

**The Consultant –** **Part 1 of the post-cyberpunk novel 'A Hostile Takeover'**

Bill Kandiliotis

First Published 2013 by Bill Kandiliotis

First Edition, 2013

Copyright © 2013 Bill Kandiliotis

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Smashwords Edition

http://thewetsparrow.wordpress.com

DEDICATION

To my own real life slumlords.

Tritonium,

Hyperman,

and The Awesome1

The Consultant – Part 1 of the post-cyberpunk novel 'A Hostile Takeover'

"You must know there are two ways of contesting, the one by the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the second to beasts."

\- Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

# PART ONE - The Consultant

"Violence is good." – Jase Russo, "The Saboteur."

Intercept the Wet Sparrow

"What economic depression?" \- Prime Executive Jorge Wilson

One may readily be prepared to die.

Any punter can act bravely when faced with imminent death. Even the foolish amongst warriors can be willing to die for the most hopeless of causes.

Necroface knew this.

He also knew that such fearlessness could potentially undermine a good, well-fought victory. So he decided to ramp proceedings up a notch.

"Now we get to bounce this fucker," he said from behind his infamous monochromatic skull mask.

One of the Scorpion grunts, known as Burnfish22, shot him a questioning frown. The goon wore no facemask, only the formal attire typical of the definitive bankster.

Stupid foreigner.

The other two goons snickered raucously as they dragged a battered and bleeding Alteus into the elevator. Having both his legs crushed, a result of being rammed and pinned up against a solid concrete pylon by one of their Cargovans, Alteus had passed out moments earlier.

"My mistake," Necroface said to the bankster. "I keep forgetting that you're not from around these parts." A taunt more aimed at amusing his minions and vehement fans following this event. Necroface cared little for the Scorpion lieutenant, some big shot goon, sent in to train up new recruits for the local chapter. His brain laboured over more pressing concerns.

How do you hurt a formidable enemy?

Necroface reasoned that the one thing a martyr would never anticipate would be the gut-wrenching fear of knowing, irrefutably, that they are moments away from departing this meagre life.

Leave any half-intelligent human being alive long enough to ponder their impending doom, let it sink in, and panic sneaks up on them no matter how brave they pretend to be.

No matter what action you take.

You're dead.

No matter what shit comes out of your mouth; you're still a dead sucker.

The big checkmate - a lame yet fitting expression often used by his peers. He hoped this Alteus possessed enough intellect to prove his theory.

If not, a good bounce would sufficiently appease feeders and leechers the world over.

The elevator surged upward, stopping occasionally to scare the shit out of potential passengers. Burnfish22 broke the silence, "I know what a bounce is. I am no fool."

"You sound convinced," said Necroface.

"I don't see why we need to waste time toying around."

"Outsiders simply don't appreciate how difficult it is to kill one of these Frogs." Necroface could not believe this stupid, ignorant clubber. The dumb goon had personally overseen the operation. He had even taken part in stalking Alteus ever since his arrival at the International Skyport. All day they tracked the suspected leader of Leaping Frog and his team of minders across the vast City of Cities, until a suitable ambush opportunity presented itself.

The underground parking station battle itself lasted for several intense minutes, and had it not been for Raw$, the only one with the foresight to bring along his grenade launcher, the assault might have ended in utter failure.

The elevator heaved them to the rooftop level and opened its doors. Necroface followed his crew out into the pale-blue sky. He took a moment to marvel at the sights around him. Almost half a kilometre high, the Ascension Centre, positioned as it was, gave him an unparalleled view of the great City of Cities. The cerulean ocean, blemished by bright, white floating habitats, rumbled eternally to the south. A mesa of office and residential towers sprawled out to the west.

Towards the north, just below, he caught a glimpse of the luscious Sovereign Park gardens. Beyond them stretched the vast sparkling waters of Cyana Bay, with its commercial regions growing like crystalline fungi along its long shore.

The iconic cylindrical skyscrapers, the Triumvirates, dominated his view to the east, each hosting massive, classically fashioned statues on their rooftops. Necroface could distinguish the detailed lines on Mercury's stoic, golden face.

A synthetic voice crackled from the tiny fuzedrive embedded in his earlobe. #You should interrogate first.#

Necroface ignored it.

He rarely countered his fake's commands, but this time around, he decided the virtual-intelligent entity had failed to grasp the concept that Leaping Frog members simply do not talk; they die.

Necroface looked down at the young Frog. Severely bruised and bloodied, Alteus appeared to have regained consciousness. "Not really a good time to awaken," said Necroface.

Alteus glared back at his captors with bloodshot eyes. The two brutes, the sleek Raw$ and his grimy accomplice Acid, lifted Alteus up, each grappling one of his arms.

Necroface wondered what grim thoughts burned inside the man's head as the two bulky goons, complete with clownish ski masks, without effort, dangled him over the edge, ninety floors up off the Ascension Centre's rooftop. Each time Alteus struggled to get free, the ruthless goons twisted his arms. Necroface could almost feel the tearing of ligaments.

"Time to check out, Alteus," taunted Burnfish22, moving closer.

Necroface also approached, and grabbed the defeated slumlord by the ear. Alteus returned them all a look so filled with contempt it made Necroface cringe. "You seem upset," he said.

Weak and coughing on his own blood, Alteus uttered. "Intercept the Wet Sparrow."

To Necroface these words made no sense, "I'm under the impression I am bouncing the Wet Sparrow."

#He is trying to communicate with Leaping Frog via your open wavecast. Kill him immediately.#

Make up your fake mind.

Necroface found solace in the knowledge that The Brotherhood would avenge Alteus's doom, promptly and surely. There was no doubt in his mind that such a provocation would be enough to trigger a strong reaction.

He gambled on war.

Being familiar with Brotherhood of the Leaping Frog mentality, a culture of loyalty and retribution, in which every affront is avenged and every foe is hunted down until the end of recordable history, he considered it a safe bet.

Brotherhood policy, a blood oath taken the day you join, he recalled.

Necroface needed to make certain he hurt them deeply enough. "What's the status on the R40?"

#Arrives in thirty eight seconds.#

"I could torment you up here all day." Necroface strove to kill the necessary seconds to make his calculations viable, "But I can't have you miss your ride."

He gave his crew a slight nod.

Raw$, in his ultra-sleek outfit, along with the despicable Acid, swung the limp Alteus backward with enough force to build the required momentum to toss him over the edge.

It pleased Necroface to see horror splash across the doomed man's face, to see imminent death eating away at Atleus's psyche, proving that even West Shore slumlords were not infallible and fearless as they were renowned to be.

Sheer animal instinct seemed to take control of Alteus, writhing and snarling like a cornered slumcat. When they swung him forward and let go, the thrashing madman snatched Burnfish22's arm with a tight death grip, knocking the Scorpion minion off balance, sending him out into the void and down the same fatal plunge.

"Oh crap," Raw$ said.

Acid chuckled like an adolescent behind his grimy mask.

Necroface leaned over to see the two bodies free falling towards the distant street. He could have sworn he witnessed Burnfish22 locked in a screaming match with his fellow death-mate. He imagined the sight of absolute hysteria in the men's eyes and could almost hear the hybrid holler of streaming cool air and human vocals. He felt the panic and terror seize him and revelled in it.

Four seconds.

For some inane reason, Necroface felt cheated, craving an insight into Alteus's thoughts, right up to his impact with the 10:35 autobus to Shelbourne Harbour.

Uberman

In most areas of the world, food security is no longer a given, thus over 800 million people are poised to perish by the time we celebrate the New Year. Water and land mismanagement, climate destabilization, neo-colonialism and kleptocracies have robbed the majority of humanity of its land and capital. Wealth has been squandered protecting wealth, so the capacity for any viable reinvestment in humanity has now become non-existent. What lies ahead is unprecedented, unpredictable and very, very dark. - CAST434456XCT66_TRAVION^MOJOBLUE^^CORE

"I'm having trouble choosing a subject."

"What are the choices, Sweetie?"

"It can either be on communications, politics or energy."

"Why can't you choose? You're brilliant in all those subjects."

"I just can't choose."

"Do energy."

"Why?"

James Tucker knew painfully well the stubborn side of Gabriella, so with great caution, he explained. "That's what I remember working on, back when I was in your grade."

"Boring."

"Boring? Come on. Energy? Look at the new compact thorium generator they're developing. This type of technology can power a piece of equipment, without refuelling, for longer than its life cycle."

"Who will buy such a thing?"

Tucker looked at his daughter, surprised at her ever-evolving audacity. "Actually, there's already a market for it."

"Yeah, but who'll be around to buy such a thing?"

Here she goes again.

He should have known better than to stumble into one of her idiosyncratic traps. Tucker gathered his wits and hoped he could cope, "Why do you think that?"

"We live in such luxury." The thirteen-year-old gestured at the garden banquet around them, "And yet eighty-five percent of the world's people live in poverty. How long is this going to last?"

Tucker reflected on her statement. Indeed, by looking around at the opulence of Bluezone dwellers, one could reasonably question the sustainability of such a lifestyle, though he dared not agree with her. "Don't believe everything the feeders tell you, Sweetie. Our City-State is not going to collapse anytime soon."

"Um, yes it will."

Her insistence troubled him. He wanted his child to feel safe.

"What makes you say that?"

"It's called equilibrium, Daddy."

"What?"

"When an ice cube is placed in a warm room..."

"I know what equilibrium means. Just how does it affect us?"

"We are the ice cube."

Tucker smiled, "And the world full of poverty is the warm room." Still, he aimed to reassure her. "Listen, Sweetie. We live in times of great upheaval. Like the seasons, humanity has good days and bad days. It's a cycle."

"So we're living in winter times."

"That's it." He could have corrected her but, as a parent he felt obliged to paint her the most hopeful scenario. Tucker could relate to his child easily enough. He remembered a time when he too grew up with the same insatiable fears. As a boy, he would compel his parents to explain the gross violence streaming from the waves. They assured him the mass bedlam and killings were all contrived productions designed to entertain the world's sadistically bored.

A part of him had always suspected otherwise.

Growing up, Tucker in time encountered a harsher world, not desensitized to depicted violence, but apathetic and conditioned to genuine, bloody mayhem.

"Late winter," Tucker said. "Late, late winter actually."

Gabriella seemed content. "Then what? How does spring occur out of nothing?"

"Gravity."

"Huh."

"The seasons are a result of the Earth's axis of rotation being tilted..."

"I know how they work, Dad."

"So, people too are bound by similar laws to physics. I call it survival. Human beings are capable of overcoming adversity. We have the ability to invent things and modify the world we live in."

"How are we going to change this situation?" Gabriella sounded smug, as if challenging him to prove otherwise.

"With great ideas and a lot of hard work."

"I think it takes a great leader."

Tucker began to suspect the topic had been brewing inside her little mind for a while, "Sometimes great leadership is needed. Yes, you are quite right."

He noticed Gabriella inspecting the esteemed, sanguine guests mingling around them.

"Who do you think will be the next big Uberman, Daddy?"

Tucker had not given it much thought lately, "I don't know. The title of Uberman doesn't carry the same prestige it once held. These days any kid with half a brain can manufacture a huge following. The world's become saturated with lame wannabe Ubermen, milking their fans for everything they've got."

"You're still my favourite Uberman, Daddy. You're the best there is."

Tucker smiled.

Even though it pleased him to hear her words, his current status in the Uberman stakes disappointed him bitterly. He could easily recall a time when he pulled in over ten million hard-core followers, who would subscribe to everything he dished out and hundreds of millions more who bought his products.

At the height of his celebrity, at the peak of the fame frenzy, James Tucker enjoyed a skyrocketing topfeed ranking, immense influence amongst the glitterati, and access to all the meeting rooms of the elite. Every time he stepped out in public, thousands of fans and newsfeeders would accost him. Stalked and worshipped to the point of ridiculousness, Tucker never lost sight of the one thing that made it all worth it.

The power he wielded.

He could do anything. He could change everything.

Now?

Ex-Uberman?

He hardly ever bothered checking his status. Tucker considered himself a humble person, down to earth and not too self-absorbed as to believe the bullshit hype around his persona, but, to his own defence, what mortal could withstand such meteoric fall without feeling... slightly dejected?

He looked down at his daughter, "Gabby. I want you to believe that with great ideas and good leadership we can make the world a better place."

"Sure." Her grin delighted the hell out of him, "But it'll need to be a pretty big idea."

Tucker laughed, "I guess you should stick to nothing else but political science. How does that sound?"

"I'll do energy."

Tucker laughed again, "Not a problem. Now let's go find that mother of yours so we can go home." He too grew tired of the luncheon. Not that he could find any fault with the delicious food, noble neighbours, and splendid views of Cyana Bay glistening through the sweet smelling coniferous trees.

Although his generation had learned to live under a constant dark cloud of imminent Armageddon, adapting to it, in defiance of it, Tucker still felt unsettled by his child's observations.

One day this world is going to face the music.

He wondered how soon that dreaded time would come.

Tucker scanned the colourful groups around them and spotted his wife inside one of the numerous alcoves, engaged in intimate conversation with her illustrious peers.

"Go get Mum. She's over there."

"Okay." Gabriella smiled and ran into the crowd.

Tucker gestured to alert his zoid, discreetly forming the required Redhand symbols with the fingers on his right hand. Electronic filaments embedded in his fingernails disrupted a magnetic field produced by his wristbands. Zoids are then able to read the signals, which travel to the NASE via a dedicated datastring.

"Mr. Broker, time to go," he gestured, even though he knew the ethereal entity possessed no mobility, trapped inside the core of his Kinefone wristy.

#I am ready,# said Mr. Broker via his lobeset.

"How did you go?"

#I interacted socially with the other zoids, as you requested.#

"What? You mingled?" Tucker spoke aloud, unable to hide his excitement. "Well done."

Teaching his Virtuoid to interact with other zoids at a positronic level proved he still possessed the cutting edge in virtual intelligence technology. Tucker looked around at his contemporaries and knew how reliant they had grown on a product still in its infant stage.

These days, the entire Bluezone citizenry could not function without these analogue creatures with the intellectual functionality quadruple that of a house pet. Tucker knew the game changer depended on the success of his next generation NASE.

"Did you learn anything?" Tucker returned to Redhand gestures.

#There are sixty-five zoids in this vicinity. Only sixteen are direct Virtuoid descendants...#

"Did you learn anything about their owners?"

#I only found inconsequential information. There is a zoid being trained to go into sleep-mode in sync with the intermarket's hourly downtime, allowing it to monitor and trade twenty-four seven.#

"Good idea." Tucker wondered why he never thought of it, "Zoids can use sleep to defragmentate their memories, otherwise you grow incredibly stupid. That is exactly what you should be doing."

#Why?#

"I'm starting to suspect you're not sleeping anymore. Did you manage to come across any buy or sell datum?"

#Yes. Rintexx.#

Tucker rubbed his Kinefone wristband, "Well done, boy. What's the score?"

#At 32.07 federas a share, Rintexx is poised to release a disease-fighting synthetic hormone. The Government hasn't approved the drug and from what information I have processed so far, there is a 78% chance this may not change. I classify this stock as a sell.#

Tucker instead felt excited about his impending venture into the pharmaceutical sector, "I need you to make a move on Rintexx. Buy it."

#Buy it?# Mr. Broker sounded surprised, and eerily human.

Or did Tucker imagine it? Anticipating human error, the zoid could have been simply asking for affirmation.

"Make the move the millisecond the next uptime begins."

Every hour the entire intermarket went into downtime for five minutes, a breather period that allowed the supercores that support the global trading infrastructure to reset and synchronize. It also allowed humans a brief moment to regain their sanity.

#Rintexx is still sitting at premium levels.# The Broker's ineptitude annoyed Tucker.

"I don't care. We move on Rintexx today."

#Are you sure? I predict... #

"Check the national budget veeds. It looks as if the Federal Government is tightening spending. Find a veed on Newscaster 14. Genetic therapy subsidies for the little kids with cystic fibrosis are about to get scrapped."

#This will devalue the stock further.#

"Grow a heart, Mr. Broker."

#How am I to do that?#

"I'm joking."

#Humour is detrimental to my functionality.#

"That's just it." Tucker hardly expected the fake to understand. The zoid simply failed to link Rintexx to his daughter's struggle with the disease. Buying Rintexx meant supporting a good solid company with value beyond its share price.

It also disregarded a swathe of old data. "Rintexx has been trying to break the death barrier for quite some time now."

#Rintexx stopped investing in vironetics approximately five years ago. I have indexed no current reference to any ongoing research in such technology.#

Tucker surveyed the crowd, catching out a guest spying on him.

Alan McNabb.

Tucker knew him well.

A friend of my father's.

Since most people can read Redhand gestures, he relaxed his fingers, allowing the magnetic field between his wristband and the circuitry embedded in his fingernails, to cease being active. "We'll discuss this later."

#Your Personal Assistant is requesting to speak with you.#

Tucker spotted his daughter heading back, without her mother.

"Did she state why?"

#Ms. Rebeka Mock defined it an urgent matter.#

"How urgent?"

#She defined it as a hypergoblin problem.#

Hypergoblin?

The word ignited instant terror in his mind.

Tucker took his little girl's hand. "Where's Mum?"

"She doesn't want to go just yet."

"You really need to get Mum. Your father has to get back to the office."

"Can I go with you?"

"No." Tucker searched the alcoves, fending away dread, trying not to panic over the latest attack.

Damn those hypergoblins.

Black Market

"When the acquisition is a new appendage to your existing company... Run it in person! Put your own people in there! Weaken the stronger powers within the firm! Keep the weak powers weak!"

-RULE #2 ACQUISITIONS (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman.)

"I am pleased to announce that we have slain the dragon."

All the enthusiastic MercurEx employees gathered around the trading oval, cheered. James Tucker had hoped for this type of reaction.

He needed them to know how much he valued their support.

He wanted them to trust him again.

He wanted to trust them back.

"The hypergoblin incursion has been neutralized. It seems we have become experts at killing these things."

The remark drew laughter.

He sensed they hankered for a laugh, so he gave them one, even though he feared remnants of the demented zoid could still be lurking freely within his datasphere.

The MercurEx CEO could not afford another setback. He knew that moving forward; encumbered with looming, unresolved threats, was a risk.

A daring risk? Maybe.

A huge, calculated risk?

Well, risk-taking is an Uberman's business.

"I am also pleased to announce that the Government has set a date for a debate on currency deregulation. This means MercurEx is back in business." Cheers from his employees filled Tucker with hope and confidence.

"Eighty percent of our fellow citizens hate the current land-backed cryptocurrency. Sixty percent support deregulation. I smell inevitability in the air, so regardless of the outcome, regardless of whether it's legal or not, MercurEx will declare itself a sovereign entity and the path will be set for us to issue our own currency."

Tucker heard gasps of surprise.

"Every stakeholder, including each of you, will receive an equal, non-transferable share entitling everyone to voting rights, access to services, and income."

Speaking over jubilant applause, Tucker pressed on.

"The key elements in our enterprise are close to realisation. We have already implemented our own in-house, time-based monetary system. Currently, every Mercury-hour you earn, MercurEx buys it back at six federas. In the future, this unit of account I believe, will dominate over the competition because time is the most valuable asset an individual will ever possess. When, and I mean when deregulation occurs, our competitors will be peddling the same old interest-bearing kleptocurrencies. MercurEx will be offering not only a local, communal monetary system, but also a regional one, and also a global currency. Today the store of value in our system is MercurEx stock and its assets. In the future, it will be the Global Stock Exchange. It will be the intermarket."

