,

  The New Zealand Government

  A knighthood? And his very own title.

  In his mind, Gary tried it out. And liking the sound, he allowed himself to whisper.

  “Sir Gary Graves.”

  Sure, the speed of the scale up was terrifying. And Government oversight would probably be a nightmare. But with this kind of backing, at least they stood a chance of defeating Thorne Oceanic.

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  Then, worry took over. What if it’s all a scam? The wording was far more precise than your average phishing attempt. But maybe… scammers were getting smarter?

  The fishmen were gone all afternoon—which meant no one to ask.

  Could he trust the email or not?

  Then, as if in answer to his question, Gary’s phone lit up.

  “Hello?” he ventured.

  “Gary, it’s The New Zealand Government.”

  “All of them?”

  “Fair point. The name’s Malcolm Fairweather—Minister for Primary Industries.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Let’s talk Fish Direct?,” said Fairweather, wasting no time on pleasantries. “I see you’ve read the email.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Fairweather’s “ummmmm” sounded profoundly guilty.

  “Are you spying on me?” Gary asked.

  “We’re not not spying. Anyway, this isn’t the time for questioning the Government. Gary, we need your help! We believe that Fish Direct? can revitalise the nation’s economy, and if you can do it—you have to do it. In fact, it’s your patriotic duty to do it. Which is why we’re not actually asking you to do it. We’re telling you it must be done! New Zealand needs you, Gary. And isn’t that what you want? To be needed? To be special?”

  Gary bristled. How the fuck did they know his inner monologue? Was direct-to-brain spying a possibility? Or had he posted something incriminating online.

  “We’ve already organised your knighthood, Gary,” Fairweather continued. “The ceremony’s tomorrow. All that remains is to collect your title, and to save our nation. Can we count on you, Sir Gary Graves?”

  “Fuck it,” said Gary. “I’m in.”

  Gary hung up the phone, exhaling slowly.

  On autopilot, he reached for the remote and flicked on the TV.

  Tina Staples was delivering a special bulletin to the nation.

  “Word just in that innovative tech startup Fish Direct? will helm the country’s economic recovery. Visionary founder and entrepreneur Gary Graves has been praised for his role in getting us all back on track!”

  The screen cut to Malcolm Fairweather, standing at a podium, looking serious.

  “What I’m saying to the nation,” he announced, “is to place the entirety of your faith and hope for the future on the shoulders of this one man.”

  Finally, thought Gary. A bit of fucking respect.

  He had no idea of the disasters to come.