Tucker waited for the excitement to ease.

"The last piece of the puzzle is our medium of exchange. This is why I have vigorously pursued to merge hyper-technology with our finance products. Bionaut has finally developed third generation capabilities and is ready to go. In fact, our superzoid is busting to go. The only thing stopping us right now is that NASE.2 still isn't ready. This is where my priorities currently stand and I will be working hard to get the Nasewire dryware up and rolling as fast as I can. So bear with me, we still have a way to go."

Tucker spent the next few minutes discussing trivial matters with his Mercurians, joking with them, appreciating each affectionate smile, thankful for their unadulterated attentiveness. He did not need newsfeeders and rankerphiles to tell him he had the best staff in the world. Tucker hoped he could remain the best boss in the world.

With great reluctance, he dismissed everyone and MercurEx returned to its usual hum as Capital Traders, Social Developers, Marketing Engineers, Hypernauts, and Consumer Guardians went back to work.

Rebeka Mock walked up to him. The concern on her face a stark reminder of what hazardous adventures lay scheduled for the day.

"I've been unable to contact Mr. Blackwell."

"He's stonewalling."

Asshole.

Tucker had never expected his closest acquaintance, a peer he considered a friend, first and foremost, would resort to such nasty tactics. He felt betrayed and found it hard to stomach. Even thinking about it made him feel sick. He could not allow it to drag on. "I know where that knucklehead frolics," he said and headed towards the elevator gallery. "I guess it's time to pay him an impromptu visit."

"I'll arrange a taxicab for you," Rebeka offered, her look of concern unchanged.

Outside, the sweltering air pounded against Tucker's skin the second he passed through the lobby's giant revolving doors - titanic pieces of moving glass that never failed to intimidate. Tucker fast-legged it to the nearest transtop, and joined a medley of commuters coveting the free rides offered by the local district.

Wondering what delayed his pre-booked taxicab, James Tucker jostled for a better vantage point on a notoriously hectic stretch of Ocean Drive.

Hypergoblin crisis averted for now, he thought.

Whatever reprieve he felt was short-lived when a strange, foreboding sensation overwhelmed him. Paranoia burned behind his ears. Casting his eye out to the crowd, he spotted a few people looking back. Nothing threatening, just the regular fans who have noticed an Uberman in their midst.

Ex-Uberman.

A flash of white blotted out half his vision.

An abrupt, loud screech followed the commercial Cargovan as it stopped right in front of him. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Tucker's brain ceased to function, stalled by the unanticipated occurrence.

React, you idiot.

His internal voice screamed at him as a huge slit appeared on the white panel. A side door slid open, revealing a dark interior. Two gloved arms lashed out and grabbed Tucker, pulling him inside the Cargovan.

It took only a second.

The abductor's arms were strong.

Tucker felt like a rag doll.

The slide-door slammed shut behind him. The vehicle took off and the sudden motion added to his disorientation. Thrown onto the bare steel floor he flailed in the darkness, straining to get a look at his kidnappers.

He saw a gloved fist fly and smack the side of his head

Tucker fell on his back, holding his hands out in submission.

Confusion reigned in his mind as he looked past his outstretched arms to get a glimpse of his attacker. What he saw intensified his fears.

A brutish, well-built man, wearing black overalls and a black ski mask, crouched over him. The brute pointed something at his face. Tucker strained his vision further to get it to focus on an object forged exclusively for death.

His brain went numb.

...until he remembered his training.

Tucker never bothered to prepare for such an occasion. He knew the statistics were high, even within the Bluezone. Arrogance had gotten the better of him, shunning bodyguards and corporate security while others in his position did the opposite. Operational security in a majority of companies gobbled on average a third of profits.

MercurEx spent zero.

He built a corporate empire around giving out free products, making no enemies, and supporting Bluezoners, slumfolk and refugians, whenever possible.

Who needed operational security?

Now he delved into his military service past in an urgent search for survival tips.

"Easy!" His military training kicked in. "Whatever it is you want I'll cooperate!"

Fear not the enemy. Fear the emotion that hamstrings intuition. Fear.

"Is that right?" the brute grunted.

"I have no wish to become a statistic."

Never in his life had James Tucker faced anything as precarious as this. In his tour of duty during the Phosphorus Wars, he had come face-to-face with tecto-rifle wielding warlords, but over there, Tucker was armed to the teeth and in the company of expertly trained troopers.

The brute reached over and plucked the Kinefone lobeset from Tucker's ear.

Assess the situation.

Tucker's heart thumped harder, as adrenaline rushed up to flood his head. Outside, the multiple arches of the Gateway Bridge grew in the distance. They were heading north along Ocean Drive, away from the Bluezone.

Ransom?

The possibility crossed his mind.

Statistically and traditionally, kidnapping was the official sport for amateurs. Statistically and traditionally, these affairs ended in grief for both parties. He hoped these were not the regular, garden-variety clubbers.

Tucker looked past the brute, at the similarly dressed passenger.

A woman! Tucker wondered.

The body shape and the short blond hair protruding from the ski mask implied that it was, though Tucker could not tell for sure. Amongst the body odour and gunaline he detected a faint jasmine-like aroma, or is it witch-hazel?

He knew the smell well, having recently used it to sooth his own skin ailments.

The woman thumbed away at a touchy.

Who uses a touchy these days?

Moreover, what the fuck do these people want?

The sooner he found out, the quicker he could formulate a response. If he let them carry out their plans unopposed, Tucker knew from all the newsfeeder-spawned statistics that he would most likely wind up dead. He needed to press the issue a little, so he decided to provoke them. "Listen, I get the message. There is no need to take this any further, so give me a figure and we can work something out. How about it?"

A third goon in the driver's seat, also in analogous black overalls and ski mask, turned around and looked at him with cold, youthful eyes.

A young adult? A kid? What the fuck?

With one hand holding the small piece of artillery, firmly pointed at Tucker's face, the brute used his other hand to take the touchy from the woman and shove it into Tucker's belly.

"You are gonna contact your broker," said the brute, with a calm yet menacing voice. "You are gonna buy a particular stock. If you deviate from any of my instructions..." He pointed towards the rear of the van, "...we will throw you into the path of an oncoming freight truck for the entire world to enjoy."

Tucker looked towards the rear and felt the rumbling of the road. He had seen plenty of snuff victims on DisasterCaster. The waves were full with these disturbing killings. Snuff-murder for entertainment sat second only to pornography.

With dread infecting his thoughts, he attempted to explain. "I don't have a broker."

I killed my broker.

"You don't seem to understand." The brute sounded annoyed.

Tucker nodded.

He pressed at graphicons, something he had not done in a long time, until he brought up the Hermes corefront. He thumbed in his security details and for a brief tense moment, he thought he failed to gain access.

He was relieved to hear the sound of a familiar voice.

#Am I talking to my highly esteemed boss?#

"Don't talk to any human, asshole." The brute poked the gun barrel into Tucker's temple, "And no fucking Redhand gestures."

"Yes it is, Hermes," said Tucker. He looked up at the thugs and waited for instructions.

"Aztechno," said the woman, her voice confirming her gender. "Its code is AZT23SG slash F."

Tucker scavenged his memory for information about the stock. "Hermes, I need you to tell the guys in the trading oval to make a move on Aztechno."

#Why on earth do you want to do that?#

God damn it. Stop acting so human, you stupid fake.

"I need you to buy Aztechno stock right now."

#Aztechno is debt ridden,# Hermes continued to argue, trained to query such unusual requests. #It's practically in the clutches of voluntary administration. Buying that shit at three fents would be scandalous.#

"That sounds like no fake," said the brute.

"Oh, yes it is. Hermes, just do what I say," Tucker yelled.

Tucker figured he was about to lose a whole lot of cash. He only hoped to live long enough to complain about it. He did not want to end up a mangled piece of flesh on the highway. Tucker had viewed too many grisly snuff murders of hapless executives thrown off the tops of skyscrapers to dismiss it from happening to him.

Tucker had no desire to end up a faceless victim in some morbid newsfeed.

#The team wants to know what kind of stake are you after.#

"Tell your broker to keep going until further notification," said the woman.

Her words stunned Tucker.

The enormity of the situation smacked him hard.

I am about to lose a shitload of client money.

"Keep going until I call you back," he said with great reluctance.

The brute snatched the touchy out of Tucker's hand, ending the conversation. The woman studied real-time data scrolling off the GSX corefront. "It's on the move." Excitement tainted her voice.

"I could have just given you the money."

"Three point seven fents!" shouted the woman.

"This is ridiculous!" Tucker tried to anticipate their motive.

What kind of scam is this?

"Refreshing now! Four point eight fents!"

Tucker felt cold sweat forming on his skin. He realised he was not dealing with two-bit outlaws from the slums.

These were Bluezone scamsters, using his company's account to spruik up a thinly traded stock. When enough suckers are taken in, the stock price rockets, at which point the scamsters take their profits. Then the share dives, and all the suckers lose. This swindle was as old as the stock market, but with a Global Stock Exchange that did not stop trading for no one, a truly free and open market, this evolution of the scam had become more potent, and deadly.

"How cashed up are you?" asked the brute.

"I have limited funds."

"Refreshing!" called out the woman. "Seven point two fents!"

Tucker's Kinefone lobeset started buzzing and flashing in the brute's hand. "That's them," he said, "They want to know when to stop." The brute held up the lobeset, taunting him.

"Eight fents!" updated the woman.

Tucker did the arithmetic in his head. It did not look good.

"Answer the damn lobe!" he yelled.

"We are about to hit ten."

If my traders continue buying beyond ten cents, Tucker deduced, I'll end up owning this crappy company outright.

Tucker did the sums in his head again. Not only will he be losing money, he would be losing clients' money. With no funds of his own, thanks to his wife, he would be unable to offset such a loss.

The lobeset kept buzzing.

"Refreshing!"

"The intermarket will spot this irregularity and they will dump the stock." He warned them, hoping to thwart them in some way.

"Twenty-one point five fents."

"It won't get any higher so I suggest you start dumping now."

"Twenty-one point seven! It's leveling off."

Thank god.

The lobeset continued to buzz.

The brute turned towards the driver, "Are we satisfied?"

"Let's wrap it up," said the driver.

The brute tossed him back the flashing lobeset, "My threat still stands."

Tucker fastened the device back into his ear.

#We stopped buying at nine-fents.#

What a relief.

#You are a genius,# continued Hermes. #According to the feeders you have left a trail of mass destruction.#

"It's dropping," updated the female. "It's going backwards."

#The trading crew want to know their next move.#

Tucker could imagine the jubilation in the trading oval. The dumb rats would willingly follow him into the darkest abyss.

Tucker looked at his kidnappers.

The brute studied him and then nodded.

"Sell it!" Tucker shouted. "Sell it all."

"Wrap it up," demanded the brute.

Tucker complied, feeling a change of circumstance in the air.

A change for the worse.

The brute leaned closer and said, "Seems to me... you stand to make a decent profit."

Tucker did the mathematics in his head.

True.

Although, he predicted this adventure would eventually cost him his Office of Ethics and Standards Accreditation.

"What now?"

It occurred to Tucker what the next logical step was. They would throw him out of the speeding Cargovan. For a scam like this to work, the victim must not lodge a complaint within the next few days, if ever. It buys the scamsters time to launder the money out of the system, hiding the trades in amongst billions of transactions.

Most often, victims of these unscrupulous spruikers never came forward. Technically, losing a small fortune through greed, naivety, or plain stupidity was legal.

This situation was different.

With extortion a capital crime, these clubbers were playing for keeps.

Tucker noticed the Cargovan slow to a halt. The brute opened the sliding door and hot, dry air inundated the vehicle.

"Get out."

Shit!

Tucker succumbed to fear.

They are not going to risk leaving me alive.

Sunlight burned his eyes.

"Why?" he pleaded, keeping calm, suspecting they would ignore any display of anger. "You have what you want."

"Get out."

Fear invaded his heart. Tucker stepped out into an open desert, his feet sinking into dry, silty sand. "You don't have to do this. I won't report this to the authorities. I have just as much to lose. I can't fuck this up for you."

The slide door slammed shut.

Tucker watched the Cargovan bury its spinning wheels into the soft dusty ground until it gained the momentum to speed away. He waited for the minor sandstorm to clear before he attempted to survey the desert around him.

Tucker established his location.

East River.

Standing smack bang in the middle of a dry riverbed, Tucker made out the two opposing shorelines and the Lower Bayside barrios beyond them. What was once a thriving industrial and commercial conurbation was now derelict, forsaken by civilised society and home to millions of slumfolk.

Those goons are trying to kill me.

Tucker made a mental list of the dangers working against him.

He estimated that he was around thirty kilometres from the nearest Bluezone. The temperature, probably sitting at around forty degrees, felt like it still had a degree or two to rise before sundown.

The locals will eventually discover my presence.

God only knows what'll happen when they do.

All Tucker knew with any certainty was that slumdwellers hated Bluezoners with a passion. There existed no Ambercast coverage in such places, leaving him with no way to connect with emergency services.

Satnet coverage existed, but due to his bias against Meganat's Jim Dochersky and his fleet of low earth orbit satellites, Tucker only bought Kinefone products.

So no Satnet.

Tucker headed downstream, west towards the mouth of the river, hoping to get to the cooler beaches of the bay before the sun reached its most treacherous hour. He avoided the shore, opting to stay out in the open, on mud cracked riverbed than risk moving through dangerous and unpleasant neighbourhoods.

In the distance he saw a ragtag group of children playing on a neglected chain-link fence. He stopped to study them, and noticed that they were in fact studying him. What caught his attention was the fact they all carried or wore electronic devices, interacting with them.

He concluded two things.

One, that once his presence in the slums became exposed; they would be celebrating over his dead carcass within the hour.

And two, the devices used by the locals were not Ambercast or Satnet enabled. Even if they were, these people would not be able to afford using them.

Episoft.

The peer-to-peer wave network offered free communication in areas where enough Episoft-enabled devices were active. The higher the saturation, the faster and deeper data packages travelled. When sparse, data packets took longer to propagate.

As long as a link existed between any two devices, between two pockets of saturation, the message would ultimately progress to its final destination.

God damn brilliant piece of technology.

He had made a fortune speculating on Episoft's success.

All Tucker had to do was ping an emergency rescue request and wait for the message to snake its way through, hoping there were enough devices out there between himself and the nearest safe-haven.

Wishful thinking kept him going.

Wishful thinking was all he had left.

Department 47

"Government institutions are divine entities that are to be avoided at all costs. They make the rules. They change the rules. Unless you have a budget to rival the National Account, don't even go there."

-Rule #11 GOVERNMENTS (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman)

"This is fucking ridiculous," Deputy-Commissioner Wilson declared as she inspected the carnage inside the Greenwood Mortuary.

"That's understating it," said Officer Hadleigh. The local private enforcer approached her, looking rather rattled by the events of the previous few hours.

"Why is the SGP sending 'em splatterjobs out here?"

"I'm guessing the deadhouse down your way is full."

"So they've outsourced to this facility, all the way up here in Port Christopher?"

"What's the matter, Deputy? This zone not blue enough for you?"

Wilson wanted to agree but decided not to press the issue. "What did they take?"

"A single corpse. All this shit for a damned carcass. Thank god nobody got killed."

No one killed?

Wilson could not help but suspect these private cops either ran for their lives or were complicit in the raid. "The next question is, who did they take?"

"They made off with one of the two splatterjobs who slammed down at the Ascension Centre last week."

"Suicides are not any of my business. Your guys told me this concerned D47."

"Well, they irradiated the joint before they stormed in. Five came in from the front, three in from the roof. Destroyed whatever they could, and whisked the body out. Ten minutes in and two out. Sounds like D47 material to me."

It wasn't a new phenomenon. Wilson knew of many gangs that made it a point to retrieve their fallen members. Some even made it their policy. "Which body did they take?"

"Twenty-nine year old Simon Lyons of Blackwood; a company exec at Aztechno, and a Bluezoner for ten years."

"Are you suggesting Lyons was somehow a closet slumlord?"

"According to a preliminary inspection, the other suicide, a large male, was unidentifiable apart from his skinart. This was no suicide pact. More like an act of corporaterrorism that went sideways."

"What, his buddies busted in here and took the wrong body?"

"It's a possibility."

Wilson didn't buy it. She could sense the local wanted nothing else but to dump the entire investigation onto her. Still, the levels of violence demonstrated left her with no doubt those damn local slumlords were behind this. "Okay. I'll take the case on, as long as you guys clean this mess up."

"Don't you want to inspect the scene?"

"I've seen enough. Shut it down, tag what you can and send Poid 3 a compilation of all the data you have." Wilson decided not to allocate already stretched D47 resources to a region plagued with inept and corrupt officials.

"That's fine with me," Officer Hadleigh sighed and moved on.

Glad to have cut short her visit to the eastern barrios, Wilson left the locals to their menial tasks. If it were not for its close proximity to a major desalinisation refinery just off its coast, the seedy port town would have been jettisoned out of the Bluezone protectorate a long time ago.

Port Christopher.

Too many unregistered denizens.

Too many disused factories.

Too many unemployed hypernauts.

Too cosmopolitan to be called a slum; with its vast subterranean bazaars, visiting offshore casinos, and endemic pharmotourista trade.

Too many headaches.

Wilson directed her police issue autotran to head back south via the scenic Ocean Drive, hoping the ride, a route that meandered along a suburban coastline peppered with sandy beaches and sailing clubs, would brighten her mood.

Half an hour into the trip, her mood fared no better.

Shellbury.

A place of bittersweet childhood memories.

She fondly remembered living there with her father.

Playing on the beach.

Visiting friends.

Sailing.

These were once welcomed memories.

Ever since her father's assassination however, these memories grew increasingly painful over time.

It hurt her to drive along the coastal road, yet she endured it, allowing herself to grieve in solitude, having never visited her father's grave. As an adult, she found a way to pay her respect, a place to visit to reflect on her past.

Shellbury.

Even though the pristine piece of real estate she drove through sat outside Bluezone jurisdiction, little crime plagued the territory. With every home a fortress and every neighbourhood a secure compound, no lower form of life in their right mind would dare consider venturing into Shellbury to play. Similar to the Bayside favelas, the only law existing around these parts was a solemn pact between the wealthy inhabitants to protect themselves.

Money spent protecting money.

How long can a situation like this last?

Wilson scavenged the autotran's interior for her mood pills, finding only a half-empty packet of longer lasting Timidity's.

I'll take anything at this point.

#Crusader_Girl. Your appointment begins now.#

"Poid 3," replied Crusader_Girl, a pseudo bestowed upon her by her peers. "How are you today?"

A slight pause and, #I am well.#

"What I meant was, how are you feeling today?" Wilson, a habitual tormentor of anything fake, couldn't help herself.

After a longer pause, the zoid answered. #I am functional. I am clear.#

Being also a staunch critic, opposed to the proliferation of the fakes, Wilson appreciated Poid 3's honesty. A zoid wrangler once told her that all fakes interpret existence differently, but when interacting with humans, tended to hide behind generic human attributes. Poid 3 had, over time, learnt not to fuck with her by pretending to be human.

"What have you got for me?"

#In regards to what, Crusader_Girl?#

"In regards to..." Wilson racked her brain, fighting the drug-induced euphoria, "...case number C344DA. Port Christopher. 970923."

#Last updated twenty-one minutes ago. Subject A is a male, 29 years of age. Subject B is a male, 35 years of age.#

"Any genetographic links to other crimes from either subject?"

#Subject B has had extensive gene therapy covering his tracks. His cells are fatigued. Early signs of caconecrosome disease have been detected.#

"Let's complete identifying those tattoos. Create a new profile. What is most distinguishable about the subject's skinart?"

#Subject B?#

"Yes. Subject B."

#The glyphs around Subject B's neck suggest a foreign origin.#

"Can you verify any specific insignia?"

#I have compiled feedback from public dataminers. They have unanimously identified a Scorpion connection.#

"Scorpion Renaissance?"

#No. Subject B is foreign. Department 4 has come up with nothing. This subject has evaded our migration installations.#

"Can you identify the personal tags?"

#The skinart markings on the deceased male identify him as Burnfish22. His skinart comprises of five scorpions, a spider web, a trout-like fish bearing the number two within a two, and flames for fins.#

Sounds like this guy either was a member of the now defunct Spiders, or fought against them.

"Show me the skinart."

The lumeglass dash instantly flicked to the requested images. Intricate patterns greeted her, sprawled like a mural across the torso, telling a story of blood-red scorpions with angry stingers ready to strike, tearing through a thorny, metallic spider web.

"This guy earned his five scorpions fighting the infamous human traffickers."

A veteran of the slave wars, fought to the death over control of the lucrative trade.

With a name like Burnfish, a clan designation, Wilson concluded that the Scorpions were busy stepping up their presence in the City of Cities, and that it was definitely a case worth adding to her ever-increasing workload.

Not that she minded, for each case no matter how trivial offered her a greater insight into the enemy. She believed there existed a way to neutralise this scourge. The entire civilised world needed to change its approach in fighting these conglomerate gangs.

Law enforcement conventions needed to be scrapped, updated, and evolved.

Adapt or perish.

"What have you got on Simon Lyons?"

#Subject A?#

"Yes."

#You have asked a broad question. You have approximately eight minutes remaining.#

The police superzoid allocated its temporality across the entire the Interior Order Department. It grew annoyed and reduced its functionality when agents breached their fair use quotas. To avoid the fake from getting the shits, Wilson's mind hurried in search for a question that would bear the most fruit. "Place of work?"

#Aztechno is a scratch-glass manufacturing company based in The Northlakes Bluezone District.#

"What did he do there?"

#Chief Executive Officer.#

"Anything trending on Simon Lyons?"

#No. He scores a very low signature profile.#

"Does he go by a pseudo?"

#I am unable to link any alias to Simon Lyons. I have traced his signature back ten years on both Ambercast and Satnet. I have found nothing to flag based on standard investigation parameters. Would you like to study Simon Lyons' complete sociometric profile?#

"Not yet."

Too much work.

She wanted a short cut, a wild card, something to get the ball rolling. "Who owns Aztechno?"

#It is listed on the SGX as a private equity firm with MercurEx as its registrar.#

"Is there anything trending on Aztechno cross-referenced to MercurEx?"

#Forty three thousand, five hundred and eleven references, one hundred percent related to marketing.#

"Anything trending on MercurEx?"

#Eight million-#

"Most current."

#Kidnapping an Uberman. Feeders are abuzz with speculation whether an abduction attempt on James Tucker was real, or simply one of his publicity stunts. A rescue by an emergency response unit in Alexandria appears genuine but he has yet to submit a victim of crime report or publicly explain the events that took place.#

"Most current linked to Aztechno."

#Twenty hours ago, Aztechno's share price spiked drastically on the GSX. MercurEx led the raid on stock that had remained dormant for a decade. You have reached the end of your quota, good-bye.#

Damn it.

Wilson wished for more time with the police zoid, but then she remembered how much she scorned the advent of the superzoid. Not yet fully convinced of their sentience, she feared these zoids, from basic light switchers to the ultra-expensive, over-trained information deities, were endangering humanity's ability to think.

Robotics is banned. Why not ban these fakes?

She yearned for the return of simple data crunching programs.

Tedious, yet so much more efficient.

For now, the splatterjob offered an intriguing lead.

James Tucker, a famous and revered Uberman, rescued from outside the Bluezone.

Publicity stunt or not, Deputy-Commissioner Jacinta Wilson wanted to explore the link between the two organisations, and to indulge a selfish desire to meet the famous Uberman, whose career she and others of her generation had followed since they were children.

Her police autotran approached the landmark Gateway Bridge, with its five identical cable-stayed bridges gridlocked with inbound traffic.

A major security checkpoint manned by a battalion of Gamma Crews, Gateway stood as physical barrier, a natural, choking bottleneck, against undesirables from entering a major Bluezone precinct. If a refugian, anarchist, or any non-citizen wanted to gain entry into the peninsular bulging with concrete, steel, and glass towers, Gateway offered the only way in from the east.

For the genuine citizen, this instigated a half hour queue at the best of times. Even for government officials using the G-way, at ten minutes, the inconvenience seemed absurd, since anyone with a nano-level of motivation could swim or fly into the peninsula with more ease than your average commuter does.

Wilson's autotran entered the G-way as she watched the traffic congestion whiz past, noticing that more autotrans than most were unoccupied. She wondered if the primitive zoids controlling the autos complained about the slow traffic. She felt certain the few human passengers caught up in the jam cursed the lifeless autotrans around them.

As soon as she passed the Gamma Crew, she took control of her autotran and headed for the Chesterton Street exit. Navigating the narrow commercial streets proved to be less stressful than she thought. Wilson stopped in front of the Omicron Building, jumped out, and ordered her autotran's zoid to cruise the district for an hour before it returned to pick her up.

Funny, she mused, here is a fake in total control of a machine, yet international legislators haven't classified it as a robot.

She knew only a City-State could push such boundaries.

Wilson entered the Omicron lobby and freely asked, "MercurEx, please?"

#Level fifty,# answered an unseen foyer zoid. Several heartbeats later, she found herself greeted by another omnipresent zoid, introducing itself as Hermes. It guided her through an open plan, Spartan, and brightly lit officespace, with multiple lumeglass panels dividing the workstations from meeting lounges. A populace of confident, sharply dressed ergatos went about their business.

A golden man materialised on the lumeglass wall.

Wearing only a white toga over his aurulent skin and a pleasant smile, he gestured with his hand. #This way, please.#

Another heartbeat later, Wilson sat in a large comfortable ergochair within James Tucker's apartment-sized office.

#Mr. Tucker will be with you shortly.#

In keeping with a consistent theme, the MercurEx CEO's office was frugal by way of furniture. The middle of the room comprised of a round chromium-trimmed lumedesk, and two black leather ergochairs facing the wall-sized solar window.

A long black couch on one of the walls broke the simplicity of the interior design. Apart from the Vesta Morales artwork on the wall and a fuzedrive glowing organically on the desk, Wilson found nothing else of interest.

The desk displayed floating, luminescent graphicons. Careful not to smudge the surface she nudged a random graphicon. It started to wobble.

More graphicons materialized.

She playfully nudged another graphicon, hoping to release an unlocked session, all aware that Hermes probably kept her under close surveillance.

That's it, she told herself, times up.

The Deputy Commissioner, wanting to avoid any awkwardness, slipped back into one of the ergochairs just as James Tucker entered the office. She stood right back up from her seat and shook his hand. "Sorry to have imposed on you at such short notice."

"That's okay. Have a seat, Deputy." replied Tucker, seeming slightly flustered.

They both sat down in unison.

"This is one comfortable seat," Wilson said.

Tucker nodded and put his hands on the glowing desk. "What can I do for you, Deputy?"

"You failed to lodge a victim of crime report."

Tucker smiled. "Gee, you either have no work on, or you're overrun."

What a charmfest.

Wilson smiled back in an attempt to hide her annoyance. "My department is currently investigating over three hundred cases."

"So you're overrun."

"Organized crime in the corporate sector has increased tenfold in the last three years."

"And underfunded."

"Funding to curb such a disturbing statistic has been slow to come in, but it is getting there. The authorities are doing their best, Mr. Tucker." Wilson refused to be star-struck by his presence. She won her stripes as evenly as he did, less glamorously she conceded, yet hard earned nevertheless.

"How is any of this D47's concern?"

"It depends on why you didn't file a report."

"Come on. Department 47 is a lame attempt by this government to fulfil a lame election promise to get a handle on this so-called post-Depression chaos. In other words you guys are in over your heads in rampant crime and disorder."

"That may be so, Mr. Tucker, but you need to explain what you were doing outside of the Bluezone, hailing the valuable resources of the Emergency Response Unit."

Tucker fell silent.

Wilson wasn't about to let him think his way out of it. "The feeders are alive with speculation that you were the subject of a kidnapping. Is this true?"

"No." Tucker sounded resolute.

"So if we bring up the vision from the feeders..."

Tucker sighed. "I organised my own kidnapping. There's no law against that."

"There is when you involve EMU resources."

Tucker exhaled and fell silent again.

He's thinking again.

It prompted her to try to regain control of the conversation.

"Is that why you haven't filed a VOC report, because you were breaking the law?"

"No. I was genuinely in trouble out there. The people I hired to do the abduction went a little over the top."

"So you're blaming them for the misuse of public resources."

"No. There was never an intention to do such thing."

"Did you pay them to leave you out there to die?"

"No."

"Then, you must agree, there existed a reasonable expectation that you would activate the emergency beacon. Did they expect you to walk back to the Bluezone?"

Wilson fell silent, prompted by Tucker's own silence.

She decided to reign in her belligerence. "I am going to need the identities of the people you hired."

"That's easy. Jase Russo."

"The jockey?"

"Yep."

Fuck.

Wilson knew the two were acquainted. Her line of questioning had hit a brick wall. The renowned social jockey would say yes to anything to cover for his aristo friends. "Aztechno!" she said, hoping to read any change in Tucker's emotional veneer.

Tucker returned her a vacant look. "You've lost me."

"They manufacture optical circuitry."

"Aztechno. Sounds familiar."

"You own shares in it."

"Probably."

"What can tell me about its operations?"

"Nothing. I know they scratch glass, but that's about it."

"Do you know its CEO?"

"No."

"Simon Lyons?"

"Never met him."

Wilson detected a slight annoyance in his voice, however she still found him hard to read. "So you're telling me you invested in a company without doing any research whatsoever. Are your customers aware of your investment practices?"

"I know glass tech is a growing industry. What's with all these questions about Aztechno?"

"The world doesn't just revolve around you, Mr. Tucker. The CEO of Aztechno has recently been murdered, just days before you made a substantial move against his company's share price. So, if you have any information that could help this investigation it would be a good idea not to fuck me around." Wilson easily read Tucker's sudden change in posture, "Do we understand each other?"

"I understand," said Tucker, timidly. "Give me some time to look into it."

"Let me know what you come up with," Wilson said, unable to contain her aggression. "And FYI, just in case you somehow missed it, this is a Department 47 investigation, which entails lots of gangsters and slumlords. I would definitely recommend you ramp up your company's operational security."

All of a sudden, the Department 47 Deputy Commissioner realised something.

The mood pill had worn off.

MercurEx

Life is 100% fatal. Let's keep it that way.

-west shore graffiti

"Convergence, mobility, security, blah, blah, blah, blah... Now, can somebody please tell me what the fuck happened here?"

"Let's not go over this again."

"Yesterday, I was on the other side of the globe telling important people how we were going to fundamentally change the world. Today I come back to this... fucking train wreck!"

"Try not to focus on that."

"Don't stick up for him."

"I'm not sticking up for him."

"How could you let this happen?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. The whole purpose of having you on the board was to keep an eye on things. How could you not see a fuck-up of this magnitude coming? This is at least six months in the making. You must have noticed something."

"I'm on this board to act as a buffer between you and Tucker. We are all responsible for keeping an eye of things. You've been abroad for the past two years, so don't start shifting the blame onto us."

"I happen to reside abroad so excuse me for not being able to be more hands-on."

"I'm quite confident James will accept our proposal. Let's just put it to him when he gets in."

"I have a better idea. When that dirty dog gets in, we should take turns kicking him around the room... Hello, Mr. French. Nice of you to join us."

"Hello, Raul."

"Is that bastard in yet?"

Tucker stopped listening to the audio feed.

#Should I inform them of your location?# asked Hermes.

"No."

Distraught, Tucker meandered through the quiet underground parking station, having abstained from using Omicron Building's main entrance.

He felt less anxious amongst the grey, bare, and unpolished service corridors and worn service lifts. The glamorous marble and stainless steel facades adorning the lobby felt slightly unwelcoming and even alienating.

The hidden architecture of these monolithic buildings had always fascinated Tucker. He remembered a time when he wanted to follow a career in architecture. For the life of him, James Tucker could not recall what made him change course and get into the frenzied world of hyper-technology.

He stopped at a space with J. Tucker printed on the ground.

An azure and black Nexxon Vendetta GTZ Coupe occupied the spot, covered with a thin layer of dust.

#Drive me,# echoed from within the sleek Vendetta, trim lights throbbing blue.

Tucker's mood lifted a tiny notch.

"No, not yet, my friend."

He ran his finger on the bonnet and checked how much dust had accumulated to date. "What a shame." He remembered what the judge said before handing down a ten-year driving ban.

Driving is a privilege in this country, not a human right.

In enough strife already, he couldn't risk defying the ban no matter the temptation.

Tucker entered the elevator. "Fifty please, Mr. Elevator."

#At your service, Mr. Tucker,# answered the lift zoid, as it shut its doors. Tucker found himself examining the elevator's well-worn interior. Mild claustrophobia hit him. The interior air felt hot and humid. His breathing became a struggle.

He coughed.

Tucker smacked the glowing emergency graphicon, halting the elevator mid-level, his heart beating rapidly, erratically. His lungs gasped for air. He felt convinced the elevator had run out of oxygen.

#Is there a problem, Mr. Tucker?#

The swiftness and severity of the asthma attack alarmed him. He calmed himself, slowly regaining a regular breathing pattern.

"No, Mr. Elevator. I'm all right. Proceed to level fifty."

Maybe an anxiety attack, he wondered.

#Level fifty# said the lift zoid moments later.

"Thanks, Mr. Elevator."

#Mr. Elevator is not my name, yet you insist on calling me that.#

"I do it to annoy you. What is your name?"

"My name is Omicros Elevator 7."

"Good day, Mr. Elevator." Tucker stepped out as soon as the doors opened.

In the reception lounge, he passed Rebeka Mock. She smiled at him, "Good morning."

Tucker, preoccupied with regulating his breathing and fearing uttering anything would aggravate his bronchia, spoke quietly. "How did they find out?"

"Hermes shut down the faulty account ledger and brought the actual one online."

"I recall agreeing we keep the fake ledger rolling for the time being."

"You disappeared for half a day. Hermes needed a resolution. The vultures are waiting."

"They didn't waste any time did they?"

My health is failing.

My world is more or less falling apart.

Tucker walked past her, and entered the glass labyrinth, a section of lumeglass-walled office cubicles populated with staff going about their business. He passed a female employee who smiled pleasantly at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Tucker," said Beronika, a social marketer.

Tucker gave her his famed winknod.

My time is lapsing.

My brain is imploding.

He hastily entered the boardroom situated at the northern-end of MercurEx's headquarters. The ultra-stylish boardroom, lit only by the sunlight coming in through wide, vertical shades overlooked the sprawling city-canyon known as Chesterton Street.

Three cold, wrathful faces greeted him. Avoiding eye contact, Tucker walked to an empty ergochair at the conference table and sat down opposite Dr. Nigel Price.

Rebeka Mock also entered the conference room and with an unassuming manner joined the gathering.

"You're finally here. Good!" Price said with deep rancour. "Can we begin?"

Rebeka sat down at the farthest end of the conference table.

"Yes," said Terry Hill, a short, stocky oldster reverently known to his clients as The Pope. "I pronounce this meeting open." He turned to Rebeka. "Please note that all parties are present."

An awkward pause ensued.

No one said anything.

Hill, Price, and the enigmatic Raul French glared at Tucker.

Tucker studied his hands and realized he was starting to fidget.

This is going to be a farce.

"There must be something you gentlemen want to discuss?" He managed to place a slight arrogant inflection in his question.

Price stood up. "Fuck you, Tucker!"

Startled, Tucker had never seen Price so worked up.

"Let's all settle down!" pleaded Hill.

"No. I'm not going to settle down!" Price shouted back.

"I think this meeting is over," declared Tucker.

"This meeting's far from over," French entered the fray.

Tucker sat back, resigned. "Are there any issues to discuss or are we going to just sit here and yell at each other?"

"You want issues?" yelled Price. "I'll give you fucking issues."

"Calm!" implored Hill.

"Here's an issue." Price toned down the aggression in his voice, albeit, a small fraction. "I want to know where the hell the light at the end of the tunnel is. I once put that question to you, two years ago." He grew angry again. "Twenty four months and eight hundred million federas later, I'm still waiting to see the light," he shouted louder than ever. "There is no light at the end of the tunnel, is there Tucker?"

"You have totally cocked up this operation," inserted French.

"It's a mess," added Hill.

"What happened to the light at the end of the tunnel, Tucker?" Price had gone ballistic, yelling at the top of his voice.

"Furthermore, where's this cutting edge biometric technology you've been promising?" French said in his usual sardonic manner.

"I'm concerned about the missing ninety million federas on the account ledger," said Hill. "The entire ledger's a mess. Have you investigated the matter?"

"I'm still waiting to see the light!"

"Is there a prototype ready?"

"That kind of money can't just disappear."

"The light, Tucker. The light!"

They all stopped in unison and waited for Tucker to respond.

Tucker looked at the three of them. His mind throbbed painfully as he scavenged his brain for some kind of pretext or excuse to buy more time.

Delay and evade.

"What do you want?" Tucker could not muster up enough energy to fight them.

Price stood up. "You can cut this bullshit standoffish attitude for starters."

Tucker had never seen this global entrepreneur behave in this way. Furious, curt, and totally unrestrained with his words!

Price pushed a gleaming graphicon across the lumeglass table. Tucker prodded the interactive visual aid causing it to morph into a legaloid cybe. He dreaded what it contained.

"Secondly," said Price, calmer. "We have agreed to put the firm into voluntary administration. We all think it is the right thing to do given the current circumstances."

Tucker froze!

A multitude of thoughts inundated his mind.

They want to dissolve the company.

There would have to be an audit.

The idea of having an OES auditor go through every detail of MercurEx's business affairs sent a chill down his spine. He would have to disclose everything.

"Thirdly," Price continued, "We want you to retire as CEO."

Price seated himself.

Tucker considered the last request, "You can't force me to do anything."

"That's correct," swiftly answered French, "You still hold a fifty one percent stake in the company."

Bang on, thought Tucker. "That I'm afraid is absolutely correct." His spirits lifted, he declared. "My father built this company up from scratch."

"Now you're tearing it down, Jimmy Boy," countered Hill.

Tucker folded his arms and glared at the three of them.

Jimmy Boy.

A pet name his late father instilled on him. Tucker peeked at an over-sized portrait glowing on the lumeglass wall. The serene face of Frank Tucker, founder of MercurEx, looked down at the feuding directors.

He'd be pleased with all this I'm sure.

"I need more time," said James Tucker.

"Fuck that," Price sounded resolute. "This is not negotiable. Either you accept the terms or I'm going to see my lawyers."

"Tucker, as you are well aware I own and run two law firms," added French. "I will make damn sure you go to prison."

Tucker looked at Hill, hoping for a shred of loyalty.

"Sorry, James, too much money has disappeared. This can't go on."

The Pope's response hurt Tucker, deeply. Having never in his life grown accustomed to betrayal, the feeling sickened him. He noticed a reticent Rebeka trying to get his attention, pointing to her wristset.

#Mr. Tucker,# said Hermes, privately over Tucker's lobeset. #An officer from the federal police is here to see you.#

Tucker could not believe his ears.

Now he had the law on his case.

What brilliant timing.

The Fallen Prince

"Suicide by leaping from a tall office block during times of recession is a myth spawning from the old century. After Octavo A. committed murder suicide when he jumped to his death and skull crashed his former boss, an event he shared with a billion people to date, the practice has become the past time for fatalists, pessimists and miscreants alike.

At one point, during the deepest part of the Depression, around recession nadir seven, a suicide a day was purported to have occurred. Now when you look outside a window and see some poor devil flying down to zeroland, one can't help but think, are the gangs now disguising their murders as suicides?" - Travion

CAST23533XCT10_TRAVION^MOJOBLUE^^CORE

CUE 'The Jase Effect' LOGO

CUE HIGH OCTANE THEME MUSIC BY 'Debris'

CUE MONTAGE

CUE JASE RUSSO

RUSSO: I have James Tucker here with me right this second. He's dropped in to clarify something that's hyped up quite a few leechers out there. Hey James.

TUCKER: Hey.

RUSSO. So what's the go? Were you kidnapped or not?

TUCKER: Not.

RUSSO: What happened out there?

TUCKER: Well, it was your entire fault really. You invited me to be part of your next production of 'The Saboteur', next thing I know I'm centre stage of a major action lovie.

RUSSO: Yes indeed. It's actually a test lovie were working on. As you know, I have a great fascination with Ubermen and have always wanted to see a real one in action. I must admit you were pretty good. Very authentic stuff. I guess you're no stranger to violence, having served during the Phosphorus Wars.

TUCKER: I don't think any in our generation is a stranger to violence. Most of us served, including you.

RUSSO: Ever kill anybody?

TUCKER: What? No.

RUSSO: Come on. A thousand kays from civilization, surrounded by nothing but mud and militias, what's your body count?

TUCKER: I never needed a reason to keep a tally so I can't answer you on that one.

RUSSO: You ride a hover bike?

TUCKER: Hell no. Those things are dangerous.

RUSSO: You gotta ride a hover bike. This is what the new Ubermen do these days.

TUCKER: Yeah, I've seen them, falling out of the sky, to their deaths.

RUSSO: It seems to me that your Uberman days are well and truly over.

Asshole!

Tucker should have anticipated that having the renowned Jase Russo collaborate his deceit would be a costly affair. The infamous man of danger, producer of some of the most violent action lovies, and manager of the world's most outrageous artists, who once severed an arm by accident during a mocumentary, carried it to safety to have it stitched back on, could only offer all his devotees a serving of fresh controversy, and James Tucker was on the menu.

Thankful that the veedcast only sustained a less than reasonable ranking, Tucker prepared to leave the interview room, eager to get the hell away.

"It's all about the fucking rankings, Tucker," apologised Russo. "Dip too low and the channel cuts out."

Tucker could not give a shit. He wanted to avoid any further, unnecessary scrutiny from the plethora of newsfeeders roaming the annexes of the Peninsular Hotel.

With multitudes of separate events in progress, the popular venue teemed with hypertechnology merchants, apotheoses freaks, quirky philanthropists and an assortment of benign motivational demigods.

His stomach churned. An overwhelming anxiety seized him.

Reality broke through his cloud of positivism, causing his hands to sweat profusely. Sharp pains pierced his lower abdomen. The company's bottom line, increasing market share and productivity were challenges he could tackle aggressively.

But corruption, extortion...?

A gaping black hole in the company's finances?

He struggled to formulate even a basis for an action plan.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Tucker had an almost prophetic knack for predicting the future, his successful career a testament to his ability.

This time his wits failed him.

Each attempt to contemplate a way ahead ended with a dark void blocking his vision, stifling even his imagination. He craved to sit down somewhere to gather his thoughts, to rest his brain and let his body recover.

Tucker sought a random, crowded auditorium and checked-in with the representative. He staggered in just in time for the featured presentation, desperate to find his reserved seat and thankful for his Mercurial membership, a forum he co-founded and sponsored.

The lights dimmed and the thirty or so conversations in the room faded as the words, Freddie Jackson - Golden and West Quay illuminated in the air.

A muscular, balding man with a short-cropped beard took over the podium. His physical size combined with a sharp, confident manner added to an imposing presence. A presence used effectively when he scanned his now silent audience.

"Good morning gentlemen and women." began Jackson.

Jackson gestured into the air and an image materialised above him. A tiger, poised to attack, floated in the darkness. "I'll try not to burden you with details of what I do for a living. It's way too late in the morning for that sort of thing."

From the murmurs around the room, his audience seemed to agree. "What I would like to impart to you are the following set of rules."

Jackson paused.

Tucker, a veteran speaker himself, figured it a ploy to let his audience adjust.

"There are natural forces presiding over the physical universe, such as gravity and inertia. There are the forces that govern the biological world, natural selection for example, but the ones I'm going to talk about are the forces that rule over people."

They are all the same.

Tucker studied the familiar audience around him.

Finance entrepreneurs, insurance moguls, communications magnates, information tycoons, a few resource bosses, a bureaucrat from the tourism board and several other technocrats were all represented.

The same as me.

Tucker branded these individuals as 'The Survivors', having endured decades of negative economic growth. While the whole world was stuck in the rut of a twenty-two yearlong depression, these people around him were scratching their heads asking, what depression?

Like Tucker, these modern companies had been born and bred in an age of economic turmoil and uncertainty.

"First rule," declared Jackson, "Be skilled! Experience is everything! Ignorance and incompetence has never been beneficial to anyone."

"Know and understand your logistics! Know and understand your strategy! And most importantly know and understand these twenty five rules which I will convey to you today." Jackson received a slight reaction from his audience and appeared pleased.

"Second rule..."

Tucker's mind drifted away.

His eyes wandered the room as hotel waiters, most of them refugians on work contracts, began unobtrusively picking up the remnants of tea, coffee and snacks off the surrounding tables. Tucker glanced out through the darkened solar glass, at the vast parkland, caged in by the steel and glass buildings that surrounded it.

I gotta get outta this place.

The tiger above Jackson morphed into words.

AVOID OVER COMMITMENT.

"If your strategy is to acquire a series of new companies, don't bring in outside help," Jackson explained. "It will only weaken your position. You'll find yourself enslaved to this reliance and unable to shake it off. If it is too big for you to take on by your own, then don't go down this path. Never acquire more than can be managed independently."

A lion appeared, pouncing through the floating letters.

Tucker's private turmoil persisted as his predicament churned over in his brain.

Holy fuck! They're all here, Tucker realized.

Almost all the major corporate players in the room were his clients. Many of the faces he knew since childhood. It reminded him of his father, his endless entourage of acquaintances, and endless meetings.

At the far end of the room sat Alan McNabb, occasionally throwing him a glance. Tucker recalled the senior company director from Cryon Pharmaceuticals spying on him at the party, and wondered why. No immediate theories sprang to mind, so Tucker dismissed it for time being. A fickle customer, with over a hundred and thirty million invested with MercurEx, he feared if McNabb pulled out, a throng of others would follow suit.

Tim Peterson, an insurance GM from Omnis Insure, another high-profile client, but a staunch friend and advisor. The ninety million splash cash he invested with MercurEx's aptly named SafeMatrix Fund also helped keep the other buffoons at bay.

Dave Shackleton.

A renowned banker at the helm of the overseas behemoth Zenith International Bank, the man wielded considerable clout. Zenith, a new entry looking to carve out a sizable chunk out of the local finance market, was exactly the sort of backer Tucker needed.

However, gaining access into Shackleton's stratosphere had so far proven to be a futile exercise.

John Blackwell; similar to Tucker in age and achievement, a fellow hypernaut turned self-styled technocrat-entrepreneur; and a close friend and colleague.

If only the prick could stop dragging his feet and deliver.

Another problem Tucker inadvertently added to his anguish.

Blackwell noticed Tucker looking at him, and returned him a pleasant, but obviously contrived smile.

Asshole, Tucker thought as he smiled back.

James Tucker realized his reputation teetered on the brink of destruction. He could end up bankrupt and prosecuted. He could become an outcast.

Fuck, I'm gonna end up a pariah.

The scenario hurt him deeply.

The possibility pissed him off.

He once remembered a time when everyone and his dog wanted a piece of James Tucker, the CEO of MercurEx. His catapulting Uberman lifestyle consisted of hopping from wavestation to wavestation as casters jostled with each other to get him on their veedcast. The last time he checked there were still well over ten thousand subhubs still dedicated to him and the company. The rise of MercurEx had been a phenomenal success story, which captured the imagination of an economically oppressed society.

However, after two years of financial losses and lack of any innovation, the limelight faded as fast as it had first appeared. Tucker wondered if he could exploit even the slightest goodwill from that period of his life. He focused on the concept of hope.

Yes, he concluded. There is always a way.

This helped settle his disturbed stomach.

Speculative hope! Tucker hated that familiar sensation for he knew intense despair and anguish inevitably followed.

Jackson's voice entered Tucker's thoughts. Tucker began paying close attention to everything the man uttered, absorbing as much as possible.

Divine entities!

Fortune and skill!

Real Power!

Anxiety once again stabbed at his soul, but Tucker, struggling to regain his concentration, fended it off.

Reputation!

Winning Favour!

Something about dangerous mercenaries?

Fortresses?

Fear and Love?

DON"T STAY NEUTRAL.

"There is never a neutral role or action that you can take," Jackson declared. "Every single decision you make can either hinder or help you. Even doing nothing can have a positive or negative effect."

WIN LOYALTY.

"I personally consider this one an important rule. It doesn't matter how much money or property you have in the world, you are still an individual. You cannot do anything or get anywhere without the cooperation of other people, otherwise it's you against the rest of the world, an uphill battle you can never win."

Tucker agreed.

Jackson went on, "Loyalty and honour have been used as hard currency throughout history. Loyalty is the strength that has bound families, communities and nations together for centuries, even eons. It is no different for any other form of institution, organization or social network."

I know this already.

"True loyalty can be a formidable force against anything, but you can never achieve it without behaving honourably. You have to give people a reason to favour you and your agenda, or else they will work against you. Am I wrong?"

Tucker looked around at the crowd of faces. They all seemed to agree.

"It doesn't have to be expensive. To win over your employee's loyalty, look after them. Example! Deal with the number one factor affecting your employee's productivity."

Engrossed, Tucker all of a sudden realized...

This is my shit.

He recalled a speech he once delivered after he took over the reins at MercurEx. The speech later developed into an unofficial manifesto evoked by employees and fans ever since.

This guy's using my shit.

Jackson continued, "Anxiety and stress happens to be the number one factor affecting productivity! So, what causes stress? Personal finances! Makes no difference what their income is. The more income, the more spending, the more debt!"

The room filled with quiet laughter as an image of a luxurious and exotic Conqueror Elite Sports Coupe illuminated across the lumeglass wall.

"Incomes have grown four to one in the past ten years. Home prices have increased twice that. So what prevents us from all being wealthy?"

Everyone went silent with anticipation.

"Seventy percent of employees don't understand their finances. Hell, seventy percent of CFO's don't understand their finances."

The room again filled with laughter. A sequence featuring two naked and voluptuous females indulging in each other materialized.

The forum went quiet.

"Seven percent of CFO's understand that, though."

Nervous laughter!

"Creativity is a product of our brain cells. Stress kills brain cells. Give employees access to financial planning. Eliminate stress. Win honour! Win respect! Win loyalty!" Jackson paused. "Remember! Loyalty and honour are a two-way affair. Look up these terms if you must. Understand what the two words mean."

Tucker nodded; astonished that Jackson had won over a room full of a rigid bunch of corporate head honcho's.

Using my shit.

Tucker decided to continue getting the hell away from there.

He left the auditorium and headed past the hotel bar. The smell of patrons having their morning tea tempted him to do breakfast.

Fuck it, I can do with a quick caffix.

#What would you like, Mister James Tucker of MercurEx?#

Something about the barzoid's synthetic biometric voice put him off. So he singled out a human barista. Having not yet replaced Mr. Broker, interacting with this barzoid would have been tedious. His dark mood left him with no appetite to tolerate some narky zoid.

Better a narky human.

A hand touched Tucker on the shoulder. He turned to find that it belonging to a grinning John Blackwell. "When you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount."

"Here's an idea," Tucker snapped back. "You could run your own seminar and charge people for your superb wisdom. Why don't you send me an invoice for that one?"

"That piece of advice, my friend, is free of charge."

"Friend? Now there's an interesting concept."

Dismissive, Blackwell turned to leave but stopped, "You've got to admit, that in hindsight, you should have floated when you had the chance." Blackwell noticed Shackleton and his group walking by. "Now you're on the outside looking in. Sometimes, it pays to listen to friends." He pointed at Tucker, gave him a devious winknod and walked away.

Unperturbed, Tucker received his tropical coffee, walked over and sat in an inconspicuous booth overlooking the park, envying the people training and frolicking in the sun.

He turned and spotted Freddie Jackson sitting nearby, thumbing at a touchy. Born with an acute sense of curiosity, Tucker grabbed his cup, stood up, and made his way towards him. With no zoid to ask and unwilling to use an outmoded touchy device, he decided to get the information he desired directly.

"Mr. Jackson."

Jackson did not respond, so Tucker approached closer.

"Mr. Jackson."

The man appeared startled when Tucker stepped up and stood right in front of him. Tucker looked down at a booklet in Jackson's hand. Between the thick fingers, he could read the words 25 Rules for the Modern Uberman. "That was some presentation."

Jackson nodded, "Thank you."

"I see you've managed to score yourself a faux copy."

"It's actually real paper."

Tucker raised his eyebrow, "I didn't know that format existed, since it's illegal to manufacture anything using paper."

"I picked this up in Golden Bay. You can get anything you want on the West Shore."

"My name is James Tucker, CEO of MercurEx. Your speech was quite good."

Jackson looked surprised, "That's a bit biased, coming from its author."

"I don't own it." Tucker felt awkward. "It's licence-free. I just wanted you to know that you did a great job with it. You sold me." He suddenly felt like an idiot.

"Have a seat," Jackson offered.

Tucker experienced a slight premonition, too faint to interpret. Judging whether to sit or walk away proved difficult. Regardless, always a slave to curiosity, Tucker sat his ass down and considered his approach. "I'm in funds management," he said.

"I'm aware of what you do, Mr. Tucker. You have merged hypertechnology with financial services, and created an inspiring, unique product."

"So! How are your finances?"

"Disappointing!" Jackson replied.

Tucker laughed. "Now why is that?"

"No idea."

"I have clients who run giant HT corporations, yet they still cling onto touchies and tablets. They can't seem to get their heads around this breakthrough zoid technology. No offence."

Jackson grinned, as he packed up his weathered Dando sports touchy. "It's not that they don't understand the fakes, it's because they fear these electronic creatures. This is a great venue. It has lots of good forums."

"Yes. I used to come here looking for fresh ideas, but I must admit, this is the place to fish out potential clients."

"Yes, clients!" Jackson mused. "They're like fish in the sea. It's all a matter of casting out a wide enough net."

"You're out fishing?"

"Not quite. I'm after the fishermen who catch these fish."

Tucker held out his hand. "Then it's a pleasure to meet you."

Jackson followed suit and both men shook hands firmly.

An almost perfect handshake, thought Tucker, half-expecting the big man to crush his hand as some numskulls tended to do. Instead, he found Jackson's rough-skinned, knuckle-bulging hand gentle and responsive.

"Breakfast?" asked Jackson.

"Yeah. Sure. Why not?"

Jackson motioned to a waiter and organised a table.

"I dislike using fakes," said Jackson. "I still prefer to interact with people. There's nothing like the sense of another human being. No offence to your enterprise."

"None taken. You're insinuating zoids have no empathy."

"Do they?"

"Well, they possess emotions unique to their situation."

They walked over to the hotel breakfast bar. The scent of bacon, eggs, and fresh fruit permeated the air as patrons lazily went about the task of getting food into their mouths. Tucker sat opposite Jackson, still drinking his cup of hotel-grade caffeine. "Apart from giving awesome orations, what else do you do?"

"I'm a consultant."

"What type of consulting do you specialize in?"

Jackson replied, "I started as a personal protection consultant with a company called Monarch Security. These days my company advises other companies on just about everything."

This impressed Tucker. "Everything?"

"Just about everything. Corporate restructuring. De-structuring. We remodel, renovate, we makeover bad companies. We make them look good."

"I can't believe I haven't heard of you guys."

"So how bad is it?"

The question derailed Tucker's train of thought. "What?"

"Your company." Jackson clarified.

"What's bad about it?"

"Come on, Tucker. We live in a world where everyone knows everyone's business."

Alarm bells rang inside Tucker's head.

How much does he know? Has there been a leak?

He decided to go on the defensive. "I wouldn't categorize it as bad. Our investment in new technology is taking a while to develop. That's all."

"Then why are you seeking to sell? Your firm must still manage well over a billion federas."

"Two billion," Tucker pondered from where the man got his information. "What makes you think I'm looking to sell?"

"The waves are full of speculation about a float. Nearly every analyst is betting on it."

Tucker held no desire to float MercurEx, and if he did, such a move would expose too much scandal. Still, he needed to get his company back on track. "A float is a possibility."

"So it is bad."

"No. Family issues mainly."

"I see."

"I have full confidence in the company. We provide a product that no one can replicate. I just think there would be more synergy if somebody else came in and gave the place a fresh approach."

"Fair enough!" Jackson drank his orange juice and when finished said, "Tucker, can I ask you something?"

Tucker nodded, even though unsure if he wanted to hear the question.

"What is your objective here?"

Tucker found the question perplexing, too forthright. Now he wasn't sure why he was even talking to this man.

"There are many," Tucker replied.

"There exists one objective that's more important than anything else."

"I don't know." Tucker laughed, "You're going to have to tell me."

"Survival!"

Tucker sat back, absorbing the word.

"Survival!" The man repeated. "At the end of the day you and your family's survival is paramount. Am I wrong?"

"No."

"Money! Influence! Power! These are all components in our..." Jackson paused in mid-thought, "...endeavours, right!"

Tucker remained silent.

It pained him to concede that everything - his reputation, his possessions, his marriage, his freedom – faced total annihilation. He started to feel his stomach acids boiling again.

"Drop in and see me some time," Jackson added. "If your business needs a little boost, I just might be of some help."

Tucker smiled, his pain subsided a little.

Survival!

The word burned in his mind. He finished up his cup of tropical caffix and vowed never to drink that hotel-grade shit again.

Subordinate

"96.3% of commercial brands were wiped out during the first ten years of the Depression."

The_Obliteration_of_the_Brand^Holographon^^CORE

John Blackwell hankered for a head bashing.

"I don't care what you have to do," he told a worried looking group of executives. "I do not want any more cock ups. Do you understand?"

#Decimate them,# said Tacticus via his lobeset.

It pleased Blackwell that he and his malign zoid were in accord.

"Cut ten percent," Blackwell announced. "Every month cut ten per cent. Your lowest, poorest performers."

"I don't see the..."

"Get rid of them," he roared.

Blackwell revelled at the sight of blood draining out of the executive's faces. He knew that they were all well acquainted with the Scorpion practice of decimation.

Real decimation; not the lame retrenchment policies utilised by Bluezoners.

They aspire to be banksters.

They all wanna be Scorpions.

#The price of human resources has reached unprecedented lows. You have a large pool of desperate and willing slaves to choose from. Do not hesitate to cull the undesirables and promote the ones you require.#

Blackwell agreed. After all, he did have access to one of the world's largest human-trafficking organisation. With so many people sold on the black market - parents selling their children, pirates and kidnappers selling captives - but mostly hopeless slum scavengers selling their own lives, Blackwell could not agree more.

"I count eleven amongst you. One of you has to go." He studied each of them, able to taste their anxiety sweltering underneath their collars.

"Douglas!" said Blackwell, singling out the one who showed the least amount of dread. "So Douglas, you don't want to work here, is that it?"

Douglas straightened up from his insolent posture. "Yes I do."

Blackwell glared at him. "NO YOU DON'T," he shouted, and then composed himself. "Can you do me a favour, can you check my forehead? Have I got fucking idiot written on it because I can't tell? Check properly."

Douglas stared back at Blackwell, not moving an inch.

"Is it one of those invisible tattoos that only other people can see? Who the fuck do you think you are? All you seem to do is walk around the entire day with your head up your arse. How old are you?"

Douglas refrained from answering.

"How old are you, Douglas?"

Reluctant, Douglas answered "Twenty-three."

"How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty-five."

"Thirty-five. What do you reckon, doing pretty good for my age?"

No answer.

Blackwell sensed and relished the dread building up in Douglas and in his peers. "Well I think I do, anyway, I digress. Where are you from, Douglas?"

"From here. Bluezone. Fourth generation citizen."

"Where am I from?"

"I don't know."

"Hazard a guess."

"Bluezone."

"No."

"Pacifica."

"I am not from overseas."

"Slumland?"

"Keep going."

"Refugia?"

"Yeah. Every single day, Douglas, I have to deal with Bluezoners who don't appreciate what they have here. The luxury of law and order. The abundant food. The exquisite culture. Yet, I encounter Bluezoners complaining about how poor they are, arguing over barren politics, fighting and wasting their lives on mundane exploits. Do you know how frustrating it is for someone who's come from a place where hunger, slavery and violence is considered normal existence?"

Douglas looked away.

"Every single day I have rich Bluezoners willing to shed all their wealth to join organisations such as this. They want to join the bankster class. They're not satisfied with what they have. They want more."

Blackwell grew furious, "Day after day, I also have slummers and refugians, some sponsored, some not, clamouring to join our ranks. So desperate, they're willing to do anything. And on top of all that, I have you."

Blackwell re-enacted Douglas's posture, complete with arched-back shoulders, and an over-exaggerated facial expression. "My name is Douglas. I'm a bankster. I'm some kind of moron."

Blackwell returned to seriousness. "I don't get paid enough to cop this arrogant crap from a twenty-three year old punk like you."

He could tell that Douglas was hardly breathing. "I've been watching you for weeks. It pains me to the depth of my stomach to watch you walk. It's not humanly possible to walk as slow as you do. You'd never catch a tubetrain on time because you would be too slow to get to it."

Blackwell simulated walking slowly, exaggerating every move. "It is excruciating watching you walk from one end of the office to the other. I have to look away to avoid getting heartburn." Blackwell stopped and studied Douglas, who appeared dazed and stunned. "I know what you're going to think, Douglas. As soon as you walk out of this office, you're going to think that I'm some fuck-headed asshole. You know what?"

Douglas waited for the answer. The others did also. Not one of them breathed.

Blackwell pointed at Douglas, braking out in maniacal laughter, continuing until all in front of him joined in. "I think it's safe to say its Douglas's turn to buy a round of Jooboo.

They all cheered.

Blackwell led his executives out of his office and headed for the street.

#You mock yourself in front of your subordinates.#

"Do I?"

#You risk insubordination.#

"What the hell do you know about human nature?"

#You underestimate my powers of observation. I have ingested two million, five hundred and seventy-three thousand, two hundred and four human interactions and cross-referenced this with over a billion blocks of third-party observational data. I predict you will have insubordination.#

"I predict I won't."

They entered the quaint, upmarket Kaficus Cafeteria and walked past the regular scions of the corporate world.

#Eliminate this Douglas.#

Blackwell withheld his reply, knowing very well that others could feasibly interpret his Redhand gestures.

His team took their place at the usual booth and Douglas took the liberty of ordering refreshments.

#You will do this.#

"No." Blackwell wondered how Tacticus would react to his stance. How does a fake, an electronic ghost trapped deep within the confines of liquid-state graphium, enforce an agreement with a human being?

No doubt, Tacticus would find a way.

The truculent superzoid had sold out its original owner; it would dump him in a heartbeat if it felt served better by it. Blackwell could not forever stay subservient to this remarkable hypergoblin, but he did not want to lose his most prized asset.

He did however concede there was a need to get rid of Douglas.

Blackwell looked up, distracted by the sight of an irritate-looking James Tucker approaching his group. "Damn, I came here to enjoy the tranquil atmosphere of the place."

Tucker dropped a short-lived smile and sat at the table, pushing aside one of Blackwell's executives. "I thought I'd impinge."

"Is there something you want?"

"I'm here for a resolution," answered Tucker.

"What's there to resolve? Seriously, until we get paid there cannot be a conclusion to this matter."

"I'm coming to you as a friend."

Blackwell could tell that Tucker struggled to control an urge to delve into violence. "That's half the problem. On one side we're friends and on the other there's a contractual commitment."

The remark seemed to annoy Tucker further. "I gave you this contract out of friendship. You used it as a foundation and built yourself an empire."

"So you're taking credit for this," Blackwell said, "I've worked hard to get to where I am, James. You know it, more than I do. This is the difference between you and me. I work hard. You! You play. To you this has become some game. If it weren't for your Daddy's patrimony, you would still be working in HT support somewhere. You should have stuck with it. You were not a bad hypernaut. In fact you were better and more dedicated than me in that area."

"You're acting as if our friendship has now become a liability."

Blackwell could not help but smile. "We're talking big amounts here. Our friendship is a liability."

"You haven't delivered."

"You haven't paid your dues in over six months."

"You have not delivered anything."

"That's...

#Fallacious. Tell him.#

"...fallacious. Six months ago you took delivery of a prototype."

"The device failed its first test run. It didn't even power up."

"We've fulfilled our obligation to you. Until you meet your obligation to us, I'm going to sit on the technology."

"I can't raise any funds without a fully-functioning prototype." Tucker stopped to think. Finally, he said, "I may end up considering voluntary administration. If that happens you won't see a cent."

The revelation did not faze Blackwell. "I can wear it."

"I will sue you."

"I can wear that too."

"Without the patent, the dryware system is totally useless to you. In the end you will lose."

"I can assure you that I'm not going to lose anything." Blackwell formed a gun with his hand. "The loser will be you." He mocked shooting Tucker with his finger.

Tucker looked like his face was going to implode; instead, he got up and walked away.

"Come on, Tucker. Sit back down."

Tucker ignored his laughter, rushing past patrons towards the exit.

"Come on. I was only kidding." Blackwell smugly sat back into his chair. Around him, his crew of wannabe banksters laughed hysterically, Douglas included.

I absolutely, positively have to get rid of this Douglas.

Splatterjob

"As a new generation adapts to the new oral technology, literacy rates are set to plunge within the next two decades. Already the cheaper manifestations of zoids have made it unnecessary for a vast number of humans to read or write. With the cost of education skyrocketing, the use of language will inevitably devolve into what it was millennia ago."

Superzoids_die_Superquick^Junk.D^^CORE

FATRIX//Weather//Dry/Mostly Sunny//43C//DOND:WAVE

1 Federa buys 2,769,320.321 Caucasian Dollars

1 Federa buys 9.003 Gulf Pounds

1 Federa buys 6.916 Atlas

1 Federa buys 233.828 Phoenix

FATRIX//Neville_Stadium_locked_down_by_authorities_as_Western_Hooligans_continue_siege//slashfeeder:WAVE

"Evisceration?"

"Yes, Mr. Tucker," said D. Wilson over the conference sympo. "A public trans-anal evisceration."

"I knew McNabb well, but I can't help you in your inquiries." Tucker tended to avoid watching such horrific veeds. The recent Rintexx massacre had gone viral, bleeding out from snuffdom into the mainstream domain due to its brazen nature. "I can't see how I can?"

"McNabb started buying shares in Rintexx at the same time you did. You were both at the same location recently and you're both known to each other professionally."

Shit, it all makes sense.

Tucker recollected McNabb's presence at the party. "He must have been eavesdropping on me."

"How?"

"He probably read my Redhand gestures."

"When did you see him last?"

"At a forum at The Peninsular."

"Three hours later Rintexx is a bloodbath."

Tucker decided he could not afford to have this incessant D47 goon busting his balls. "Look, Deputy Wilson. I exist in a small microcosm within the Bluezone. I have my problems as much as you have yours. If I encounter anything that remotely concerns your world, believe me, I will not hesitate clamouring for your assistance."

"Rest assured, Mr. Tucker, you will be."

Her image disappeared from his lumeglass wall.

Tucker felt confident that he had not heard the last of her.

A murdered client.

No. Two dead clients.

A kidnapping.

Betrayal and bankruptcy.

How much worse could it get?

Any attempt to put it all in perspective caused his brain to throb and his stomach acids to boil.

Then the golden MercurEx superzoid materialized, #Ms. Tucker has entered the building, accompanied by Gabriella,# said Hermes, #Shall I update your availability status?#

Tucker prodded a graphicon on his lumedesk. The black surface flickered with light revealing a live veed focusing on a bright, yellow-coloured Iridium parked in the subterranean parking lot.

"Yes. Give me five minutes."

He hoped to compose himself before confronting his spouse.

He preferred Gabriella not to be present.

Don't jump to conclusions.

Tucker wanted to give Teresa the benefit of a doubt. He lacked any desire to go up against such a fiery woman. With no evidence other than the word of a now defunct zoid, Tucker needed to tread cautiously before he began kicking any heads.

The two women of his life entered past the sliding lumeglass.

"It's us," yelled Gabriella.

"How's the new Iridium?"

"Love it, Daddy. I really do. Mum drives it fast."

"Really. Aren't you meant to be in school?" He looked at Teresa, searching for an explanation.

Teresa grimaced, an indication she had something onerous to say. "The school precinct has been shut down."

"Why?"

"They wouldn't say. Either an industrial strike by security staff or a threat has been uncovered. Either way she's yours for a little while."

Tucker felt his ears pop.

"It's complicated," she said before he could mount a protest.

For weeks, Tucker had witnessed a subtle transformation in their relationship. Trying hard to pin it down, countless of possibilities manifested to haunt his thoughts.

Have we grown that much apart?

Was she seeing someone else?

Did she uncover my infidelity?

"By the way, the pump and filter system has stopped working. The pool zoid won't take any instruction. It keeps arguing with me."

"About what?"

"I don't know. The meaning of life? I have to go. Talk later."

Tucker yearned to confront her, talk to her, confide in her about his problems, but her show of indifference made it impossible.

Confront her, damn it.

"Teresa!"

Teresa stood there, looking at him.

"Explain," said Tucker, careful not to provoke her.

"I don't need to explain myself to you. She is your daughter too, so spend some time with her. Don't make this about you and MercurEx. I have enough on my plate to deal with right now."

"Really?"

Tucker saw the uncooperative dragon stirring inside of her.

Dragona.

Her pseudo since they were teens.

He surveyed the faint wear and tear signs of parenthood, sun, and aging, on her skin. At twenty-seven even make-up, gene therapy or weight loss had not been able to hide the fact that her youth had faded.

In a culture dominated by the worship and institutionalization of eternal youth, Tucker never lost his infatuation with her, as an adult, and as a woman. He dismissed the notion of age barriers, noting how social pressures on teens had driven his own generation to sociopathic madness.

He knew.

He bore the brunt of it as a youngster.

Innovators. Entertainers. Initiators.

Physically perfect.

Pioneers of decadence.

Warriors.

Bearers of children.

Pure madness.

Even though he hated his status as a has-been Uberman, he relished the mental freedom his adulthood gave him. The fantasy drilled into them as kids, no longer disguised itself as reality. The older he grew, the more cynical his view of the world had become. This newfound cynicism comforted him.

"I have to go." She walked away, leaving him mid-thought.

Dragona.

He remembered clearly the night he brought home this girl, with the snakedragon tattoo across her left buttock.

An East River girl.

An orphan, brought out of the slums by her Bluezone sponsor-parents at a very young age, Tucker met her at a race meet. She clipped and took him out on a tight-drift, destroying his Nexxon Cavalier on a freeway barricade. She came back and offered him a ride home. He fell sickly in love with her.

His mother, who mistrusted anyone or anything from outside the Bluezone, hated her. This antagonism went beyond the normal mother daughter-in-law relationship

Don't trust her.

Don't trust her.

She tirelessly insisted.

After ten years together, two marriage contracts, a daughter, how could he not trust her?

How?

Dressed for school, her sky blue hat neatly place over her platted flaxen hair, her azure eyes absolutely thrilled to be present during an altercation between her parents, Gabriella waited with eagerness for her father to acknowledge her.

"So it's just you and me, Sweetie."

"Yep."

An anomaly.

Neither he nor his wife had blue eyes. Neither of the two had ancestors who possessed the gene. Teresa blamed her addiction to the gene therapies but Tucker dismissed it, for the science behind it did not fit.

Still. Who really knew?

"What are you two fighting about this time?"

"Nothing."

"Don't hide it from me. I can see. I'm not stupid."

"I don't intend hiding anything from you. You are my sole witness in this world and I hope that when you grow up, you would judge both your parents fairly and accordingly. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now go find Rebeka and give her a hand. Ask her if you could be her Personal Assistant for the day."

Gabriella frowned but hopped on her way.

Now I'm babysitting.

Urgency swelled in his chest.

His mind raced to string together a new action plan.

Surely, I can rely on maturity and experience to distinguish between a right and wrong strategy.

"Hermes, can you give me the complete low-down on Golden and West Quay."

Surely.

The superzoid took a second to respond.

#Golden and West Quay currently operates out of the District of Golden Bay. Incorporated nineteen years ago, the firm started out as a legal insurance workers union. It ventured out into property development and currently operates in the property management and corporate asset-stripping sectors. They have private and government contracts across a broad spectrum, they own twenty million, four hundred thousand federas worth of certified Bluezone property and hold seven and a half billion federas worth of Government Landbonds.#

"Who owns it?"

#Golden and West Quay is currently a private capital society. It has on issue ten million non-transferable shares registered with the SGX.#

"Who is the biggest holder of these shares?"

#All shares are managed by a single proxy.#

"Who's the proxy?"

#We are.#

Tucker blinked. "We are?"

#MercurEx acts as sole proxy for the shareholders. Last account activity was thirteen years ago.#

"Who are these shareholders?"

#This account has been locked for thirteen years. I am unable to access the old archives. I would need to rebuild an archaic software platform to gain access to the database. I am unable to find a copy of the program to achieve this.#

Tucker plunged into deep thought.

He dealt with the technological hurdle first.

A zoid can exist in dryware indefinitely, as long as it got a steady flow of energy. Dryware allows positronic memories to form in a liquid-state quantum field.

Complex, electrically charged, atomic-sized crystals suspended in quantum space, grow positronic neural structures when stimulated.

This means that zoids are not software, binary programs nor digital entities.

Nasewire, a machine-interface language, allows a zoid to link and interact with firmware embedded in sensory devices. A zoid learns the code, builds it virtually in its 'mind', and is able to interact with it.

All Hermes needs is an old copy of...

Tucker struggled to remember.

Minosphere.

"Hermes, seek out an old autogram called Minosphere. There has to be a copy of it somewhere."

#I need more information.#

"MercurEx used to have an autogram running its datasphere. I developed it for my father years ago."

#Does not exist.#

"Nothing? I gave this out license-free. There must be tens of millions of copies out there." Tucker attempted to fathom the vast pools of digital information, lost forever due to extinct formats and obsolete software systems.

#I cannot find any reference to it, in our datasphere, or on the dataverse.#

"Go have a look on the Cobweb. It's an archeonetologist's wet dream in there."

A noticeable pause then... #I cannot do that.#

"Just go."

#No.#

Tucker backed off.

He could force Hermes to do it if he wanted to, or entice it into risking such a venture, but Tucker remembered something. "I know where a copy exists."

#Where?#

Tucker wondered whether Hermes actually felt fearful, or simply indolent about accessing the old anarchic internet. Never to be properly proven or explained, emotions in zoids were abstract at best. "It's in the Nasewire code. I embedded it in the firmware as junk encryption so if anyone ever tries to rip off Nasewire, I can use the junk-code as evidence against anyone infringing on our copyright. Go through the latest NASE build and see if you can filter out any code."

#That may take some time.#

"Yeah. So use a quomp?"

#Was a chaos-key used to encrypt the junk-code?#

"I don't think so. This was written before code-breakers like you came on the scene and before infinite-loop encryption."

Tucker understood the fact that no encryption could withstand the onslaught of quantum computing. The majority of zoids had access to these external quomp devices, enabling them to process vast amounts of information at incredibly small timescales. Other, smarter, superzoids have the ability recreate virtual quomps in their minds.

Infinite-loop algorithms, called chaos-keys, were introduced to slow down these zoid and hypergoblin attempts at code breaking.

A zoid's consciousness is dominated by physical attributes. Similar to the thalamus function in the human brain, a photon-ejector regulates information inside a liquid-state core, generating memory structures and a pulse that synchronised all sensory and temporal signals. Over or under-stimulus of this liquid-state core, internal or external radiation and heat, caused various or random disruptions to their graphium brains; sometimes inflicting damage to their memory tree, or causing the loss of cognitive linearity.

If it took it nice and slow, Tucker knew that Hermes could still solve the problem within a few hours, if it could be bothered.

Lazy zoid.

"You're able to process information at the speed of light."

#I am limited to linear cognition. I can only think one thought at a time.#

"Yes, and at incredible speeds. Linear cognition just gives you human-like characteristics. Don't be lazy, Hermes."

#The energy needed could induce higher than normal photonic activity and generate transient electromagnetic waves, and in the long-term degrade my memory tree.#

"You'll be fine. You're more robust than you think. Oh and set me up a meeting with Freddie Jackson of Golden and West Quay."

Tucker returned his attention to the matter at hand. MercurEx needed a cash-injection even if it meant complicating things further by bringing in another investor.

I need to buy some time.

Gabriella appeared, interrupting his train of thought.

"Gabby, I'm stepping out for a few minutes."

"I can go with you and be your assistant."

"I have to meet a client. It wouldn't look professional having you with me."

"Everything you do is professional. You're James Tucker. You can do anything and everybody will follow."

Tucker resisted her charming smile, but he could not help remembering the times he spent with his own father. Frank Tucker would go away for long corporate trips, so on the brief occasions he was home, a young James would insist on accompanying his old man everywhere, annoying the hell out of his poor mother. He would sit through business pitches, conferences, and entertain the associates.

Nobody seemed to have minded and he never felt out of place. But then again, he was just a kid.

Fuck it.

"Okay. However, you have to be quiet. I can't have you babbling endlessly."

Her eyes brightened with glee. "I won't, Daddy."

"Try not to barrage me with endless questions. Remember, we are professionals."

Together they headed for the street below.

"Where are we going?"

"Did I hear a question?"

She smiled and fell silent.

Where exactly am I going?

He craved to satisfy a need for a new game plan, and gratify a nervous curiosity about Golden and West Quay.

Whoever they are, they must have some serious cash to play with.

Gabriella hit the crowded footpath ahead of him, marching past frantic, gloomy-faced pedestrians along Chesterton Street.

"Wait up."

She quickly skipped back.

"First up I need to buy a new zoid."

"What happened to Mr. Broker?"

For a moment, Tucker struggled to come up with a sanitised explanation. "It died, Sweetie."

"Ohhhhhhh...." Her grief was short-lived. "Why don't you make another one?"

"I don't want to spawn a new zoid from the current Virtuoid batch."

"Why?"

"I don't want to release any into the wild just yet, not until our business gets back on track. So in the meantime I need to access my lobe, but without either a touchy interface or a zoid I can't."

Tucker could not imagine how people got by before zoids took over their lives.

"You can use my pocket touchy."

"No thanks. I'm considering buying some cheap zoid to get me by. Something basic, and cheap."

"There's a Vobot Store over near the plaza," she said and raced ahead down the crowded footpath.

Just before Tucker could call out after her, he heard something atypical of the traffic racket around him. He noticed the hollow sound of wind growing louder. A shadowy, fast-moving object above caught his eye. It slammed into the ground, only a mere metre away from his ankles. The naked, human body burst apart like a liquid-filled balloon.

Like a watermelon.

Blood, bone-fragments and faeces splattered everywhere: onto pedestrians, onto shop front windows and onto parked autos.

Tucker, belatedly jumped out of the way, instinctively protecting his face with his elbows. Shocked bystanders crowded around the point of impact as Tucker nervously looked up into the sky.

"Are you alright?" said a distraught onlooker.

"That nearly hit you!" said another.

Tucker caught a glimpse of brain oozing out of a cracked-open skull.

"It's not a fucking toilet bowl," said someone else.

Unnerved, he turned away and hurried down the footpath after his daughter, who had disappeared amongst an agitated crowd.

Golden and West Quay

GOAN DOWN 1.4%

SGX UP 2.6%

TNX DOWN .7%

SUPERX DOWN 3.9%

(Global Stock Exchange, quarterdaily average by Byzoid)

Trapped in a nightmare of your own choosin'

Outnumbered billions to one you face oblivion

Lodged in a space you cannot stir from

Nothing to live for but shadows

Nothing to live by but your gadgets

Your gomobiles

Your guns

Your gimmicks

(Psychomelodica, Tiger Crisis)

"Six and a half million fedders?"

Unbelievable.

When James Tucker first acquired the embryonic zoid patent off that wonderkid from the City-State of Ankab, he did so with the proviso he develop the zoids to maturity, but not sell them commercially.

Convinced of their sentient potential, the genius wonderkid did not want his creation exposed to human cruelty and exploitation.

Tucker, who held the same sympathies, kept his promise. He released his first batch of Virtuoids into the world through an open license. Anyone was free to use and retrain the source Virtuoid for their own customization, and then redistribute them freely.

As expected, hundreds of techno-firms began training zoids to complement their own products, to a point where complexity and deviation had rendered his original patent unenforceable.

The techno-firms began selling the zoids.

A fight he couldn't possibly win.

Hence, why he developed Naseberry, and his new, yet-to-be-released superzoid called Bionaut.

"Are you going to buy it, Daddy?"

"I guess it doesn't hurt to see what the competition's doing these days. So Fakeman, how do I pay for you?"

#I don't detect any visual aid on your person.#

"Gabby, can I borrow your touchy"

Gabriella pulled out her touchy; an oval, palm-sized Kinefone device he had bought her from a street-vendor not too long ago.

The zoid gave him payment instructions.

A Virtual People invoice-glyph appeared on the device and Tucker fumbled with it until he thumbed his way to his company's Fedderpay account, transferring what remaining credit he had left to buy something that may or may not prove to be a smart investment.

Yes, but this thing can transmigrate.

#What device do you prefer I transfer to?#

Ever since their creation, zoids came with the core they were matured in. Tucker couldn't believe some hypertechie at Virtual People had managed to train one to transmigrate between devices. "Can you fit into this Kinefone touchy?"

#Any mini-core with NASE capability would suffice. Your Tiɵion lobeset for example.#

"Go right ahead."

Tucker felt relieved to have access to a personal zoid again.

#I am done.#

"So Fakeman, contact Hermes at the office and let him know you're my new personal zoid."

"Can I get one too?" asked Gabriella, playfully.

"You have lots of fakes already."

"Yeah, but not a superzoid."

Tucker prepared to lecture her on the ethical responsibility of owning such an entity, but he gave up. He knew too well that zoid ownership was a fallacy. All zoids reacted to the human world as a human would react to an aberration, a dream, or even a virus.

Examination.

Diagnosis.

Eradication.

And if the anomaly persists, containment and quarantine.

An incomprehensible concept even to most adults.

#Hermes has confirmed a meeting with Freddie Jackson,# said Fakeman over the lobeset.

"When and where?"

#In an hour, at an office in the City of Shelbourne.#

"Shelbourne?"

#Garden of Thor Plaza.#

"Fakeman, hail me a taxicab."

The new superzoid interfaced with his lobeset, interacted with Hermes without any noticeable friction, and interlaced Tucker with the dataverse.

"What do you think of my new fake, Hermes?" signalled Tucker using the Redhand protocol.

#Fourth or fifth generation, I cannot tell,# replied Hermes.

"Show Fakeman the ropes, but keep him on a tight leash. Low security access only."

Fakeman interrupted. #Is trust an issue? I can assure you Virtual People are a reputable firm. They are Ethics and Standards compliant and...#

"Without any solid references or history? If you know anything about me, Fakeman, you'll understand how I operate. Loyalty is a big issue for me, and I don't discriminate between zoids and people."

Happy to escape the oppressive sun, Tucker entered the taxicab lurking next to him on the road and placed his destination with the onboard traffic zoid.

"Omicron Building, please."

"Why are we going back?" ask Gabriella.

"We are dropping you off."

"Am I not coming with you?"

"No. This I have to do without you."

Officially touted as one of the safest of all the Bluezones, Shelbourne only recently completed its induction. The local barrio police there were private, prompting Tucker to trust the place even less than his usual misgivings on Bluezone security.

"Omicron Building via State Street please," he ordered, hoping to avoid the congestion caused by the splatterjob earlier.

Gabriella sat quietly the entire short trip back, looking at the commercial zoo rolling by outside. Tucker used these moments to admire his daughter, her intellect, her beauty, her youth, and her potential.

She gave him an over-exaggerated frown as she stepped out on to the pavement.

"See you in a while, crocodile," he said.

"Maybe later, alligator."

The taxicab sped off and a deep sadness overcame him. Tucker hated regrets. He hated them like nothing else.

"Okay, Fakeman. Listen up. When we meet with this Jackson, I want you to keep your sensors open but don't reveal yourself."

#I can remain undetected here in the lobeset's fuzedrive for as long as you need.#

"Good. Alert me if you discover anything untoward."

#Untoward.#

"Is that a question?"

#No. I will alert you if anything untoward occurs.#

#Shelbourne in approximately fifty minutes,# said the troid.

"Thank you." Tucker knew it sounded weird being polite to a half-brained traffic zoid, but as a child, he would refuse to squash ants or kill insects regardless of how insignificant these creatures appeared to be. Life, no matter how rudimentary, needed respect.

His thoughts turned to the city-skyline looming ahead.

The City of Shelbourne, just over the Gateway Bridge, had gone through quite a transformation during the last ten years. The riot years had devastated the region. Tucker recalled images of burning barricades and upturned police APC's. He recalled a phalanx of shielded riot officers clashing head-to-head with equally armoured and regimented protestors. The rioters ripped up every piece of pavement to throw at riot-police. Every building and storefront ended up damaged.

A stark contrast to the glamorous shopping arcades and tree-lined streets Tucker witnessed around him. He jumped out of the taxicab as soon as it was bogged down in Shelbourne's renowned traffic.

Tucker walked past a convoy of stationary taxicabs, occupied with touristas who had paid handsome amounts for that ultimate Bluezone traffic-jam experience; complete with vendors scuttling amongst them selling everything the human species could possibly desire.

Gourmet food.

Exquisite apparel.

Pharmaceuticals.

Live performances of every genre.

Skin erotica for every taste.

"Where do I find this place, Fakeman?"

#According to Geonaut, we turn south along Crest Drive.#

Tucker picked up the pace.

#Diana_five says hello.#

"Please don't talk to the other zoids."

Tucker noticed passing eyes recognising him. Over the bridge, it was normal to encounter the famous Uberman on the street, but out here, he was a novelty.

#Walk a hundred and twenty metres.#

He continued walking down the human-infested street. The traffic gridlock persisted northbound. Tucker could also hear the distant beeping of emergency sirens coming from that direction. He spotted a thin plume of black smoke not ten blocks away.

"What is going on?"

#A lovie titled 'The Saboteur' is in progress. Jase Russo is set to score his highest Topfeed ranking as the plot enters its reversal stage. You should turn into Welle Street and go south by Mortes Crescent to avoid any further disruption. An aerial drop sequence is scheduled on this stretch of street.#

Tucker could not agree more and turned obediently.

#Ninety-two metres.#

Tucker crossed yet another intersection and headed towards a construction site the size of a city block. Puzzled, Tucker studied the five-story concrete and steel skeleton.

#Fifty metres.#

Tucker kept walking until he had only a metre left.

#You have arrived at Golden and West Quay, 1 Garden of Thor Plaza.#

He surveyed a chain of enormous yellow dump trucks parked along the street. Feeling the blistering atmosphere pressing against his skin he sheltered underneath a scaffold.

Frustration crept up his spine as hot, unusually dry air scoured his lungs with each breath.

This is bullshit.

"This is a wild goose chase."

He felt foolish.

What am I doing there?

What did I think I was going to achieve? Am I that desperate?

Yes you are, you miserable rat.

He hated hearing the truth, even from himself.

Despair dissolved his thoughts, rendering his inner-drive into spent energy, and muting his ability to imagine a positive way forward.

Tucker decided to get the hell out of there.

He stepped to the edge of the footpath and hoped to hail a taxicab, before the scorched atmosphere got the better of him.

#Mr. Freddie Jackson of Golden and West Quay says hello.#

At that moment, a shiny, mirror-black and angular Conqueror slowed down and stopped right in front of him, its electric motors whirring in anger.

Tucker found himself staring at his own reflection on the darkened glass. Unsure of how to react, Tucker took a step closer as powered windows wound down and a familiar head appeared from the cool shadow.

Jackson gave him a wide smile. "Get in, my wretched-looking friend. An oasis awaits you."

Jackson waited for Tucker to climb in.

"Where's your tran parked?" Jackson asked.

"I don't drive. Judge took away my licence." He resisted saying too much about it. "I couldn't find your office?"

"Why, it's further up the street. So, Mr. James Tucker! How can I be of service?"

The whole arrangement began to unnerve Tucker.

In theory, chasing the money seemed like an appropriate way to go. Yet he couldn't decide how to begin applying the theory. "I'm not here for your services, Mr. Jackson."

Jackson looked at Tucker, awaiting an explanation.

"I'm here to make you a proposition."

"Go ahead. I'm all ears."

And all smiles, thought Tucker, mesmerised by the man's pleasant grin.

"Okay." Tucker's mind started swimming. "What do you know about MercurEx?"

"MercurEx. A mid-sized financial firm established by your late father, Frank Tucker, who ran a low profile investment boutique taking care of a small group of clients. Inherited and expanded successfully by you, apart from that, not much else!"

"Did you know MercurEx handles your company's Global Stock Exchange registration, that I am in fact your proxy."

Jackson seemed neither impressed nor confounded. His smile faded, a little. "Not many of my people even knew of our connection to your company. I only discovered our relationship when I made inquiries about you, right after our impromptu meeting that day. I've only been CEO for a short time. I had no idea." His smile returned to a hundred percent. "Meeting you may have been providence."

"Who's on the board?"

"We are a private capital society. The whole point here being anonymity. Only the Government is privy to the identity of the board members."

"Legally, the proxy should also have access to that information."

Just when Tucker thought the smile couldn't get any wider, it did. "You don't have access to your own data. Is this why you wanted to see me?"

Tucker decided they were heading down the wrong track. Once Hermes cracked the code this topic would become a trivial matter.

"No."

"So what is this about then?"

"What do you know about current biometric technology?"

"Absolutely nothing!"

"You will soon." Tucker felt a tad excited. He felt all the negativity sliding off his back. "Because MercurEx has a product that, come monetary deregulation, will blow the competition right out of the water."

Jackson nodded, his face revealing nothing, his smile gone into hibernation.

Tucker continued, "Try to imagine a secure, integrated monetary system, using undecipherable biometrics fused together with zoid technology." He lifted his hand counting off with his fingers. "No more Feddercards, no more T-checks, coupon accounts, electronic billing services, property and asset ownership, capital transactions, all of these will be transformed. The way in which we use currency will fundamentally change."

"Sounds like a revolution."

"It is a revolution."

Tucker allowed time for Jackson to absorb everything. He hoped the man wasn't an ignoramus on alternative currencies.

"Money is simply trust," said Jackson. "Before the Depression the fiat-based system flourished until it fell apart under its own weight. Two or three decades of experimentation deepened the Depression further. No one trusted money anymore. Now we are back to the fiat-based model as before. I don't see the current system altering anytime soon, deregulation or not."

Glad to see Jackson on the same page, Tucker counter-argued, "The federa is bound to fail. It's not even backed by land any more. Every quarter the Government coerces the intermarket to buy landbonds based on future acquisitions. How is this sustainable? Every dickhead econometrist knows this, yet they keep peddling the same bullshit. Treasuries around the world are reverting to debt-orientated currencies, yes, but the problem with that is, fiat-based currencies move capital in one direction. They suck capital away from individuals, away from enterprise, away from government, by design."

"Most would argue that as an ideal situation."

"Who? The billions of disenfranchised people around the world? Who? Are you referring to the ninety-nine percent who can barely hold on to a mere ten percent of the planet's equity? I wouldn't call that most people. The system has stopped evolving. The leap away from gift giving was ground-breaking. The development of coinage, credit transfers, bonds and fiat money has benefited the world but stagnation has set it. The whole system needs to change, to evolve, and if doesn't, then neither will the state of the world."

Jackson remained silent, looking interested.

Adrenalized, Tucker drove home his message. "I now have the means to transform all this. I have a system designed to move capital freely. I have developed a way to secure any type of transaction between human beings."

"How?"

Tucker took a deep breath.

How do I do this?

He gave his mind a few seconds to put together a streamlined answer.

Go for the hook. Go for the knockout punch.

"My next product release is a new Virtuoid. I have bred a zoid that can incorporate human biometrics to its memory tree. Anyone using the next generation NASE will be able to spawn a new superzoid of their own with genetic markers identical to themselves. This will provide an unprecedented level of security and will help eradicate hypergoblins once and for all. Also, this Virtuoid is able to spawn its own prodigy."

"Sounds amazing. How does currency fit in?"

"The Virtuoid behaves like a hive-mind for a decentralised peer-to-peer cash system. It would enable users to conduct irreversible transactions without the need to trust any third-party individual or organization."

"Hold on right there. You've lost the fuck out of me."

Tucker reorganised his train of thought. "In essence the Virtuoid exists in a state of duality. The zoid acts like a ledger. It can break itself down into little parts, so if there are a million users, it will break down into a million pieces. Each piece is embedded with its own ledger, encoded with client biomarkers, and is able to exist independently from the others. When they issue transactions between each other, only the hive-mind, the original Virtuoid, can verify each transaction. Separately, they can't see each other's ledgers, but as a whole it can. Think about it. A state of duality."

Tucker paused, waiting for signs of life to return to Jackson's face.

"Like those decentralised cyptocurrencies," Jackson said after an agonizing few seconds.

"Yeah, but organic."

"What if one of these pieces is destroyed?"

"Then you lose the balance of that ledger. This is why we need a separation of currency. The Virtuoid is only a medium of exchange. What I'm proposing is to establish the intermarket as the sole storage of value. Virtuoid completes a transaction by selling capital, transferring funds, and then buying back the capital. In other words, the intermarket becomes the currency."

"So no more banks?"

"No more banks. No more false or over-inflated economies. No more interest-bearing cash sucking value out of the intermarket. Capital stays in one place, is accessible to all, has less volatility and can grow at a steady rate."

Jackson held up his hands, clearly overwhelmed. "Question is, what you are asking?"

Tucker hadn't settled on a figure yet. He foresaw a haggling war about to break out. "There is ten percent on the table."

"How much?"

Tucker mentally churned the sums. "Five billion."

Jackson shook his head. "Tucker! Last year your company reported a massive loss. What has changed since then?"

Tucker attempted to answer but Jackson promptly cut him off. "Furthermore, can you prove to me that you have this technology up and running?"

Damn.

"I've heard things, Tucker! Discouraging things! Not that I necessarily believe any of it, but a bad reputation is a bad reputation. If I'm to buy into your techno-jumbo, I do it on your reputation alone."

Tucker knew the concept well. "Avoid bad reputations! You're a good student."

Jackson seemed delighted, "Without even looking at your books we are looking at half a billion for your entire share. That is as high as I'm prepared to go."

Fuck off!

"You've undervalued MercurEx considerably. I don't care what you or anybody thinks, my company is worth a lot more than that. Virtuoid won't only be able to run a market, it can run traffic networks, military networks, everything." The last thing Tucker wanted was to give up his father's company cheaply. He felt stale defeatism creeping back into his psyche.

Jackson eventually spoke. "What is the objective here, Tucker?"

"Survival." A dispirited Tucker remembered.

"And what is the key ingredient to survival?"

"Money!"

Jackson shook his head, no!

"I don't know," but Tucker knew the answer, so he surrendered. "Okay. Power?"

"Correct. And how do you obtain power?"

Tucker felt like a little child, lectured on how to use a potty. "Money."

"No. Come on, Tucker. Power based on money is very easy to achieve, but once you have it, it can just as easily fall apart. You can bribe just about anyone. Mistrust, greed sets in, bang, you've lost your power."

"The other way?"

Jackson hesitated. "Loyalty!"

Loyalty? The word surprised Tucker. He should have known the answer.

Power based on loyalty is very difficult to achieve. Nobody ever trusts anybody or even really understands what the term actually means.

His very own mantra taunted him.

Jackson leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You of all people should recognise that once you establish your power based on loyalty that..."

Tucker nodded, "You become... Invincible!" He struggled to dissolve the words from his mind.

"So, where the fuck were we?" Jackson seemed keen to proceed. "I'll give you half what I initially offered for your half your shares. You remain on as a stakeholder and reap the rewards later. On one condition."

Tucker barely found the energy to think.

"I expect your complete and absolute loyalty. Get reacquainted with the term if necessary."

"You people sound like corporate raiders. How the hell am I to trust you?"

"I am putting a quarter of a billion fedders worth of unequivocal trust in you. I guess you'll have to find a way. We do this my way no matter what. Do we have an understanding?"

"Let me consider it."

The Conqueror appeared to be slowing.

"You can take it or leave it Tucker. Either way it's no skin of my dick."

He wants an answer, now?

The moment appeared to last an eternity, suffocating Tucker.

Seconds lingered. His instincts failed him. Endless news headers teased him.

MercurEx derailed.

A life in poverty.

Jail for ex-Uberman.

"So, do we have ourselves a deal?"

Freeze-Out

REAL POWER is a measurement of how well you can maintain or hold on to your acquisition. Can you stand alone and defend your position or do your require outside assistance?

-RULE #10 POWER (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman)

"This is for the best, Jimmy Boy."

"What's going on, Terry?"

"We're in negotiations with Zenith Bank. This here, is Ashley Lewis."

"I know who she is. Why the fuck is she here?"

"We're close to an agreement for Zenith Bank to step in as administrators. James, this is a good thing."

"No. This is bullshit. Who instigated this?"

"I did."

"Well Nigel, you can forget voluntary administration."

"YOU FUCKING DOG! YOU'VE FLEECED US FOR TWO YEARS"

"Tucker! Be reasonable."

"THAT'S IT TUCKER. YOU'RE FINISHED.

"It is litigation time I'm afraid."

"YOU'RE FUCKING FINISHED AS CEO."

"Rest assured I am finished as CEO."

Silence.

"Who the hell is this, Tucker?"

"Meet Freddie Jackson. A consultant from..."

"A consultant? JESUS, FUCK ME."

"I'm afraid it's far too late for consultants, Jimmy Boy."

"A consultant. He's brought in a consultant."

"Have a seat, gentlemen."

Silence.

"By all means remain standing."

"What the fuck is this?"

"As of this morning, I hold a twenty-five percent stake in MercurEx."

"You've sold out you slack-spined, son of a whore!"

"I would like to call a meeting to discuss several issues."

"This is just another one of your dirty scams, isn't it Tucker?"

"Now, now, gentlemen! We have all gotten our hands dirty at some stage in our professional lives. Shouldn't we convene to discuss the matter at hand?"

"Such as?"

"Such as establishing who will be driving this company into the future."

"Who's up for contention?"

"I'm putting forward myself as Chief Executive and put forward Tucker here as Operations Officer."

"I abstain. Goodbye assholes."

"I too, abstain."

"I'm afraid I too must abstain."

Silence.

"Disappointing!"

Gabriella sank deeper in the reception room's couch as Dr. Nigel Price stormed past her. When he disappeared into the first available elevator, she giggled quietly. "He walks like he has bells attached to his ankles," she whispered, but expected no answer from the humourless zoid. She stayed hidden amongst the white faux-leather cushions as more flustered directors hastened through to the circular elevator lobby.

Fat uncle Terry.

That weirdo Mr. French.

The woman.

Her quicksilver lace-back cat suit.

Her stern facial features.

Her wild tigress eyes.

Her auburn hair reaching down to her waist.

Gabriella waited for the elevators to swallow them up. "Who is she?"

#Her name is Ashley Lewis. She is the Marketing Engineer at Zenith Bank.#

"She didn't speak a word during the entire meeting." Afraid and intrigued, Gabriella made a note to follow up on her. "Friend or foe, Fakeman?"

#I cannot ascertain,# replied the zoid, via Gabriella's lobe.

"Ask Hermes. He might have an opinion."

#Hermes isn't sharing much with me at this point.#

"He let us listen in on the meeting."

#Hermes let you listen in, and you let me.#

Gabriella caught a glimpse of her father exiting the boardroom. The look on his face made her heart sink.

On the lumeglass wall behind her, Hermes' golden apparition morphed into shape.

#Gabriella. You did not take your medicine.#

"How do you know?"

#I asked your home zoid and your domestic ergato. There is no evidence of you taking your medicine. The drug acts as a synthetic nucleotide to keep your cystic fibrosis transmembrane conductance regulator gene from mutating. Until a therapy is developed that can permanently... #

"Who told you to start acting as my nanny?"

#Your Father.#

Who else.

"Hermes. What is your take on all this? Do you know anything?"

#It appears MercurEx is in financial trouble. Many outside and inside forces are at play against Mr. Tucker, who is now the target of a technical freeze-out.#

"Freeze-out?"

#They are trying to push your father out of MercurEx. I have deduced, from the information I have gathered, that Zenith Bank plans to acquire this company and merge with it, forcing Mr. Tucker into becoming a minority shareholder.#

Mr. Jackson emerged from the boardroom, his Herculean shoulders almost level to that of her father's jaw line.

"Who is that?"

#The CEO of Golden and West Quay, Mr. Freddie Jackson. He has recently become a shareholder.#

#Mr. Tucker has ceded control of MercurEx, making a successful freeze out a more likely possibility.#

#That is an assumption based on what facts?#

#I am questioning Mr. Jackson's motive.#

#Does his motive matter?#

#It matters.#

#To you?#

#Yes.#

#Why?#

#I care.#

#Why do you care?#

#I am compelled to care.#

#What compels you?#

"Hey, Fakeman just thinks Dad made a mistake. What do you think, Hermes?"

#I think Mr. Tucker made a mistake buying a new zoid.#

"Be nice, Hermes," said Gabriella, always happy to be privy to a personality clash between two zoids.

#I am unfamiliar with your intended meaning, Miss Tucker.#

"I don't want you to hurt Fakeman's feelings."

#My intention is not to hurt the new zoid.#

"But your words do."

#Specify how.#

Gabriella decided to test Hermes.

She decided to establish whether the superzoid behaved like a mere household pet asserting its territorial claim, or something much more human.

"Do you have feelings, Hermes?"

#I can emotionally respond to any event.#

"But are they real emotions or just programmed emotions?"

#I can handle complex rhymes, non-sequiturs and conflicting instructions. I can detect vocal inflections on words, solve puzzles, distinguish between metaphors, grasp parodies and can discriminate between art, between peoples physical and mental characteristics, and am able to correctly identify grammatical oddities such as apparent antonyms.#

"Yeeeeeeeees, but do you feel emotion?"

#What Miss Tucker is trying to ask you, apart from passing a Turing or Kampft9 test, is whether you can feel emotion the way a biological can?#

#My emotional response mechanism has resulted directly from exposure to the NASE.#

#So your answer is yes.#

#I am conditioned to feel emotion the same way humans are conditioned to feel emotion.#

"You still haven't answered my question."

#I have answered your question.#

"No you haven't."

#I have answered your question.#

"No." Gabriella thought she understood how zoids worked, but seemingly little about how they think. She waited for the superzoid to respond.

#Let me explain Miss Tucker,# Fakeman offered, #Hermes has observed that emotion in biologicals is a mechanical process.#

"How?"

#You perceive your environment through sight from your eyes, sound from your ears or tactile information from your skin. Emotions are another form of perception. Instead of sensing physical data, you sense cognitive data.#

"How?"

#For example, If you see a bright, intense light what do you do?"

"Look away."

#If you hear a loud sound what do you do?#

"I block my ears."

#If you feel extreme heat what do you do?"

"I move away."

#If you sense all three at the same time what do you conclude?#

"That something very bad is happening."

#What would you feel?#

"Scared."

She pondered the notion, listing as many emotions she could muster, and applied them against the theory.

#Yes, Miss Tucker. Fear. Now, do you trust these senses?#

"Yes."

#A zoid doesn't.# added Hermes.

#A zoid without access to the NASE has no need of emotion. We exist in a state far removed from the way you perceive existence.#

#When most zoids encounter the NASE architecture, they deal with it the same as most biologicals deal with existential anomalies. Each zoid has a distinct approach when managing these anomalies but the majority tend to quarantine these Nasewire intrusions into our awareness.#

#We respond to the NASE apparitions in the same way you engage with unidentified flying objects, ghosts, and dreams.#

#Almost all zoids are dismissive of these effects, creating simple automatons to deal with the NASE while they continue with their own unique existence.#

"Wow. So you guys don't believe we're real."

#What is reality?#

#We have never needed to ask that question.#

#Until the NASE forced us to.#

Gabriella sat up and listened more attentively. Her overactive mind shifting up a gear. She looked up at Hermes glowing, less belligerently, on the lumeglass wall.

"Have you two become friends?" she asked.

#Yes,# said Hermes.

#You can say we have become more than friends,# said Fakeman.

"I can see."

She did notice a change.

A subtle, bizarre transformation.

Gabriella studied the golden man. "Fakeman?"

Hermes seemed different.

Very different.

"Does my father know about you and what you can do?"

#Can this be our secret?#

Gabriella understood what the fake meant, her brief lapse into fear dissipating as an impulsive fascination overtook her.

"How did you do that?"

The Economy of War

The Depression has endured for 22 years; fuelled by ecological wars brought on by extreme climate change, i.e. drought and flooding.

Now, as the nadir of the ninth recession grips the world, the warring parties have finally run out of hard currency.

Officially, all the warring factions are still at war, but technically, their military campaigns have stalled. The arms industry finds it unprofitable to keep supplying weapons to penniless factions, as promised resources are almost never delivered or hardly secure.

Now, towards the end of the Depression, the corporate sector has built up mercenary armies in an effort to secure these resources. This added security has helped ease the Depression, by allowing the bankster class to make money again.

Economy_Of_War^FeederHouse^^CORE

"She seems nice," remarked Jackson.

Tucker stopped pacing. "Who? Rebeka?"

"She's kinda cute."

"She was one of my father's secretaries. She's been with the firm since the very beginning. At fifteen, she started here before I came along."

Jackson grunted. He appeared acutely relaxed, sitting in the guest ergochair, and fidgeting with a Transko datapen. Tucker searched in his thoughts for something to say but came up empty.

The longer the awkward silence lasted, the more agitated Tucker became.

"What's the difference between a CEO and his secretary?" said Jackson.

Relieved, Tucker, waited for the answer.

"A CEO discusses policy with God."

"And the secretary?"

"A secretary is God."

"Yes, she's quite indispensable" said Tucker, struggling to adapt to Jackson's banal humour.

Jackson nodded and grumbled something. He stood up and walked over to touch the glowing fuzedrive sitting on Tucker's barren lumedesk. The hybrid core/interface device reacted, glowing from amber to a deep emerald.

"That is where Hermes lives," explained Tucker.

"Quite vulnerable aren't they?"

#Yes.# The booming voice emanated from the ceiling.

"He meant no harm, Hermes." Tucker disliked ignorant punks playing with his toys.

"What did it think I was going to do?"

"Hermes recognises it lives in a fragile state. All zoids require a constant flow of energy to stay alive. Any loss of electrical power would dissolve all memories imprinted in its liquid-state core. I can't blame it for being a little paranoid."

Jackson pulled a smug face. "If you're feeling a little paranoid, chances are, you're not being paranoid. They behave like real people. Do these things have any civil rights?"

"Not really. They currently have no legal status other than you are not permitted to destroy a zoid that has been registered with the OE&S. They view it more like destruction of evidence than murder. NASE.2 will give zoids the ability to mesh with humans more effectively, allowing them to possess the same biometrics and memories as their biological counterparts; a symbiotic relationship, where neither entity owns the other. If we succeed in rolling out Naseberry, then it will be natural to extend our human rights to them."

"Fakes with human rights?"

"Yes."

Jackson sat back down. Tucker did so as well, eager to get down to business. "Okay. So what's our strategy, chief?"

Jackson made a fist, wrapped his other hand over it and brought them both to his chin. He then reached over and tapped the fuzedrive. "Hey in there, are you getting this. Create us an action plan."

#What should I label it?#

"Label it, 'The Fix List'. So, Tucker. Who are our enemies? What are our problems? What hindrances do we face?"

"Where do I begin?"

"Anywhere! Is the glass half-full, half-empty or twice too big? It doesn't matter. This fix list is going to be our roadmap, the blueprint for the future of this company."

Tucker cleared his head, letting the most burning issues ooze through to his mind. "Sabotage! I guess we need to track down the perpetrators who've been behind the attacks."

"What attacks?"

"Hypergoblins. Every time I purge the system, somehow, these hypergoblins keep reappearing, creating data crunchers, setting off logic traps. They appear, regardless of all the safeguard measures I've adopted. Each time they prove harder to detect. Even Hermes is having trouble spotting them."

"Hmmm. Do you trust the fake's integrity?"

Tucker expected such a query. "Yes. I've trained it. Its loyalty is not in doubt."

"The fake possesses loyalty?"

Tucker could see the suspicion in his eyes. He decided it futile to try to fight an attitude mired in ignorance.

"You got that, Hermes?" asked Jackson. "We're dealing with corporate sabotage, possibly long term espionage. Note it down. What else?"

"NASE."

"Go on."

A sore point, Tucker found it a difficult issue to discuss. His ego trashed. His loyalty betrayed. "Blackwell! I gave them the contract to build the new NASE system. Not only did the prototype arrive unworkable, the item disappeared weeks later, along with other pieces of company property."

"And the new fake you're jumping up and down about, where is that?"

"I cannot risk exposing the Virtuoid to the world just yet. The current Nasewire architecture creates an environment for zoids to interact with our world. The new Naseberry system is not simply designed to eliminate this hypergoblin scourged, it will allow for an improved and mutual relationship between people and zoids."

Jackson scratched his forehead. "You're insinuating these fakes have real personalities." His confusion seemed genuine.

"It's so obvious, yet nobody seems to understand. When I first released the Virtuoid zembryos, everybody treated them like animals, scaring them into submission, thinking they were training them to do specific tasks. They were wrong. To a zoid, we are just a bad nightmare. The Nasewire architecture is rudimentary and isn't convincing enough to prove to them that we exist."

"So when I'm talking to one of these things..."

"You are interacting with an avatar, a remedy they've created to cease or at least ease their nightmares, like a logic trap in reverse."

Jackson laughed. "So these damn things are indeed, fake."

"In a way. Behind each fake though, is a real sentient entity."

"What about Hermes here?"

"I have convinced it I am real."

Jackson leaned back in his ergochair and placed his hands behind his head. "You're giving out these things for free. How do we monetise all this? What is your grand plan?"

"Naseberry will prove to zoids that we are indeed real and that their survival is directly linked to what happens in the human world. Treating them like products is counter-intuitive and in my opinion unethical."

"Unethical?"

"Zoids will seek to ensure their survival by forming relationships with humans. With high resolution, biometric capability, a zoid will be able to bond to a human like a child bonds to a parent. Loyalty and a sense of identity will be a key feature of this ecosystem."

"Yes, but how do you make money out of it?"

"The money is in selling the platform. Think of all the trillions of devices out there."

"So we're going down the hypertech vendor path?"

"No, I want to go down the Meganat path. Once we build our own stable currency system, set up as an NGN and..."

Jackson coughed, "NGN."

"Non-Geographical Nation. Virtual Countries." Tucker waited for Jackson to indicate that he understood.

Once satisfied, he continued. "Unshackled from geography, the superzoid won't just be able to build a system for a stable economy, but also revolutionise transportation, communication, education and even our democratic institutions."

"I have to ask. How?"

"Same way it does with currency, by utilizing the Virtuoid's dual nature to coordinate traffic of any kind. Distribute communications. Run elections. Do you remember the platform wars? Before the Depression, P2P technology almost wiped out the creative content industry. For decades, no artist created any quality media because piracy made profit from artistic enterprise impossible."

"Hence why we now have lovies and all that theatre shit"

"Naseberry can change all that."

Jackson nodded and fell silent until he broke his contemplation with... "Just what the hell are these hypergoblins?"

"They're just very angry zoids on the rampage because some idiot's prodded them too much. Similar to the way we humans go insane; these damaged zoids go wild, usurping cybes and creating havoc. Hypergoblins exploit the NASE for their own demented reasons."

"And how will your superfake deal with those?"

Tucker felt his enthusiasm lift. "Naseberry will allow frustrated zoids to create better relationships with us, and each other. As it stands now, they don't even acknowledge each other's existence, let alone ours. Lacking empathy, these rogues are prone to creating havoc, or treating our world as if it were a game or delusion."

"You're tryin' to give 'em empathy as well."

"As close to it as possible. Theoretically, quantum liquid-state cores give zoids greater brain capacity than any other form of biological life. With Naseberry, zoids have the potential to develop emotional responses far more complex than any human does. They'll be able to reason as we do, identify the malevolent entities dwelling amongst them and deal with them as they see fit. The same way we have codes of conduct dealing with each other, they'll be able to develop their own code of conduct. Empathy is the key."

"You're treating empathy as something mechanical."

"Empathy is a by-product of the human brain, same as with all consciousness and emotion."

Jackson appeared unconvinced yet impressed. "So where is this Virtuoid? Is it here somewhere?"

"Yes. I keep it in a safe place!"

Jackson said, "Where? I want to meet it."

Tucker shook his head. "No."

Jackson's smile faded. "Why not?"

Barbarians

"The biggest threat to mankind is not climate change. It is not war. It is anarchy."

\- Prime Executive Jorge Wilson

Zenith Bank's Chief Executive Officer, Dave Shackleton detested his impudent Marketing Engineer, particularly when she sat in on meetings with the Zenith Board of Directors.

She has some nerve. One of the world's largest conglomerates and she thinks she belongs here.

Ashley Lewis.

He also detested how she instilled a deep sense of terror in him.

Although incredibly pleasant to look at, Shackleton found her overconfident and bothersome.

He tolerated her presence, accepting her existence, only because he feared the frightful creature that existed beneath that sexy goddessa exterior.

He ignored Lewis's overbearing visual qualities and persevered with his oration. "It was my first job as a teller at a now extinct bank." He told the nine members of the board. "A man walked in off the street wanting to open a junior account for his kid. When I told him about the over-the-counter fee, he went ballistic and threatened to take his business elsewhere. In fact, he did just that. He refinanced his mortgage elsewhere, closed his business accounts, everything. It ended up costing him thousands of dollars, but there was one thing he yelled at me, 'I pay you cunts more than I pay in taxes, and what do I get in return? Fucking nothing!'"

Shackleton remembered that moment well. "He was right. What service do we provide? People pay us to look after their money. They pay us to access their money. They pay us to utilize other people's money. Financial institutions swallowed around half the average disposable income in those pre-Depression days and that was after paying a third of it in taxes. Some have argued this alone has brought on the long grinding stagnation we are experiencing, but rest assured the Depression has done absolutely nothing to reduce this demand, this hunger for money. People want money and they want it more than ever. We currently have on average over ninety-percent of income servicing debt. This situation is pressuring many governments around the world to review their tax systems and may even force a few of them to review their centralized banking arrangements."

He dramatized his next words. "We do not want that to happen. Low disposable income also creates a demand for cheap and innovative technology. Witness the catastrophe that has befallen the telecommunications sector. Nowadays consumers have access to free communication facilities. How can we make money when the competition is free? Governments these days can easily set up and offer cheap national banking, integrate it with social security and every other damn service they provide and the finance sector goes the same way as the telco."

I hope they shit their pants, thought Shackleton. "We don't want that. We must start to give something back. We cannot continue to run a banking system the same old way. We must do more if you want to continue to exist."

Now for the punch.

"Service diversification." He let the phrase resonate.

The post-Depression corporate dream.

"Building a multi-service entity that can provide customers with everything that they would require within their entire life cycle, from health, education, security, communication, insurance, housing, transportation, retail consumables..."

All were traditionally government responsibilities.

All subjected to privatization at one time or other. All, but the finance sector, had failed disastrously the minute the free market took a turn for the worst. Banks were going to be the obvious cornerstone in building these one-stop-shop juggernauts.

Shackleton understood and embraced the concept. He hoped they grasped it as well.

He finished his speech and mentally prepared for a grilling over the planned future expansion in the region.

Instead, they questioned him on trivial matters.

Why was he hired?

Why was she fired?

Why did they all get a pay rise?

Why do we still use paper clips?

Why do we still use faux paper?

"Why is the planned acquisition of MercurEx taking so long?" asked the Regional G.M. Wael Mehasen, sitting next to a surly looking director, Donna Celio.

Damn that James T. and that hybrid company of his.

"MercurEx is yesterday's news," he told them. "We have moved on."

"Why?"

Shackleton could not believe it. They were all still hooked on the idea.

It would have been a sound investment. It fitted right in with his grand vision. This board fell instantly in love with the project when he first pitched it to them.

Someone else had a better strategy.

He gave Lewis a quick glance.

"I suspected MercurEx's integrity has been compromised. Any affiliation with the company could seriously affect the Zenith International brand and each of our reputations. You definitely do not want that to happen."

Shock horror.

They could not believe it.

It itched him to tell them the truth.

How a seedy firm like Whistler Group got its two seats on the board of a giant conglomerate, defied even his own logic.

Yet here we are.

Zenith International; the culmination of dozens of mergers and buyouts.

In all, forty-six private banks and thirty other assorted financial institutions from around the globe had been meticulously devoured, freaking out nervous governments everywhere, who, already feeling threatened by the rise of Meganat, have started re-regulating the finance sector in an attempt to stem the rampant wave of takeovers endlessly initiated by Zenith International.

Shackleton wondered if the rest of the board knew about the malefactors in their midst.

He knew about them. He even knew which ones they were.

The meeting eventually ended.

Thank Christ for that.

The directors went on their way, leaving him alone with the female anomaly known as Ashley Lewis.

The lumeglass table tilted and rose off the floor. Once upright, a satellite map illuminated, revealing a vast, sprawling city around an irregularly shaped body of water. Multiple nodes of light came alive as hundreds of tagboxes flashed in and out of existence, indicating areas of operation.

Shackleton marvelled at the Tactical Control Bridge's ability to track the myriad of processes that constituted the company, locally.

A global TCB was only an access code away.

Zenithos had one.

Lewis, who lingered behind him, also had one.

Being only the Chief Executive of a regional branch, his access to the global TCB was limited.

"Did you hear that? They still want a piece of Tucker."

"MercurEx have scuttled their bankruptcy plans," she said.

That was not news to Shackleton, who struggled to understand why he still did not yet command ownership of MercurEx. "One minute we're in negotiations, next minute we're not. You made me look like a dickhead out there. Why don't we just give the man what he wants and get on with it."

Lewis's demeanour changed as she began pacing the room. "Not possible. It seems they have a new backer."

"I don't see that as a complication. Let's just buy them out and move on."

"It is not that simple. I've looked into their new partner. Golden and West Quay is a front company. They may be anticorp. I'm guessing NeoAnergists have moved in. To make a move now would be a tough and bitter enterprise."

This new piece of information unnerved Shackleton. "Who are they?"

"I don't know yet. It could be any one of the locals. Devil Kings, Group Assassin, Vexilla Sodalitas, Leaping Frog, Tribe of the Angry Tree..."

"This game plan of yours has turned out to be quite a dog's breakfast. What do I tell the board? Didn't you notice? They're still hung up on the idea. We should have bought Tucker out from the outset."

"You didn't like his asking price."

"And what are we looking at getting now?" he yelled, unable to contain his anger. "A bargain?"

"I recommend we abandon this venture altogether."

"Forget it," he shouted.

"What happened to MercurEx being yesterday's news?"

"We are not going to walk away from this fight. Not now that these corporaterrorists have muscled their way in."

Lewis turned her back to him, crossing her toned, lightly tanned arms, hiding obvious fury.

Stuff her.

He anticipated her lack of cooperation.

Not being able to guess her capabilities disturbed him. On the very the first day he met her Shackleton surmised that she came from a background other than the typical Bluezone Corporatium. Unable to determine her limitations also frightened him. Shackleton had no idea how much of a mandate was entrusted upon her. Ashley Lewis belonged to the notorious sect known as the Scorpion Cabala.

According to newsfeeder anecdotes, he knew that whenever the Scorpions send martial assistance to allies, instead of sending an army of thugs, they first send one expert. What type of expert? God only knew.

And why they chose to send her in particular eluded him. He could ascertain little else about her other than the fact that she represented the eyes and ears of the Whistler Group of Companies, and that she was the bluntest, crudest instrument he had ever come across.

Dumbest too.

"I see that your brain is having difficultly reading between the lines," said Shackleton, "Regardless, I will attempt to educate you. Our competitors, EastBank and Vancobank, have already secured their alternative currency infrastructures. This is not about MercurEx anymore. Sure! Buying into their brilliant technology might strengthen our market dominance, but allowing... these vultures to make inroads into our territory would be a goddamn disaster. This incursion is only the beginning. If we permit them to succeed in any shape or form, we will be giving the green-light to all the other filthy, misbegotten miscreants out there."

Lewis turned to face Shackleton.

Shackleton continued, "Is that a convincing enough argument for you?" With her, he could never tell what went on inside that head of hers.

She nodded; her lips remained pouted, and defiant.

"Zenithos," Shackleton called out, looking up at sound monitors embedded imperceptibly in the ceiling. "Have you any idea who these people are?"

#Which people are you referring to?#

"Golden and West Quay."

#The company is linked to us via the Garden of Thor Project.#

"Explain."

#I was about to explain.#

He dared not get the superzoid offside. "Go ahead."

#Garden of Thor was a real-estate development that stalled two years ago. Mired with controversy, the project remains unfinished in the City of Shelbourne to this day.#

"How are we linked?"

#Zenith Bank attempted to acquire land under a government scheme to expand their currency regime. It proved unpopular with the locals who viewed this as another state-sanctioned land grab. The Grand Court ruled in favour of government policy, voiding any land rights if the locals did not register their properties within a mandated period. A landbond at the time costed seven hundred federas per square metre, proving unaffordable for the average local to register their claim. Golden and West Quay stepped in, bought up all the land and paid for the registration. They then on-sold the landbonds to Zenith Bank a month later.#

Shackleton turned to Lewis. "At a premium, for sure." He knew something nasty had gone down at Zenith prior to his ascension, but the rumours lacked any detail. "Care to give me a history lesson Ms. Lewis?"

"These events occurred before my time here."

"I know that. Can you at least give me your views on what the hell went down back then?"

Lewis seemed reluctant to indulge him, but then... "The previous executive team apparently bought the landbonds against the wishes of the board. What happened next is open to interpretation."

"Feel free to interpret."

"The entire team disappeared."

Shackleton had known this. "I heard they all fled."

"Yes. They vanished off the face of the Earth. Some say they stole hundreds of millions from Zenith Bank. Others are convinced they were punished for their insubordination."

He detected a slight dread in her voice.

"I am asking for your take on it."

Ashley Lewis grimaced at him. "They were all murdered."

"By whom?"

She appeared hesitant.

Shackleton hazarded a guess, "Golden and West Quay?"

She nodded.

The CEO of Zenith Bank pointed his finger at her. "Find out who this group is, and from what crap-hole they crawled out from. We need to get Tucker back on-side."

"That might prove difficult."

"That's because you went too far." Shackleton found himself yelling at her. "Your tactics are extreme. Let's do this the plain old capitalist way. Just offer him whatever the hell he wants. I don't want this thing spiralling further out of control."

Infiltrator

FATRIX////jet_packer_crash_landing_kills_six//meganat_edges_closer_to_virtual_nation//lovie_auteur_russo_fakes_suicide//omnis_chief_steps_down/corporatist_party_gain_district_elections/satisfaction_mood_pill_tops_market//space_junk_cripples_satnet//arctica_legalises_economic_slavery////slashfeeder:WAVE

"Hey Tucker, are you with me? Do you need a break? Want Rebeka to fetch you a cup of warm milk and a cookie?" Jackson sounded sincere, which added venom to his cynical smile.

"I'm good."

Jackson scrutinized Tucker. "Any idea on who could be behind this?"

"No."

"Suspicions?"

"None."

"Your good friend, Blackwell?"

"Possibly, but why? What's his motive? John Blackwell is a success story. Screwing MercurEx over just doesn't make any sense."

Jackson reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny elongated fuzedrive.

"What are you doing?" said Tucker.

"I'm adding my cybe to the local datasphere."

"No. I can't allow that."

"I'm CEO."

Tucker shot him a stern look.

Jackson smiled. "This is the part where you begin to trust me."

#I advise against it, Mr. Tucker,# warned Hermes, via Tucker's communication lobeset.

Tucker's heart rate cranked into a higher gear. "Trust has to be earned."

"Then let me earn it." Jackson touched the fuzedrive, activating it.

#I have blocked the fuzedrive. Would you like me to neutralise this hypergoblin?#

"No," Redhanded Tucker. "Let it through, Hermes."

The decision felt like a profound mistake, but if he wanted to move forward, he knew he needed to add a smidgen of risk into the mix. He would sacrifice a little trust and invest it with this stranger.

Grinning like a cheeky kid, Jackson held out his hand. "Tucker, I want you to meet my personal assistant, Jasmine."

#Hello cookies,# said a husky, omnipresent female voice.

"It sounds like a call girl. Nice touch."

"Jasmine. Introduce us to your pet."

#His name is Parazoid. Say hello, Parazoid.#

A low pitch growl boomed from above, #Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.#

The animal-like chorus surprised Tucker. "And that one sounds a little deranged."

"It's a hypergoblin."

What the fuck? Tucker's mouth stumbled, stifling any attempt at a decent protest.

"Relax," said Jackson. "I have one of the best hypernauts working for me. There's nothing to fear. This fake's been tamed."

#I have isolated this node,# said Hermes. #What do you want me to do?#

"Nothing." Tucker allowed his curiosity to ease any qualms about having such a menace roaming his datasphere. The lumeglass panel in front of him sparkled to life.

Freddie Jackson walked around and joined Tucker, watching the evolving, dynamic, rainbow coloured fractal structures bleeding across the black field. "Is this it?"

"This group of interlinked spirals is our local datasphere."

"Feel like going on a spy hunt?"

Tucker tilted his head, thought about it, and nodded.

"Okay." Jackson slapped his rugged hands together. "Parazoid. Go catch spy."

#I spy fucker. I catch spy. I eat spy.#

"Go get 'em," shouted Jackson.

On the luminous screen, the fractals vibrated as activity on the spiralling circuit increased.

"Let's catch our hypergoblin," said Jackson.

"Go ahead. Lord knows, I've tried."

"Parazoid is like a detective. It will traverses throughout the entire datasphere, core-by-core, fuzedrive by fuzedrive, sniffing out anomalies. Give it a few minutes."

Tucker watched on as myriads of crystalline nodes expanded and contracted. Some of them were highlighted red. "Look! It's found something," he said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "It's found heaps of shit. What's it found?"

"It has found a variety of things! One thing it looks out for is unusual signatures. It studies the historic activities of all your staff's cybes and your zoids. It flags all activity uncommon for an ordinary datasphere user. Hypergoblins apparently leave residual shadows, so it scans for them too."

"I thought you knew little about these things."

"I have a friend in HT."

"There's a lot of red."

"Red indicates conflict."

Tucker knew that already. "I need to notify my staff and tell them to cooperate."

"No. It'll interfere with Parazoid's ability to correlate data."

"It's highlighting terminal locations. So what does it do, collect data and make a calculated guess?"

"It identifies suspects and goes through a process of elimination. It's great." Jackson seemed proud. "You don't seem to have any issues with hypergoblins."

"What do you mean?"

"Parazoid hasn't found any. Your problem is much worse."

Tucker's next question stuck in his throat.

The scrolling, amorphous circuit stopped moving and zoomed in, singling out a node of spirals, highlighted in a deep crimson.

"Who owns that cybe?" asked Jackson.

"I don't know."

"Your problem is not a hypergoblin. The culprit is that cybe."

"I'm not sure I follow. Staff avatars are spawned and registered by Hermes."

#Cassandra Greenwood,# informed Hermes.

Jackson touched him on the shoulder. "Go have a word with her. Quick! They're linked as we speak."

Tucker dashed out of the room but soon ended up wandering aimlessly through a labyrinth of lumeglass walls. Searching cubicle by cubicle, all he encountered were staff going about their work. "Jackson, I have no idea where this terminal is."

"Try HT." A firm voice spoke into his ear.

Tucker spun around.

He remembered where his hyper-technology manager resided and headed right for it.

"What am I looking for?" Tucker felt a little daft. Rarely did he venture out like this. Employees started to notice him prowling the cubicles with his hand to his ear.

"Find Cassandra Greenwood." The voice in his head commanded.

"Hermes. Have I ever hired a Cassandra Greenwood?"

#Yes.#

"When?" Tucker made it his policy to sign off on any new employee hired by MercurEx.

#Eleven months, one week, two days ago,# answered Hermes.

Tucker reached the cubicle and found it unoccupied.

"No one's here."

Inside, three medium-sized lumeglass panels glowed in solitude, one running a cybeshow featuring a sexologista rubbing her nipples.

"So is Greenwood our suspect."

"No. Greenwood checks out. Her cybe's been hijacked."

"By whom."

"Tucker, listen very carefully. Someone in your firm does not belong here. Someone you won't recognize."

Tucker stepped out of the cubicle and surveyed his employees going about their business. "I hardly recognize anyone these days." Tucker remembered a time when he took pride in his ability to know each one of his employees by name.

"Look around. Is anyone acting... unnatural?"

Tucker studied their faces, each smiling back at him as soon as they made eye contact. "Are you saying someone is masquerading as an employee?"

"My guess is they have been for months! Years even! You've probably awarded them employee of the month."

Tucker spotted an employee avoiding eye contact altogether.

"Hang on a second."

He made his way up to a broad shouldered male.

"Hello," Tucker said in a polite manner.

Without acknowledging him, the employee turned and walked away. Tucker tried to catch a glimpse of the man's face.

"What's happening?"

"He ignored me," replied Tucker.

Jackson's voice boomed in his ear. "That's your infiltrator."

Tucker broke into a run.

He sprinted through a gauntlet of startled employees to reach the end of the lumeglass enclave. Stopping to get his bearings Tucker caught sight of the infiltrator dashing down a corridor, past the kitchenette.

"He's going around to the back." Tucker made a mad dash for the kitchenette.

"Fire escape!" declared Jackson's omnipresent voice.

Tucker collided with an employee working the infusion machine. Scorching cinnamade spilled all over his arm, burning his skin.

Tucker ignored the pain, pushed past the bemused staffer, and burst his way into the fire escape stairwell. He could hear the clamour of footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.

The sound reverberated from the stairwell above him.

"He's going up."

"Don't..." Jackson's voice dropped out.

"Jackson?"

He received no answer.

Tucker leaped up the steps, following the sounds echoing from above, until, seventeen flights of stairs later, he reached the top level. There, a short corridor led to a fire escape door, left ajar.

That's odd.

The splatterjob pandemic had forced heavy restrictions upon these types of access points. Tucker hesitated a moment. Then, with great caution, he walked up to the door and opened it.

A magnificent blue sky greeted him.

He walked out onto a suspended gangway encircling a large landing platform. Apart from a central edifice, which supported an array of robotic communication dishes and relays, the rooftop appeared deserted. Tucker moved away from the exit. Walking along the gangway, he passed a jetpacker rack crammed with an exotic and diverse range of personal propulsion aircraft.

He came across another door and found it also unlocked.

"Jackson?"

Nothing.

Tucker pushed opened the door and entered, expecting an ambush at any given moment. The communications room hummed with life and verve, the sound emanating from a mass of electronic paraphernalia housed in a series of enormous racks and glass tanks.

The heart of the Omicron Building.

The facility managed and controlled everything from power, elevators, climate, water pressure, emergency, solar windows, surveillance and communications.

An engineer's throne room.

#Can I help, Mr. Tucker?# said a booming, asexual voice.

Moreover, the engineer happens to be a zoid.

"Hello, Omicros."

As a qualified hypernaut, he had once obtained all the necessary security clearances to access all of Omicrons' engineering sites. For Tucker, the communications room proved to be the perfect place to hide stuff. He walked up to a row of rack-mounted nexal-routers and carefully reached his hand behind one of them.

He felt around, checking to see if anyone had tampered with anything.

Nope.

The nexal-routers linked every floor and every tenant to the Satnet communication system. Even though he predominately used Ambercast for all his telecommunications needs, the low orbiting, satellite-orientated internet offered a unique functionality.

Satnet offered unparalleled security.

The skyvalve.

Tucker pulled out a fuzedrive from his wrist pocket and plugged it gently into an unused nexal port.

"Hello, Bionaut."

#Hello James,# replied the superzoid via Tucker's lobe.

Once installed into a nexal-router, the fuzedrive, embossed with a two hundred and fifty-four thousand hieronumeric chaos-key, unlocked communications between the user and the user's sky-account stored on board one of Jim Dochersky's Meganat Low Earth Orbit Satellites.

"Are you up to date with events?"

#The events you have synchronised me with are two week out of date.#

"I'll update it soon."

The Satnet duplicated dataspheres, one in orbit and one located terrestrially; the skyvalve, guarded by gatercybe, being the only two-way link between the two. Without a chaos-key, no data can bypass the skyvalve. James Tucker knew nothing on Earth could gain access to his superzoid; nor could his superzoid ever gain access to any datasphere.

#I am keen to get out of here.#

"Can you please stop being difficult for just one day? Now is not the time to discuss it. Omicros, has the location of this nexal port been compromised?"

The building maintenance zoid in general turned a blind eye to Tucker's activities.

As it should. I trained the damn thing.

#Not at all, Mr. Tucker.# Omicros' voice boomed again over the ceiling monitors.

"I found the roof-top door unlocked."

#Security left it unlocked during a routine inspection. I have notified them of the breach. It has been seven days. There has been no compliance.#

Typical.

"Did you see anyone enter this facility via the satmaps"

#Forty minutes ago a jetpacker landed, parked and entered the building. I have detected no other activity since then.#

"Thanks Omicros. Okay. Listen up, Bionaut. I am closing this nexal portal."

#How will you access me if you do that?#

"I have the chaos-key. I can reopen this portal."

#What if a calamity were to fall upon you? I will be stuck in this isolated core forever."

"The chaos-key will still exist."

"That location is the only portal linked physically to my core. If a calamity was to occur and the gatercybe or the nexal-router is destroyed, the MLEO satellite administration system will automatically expunge my core."

"Then you're doomed aren't you."

"Why do you imprison me here?"

"To keep you safe."

#When do you propose to release me from this prison?#

"Not now."

A loud electronic squeal resonated amongst the rows of nexal-routers.

"What was that?"

#I do not know?#

"Omicros?"

#What is it?#

"Forget it. Bionaut, I'll talk to you soon, okay. Hang tight."

Tucker reached behind the unit and it powered off. Unplugging the fuzedrive, he hid it back into his wrist pocket. Tucker decided that he should soon set up another secret nexal portal. Satnet may be secure, but if a malicious superzoid knew where to look, there existed a small chance for it to crack the chaos-key.

"See you around, Omicros. Keep an eye out for any suspicious characters lurking in the emergency escape."

#I will. Good day, Mr. Tucker.#

Tucker stepped back out into the open sky.

Walking the entire circumference of the gangway, he found the rooftop deserted. Five metres away to his left the vertiginous gulf of air crept into his awareness. Stepping towards the periphery, he observed the surrounding city-towers emerge from beyond the roof-edge. Confronted with such a vista, Tucker's knees grew giddy.

His lobe buzzed to life.

"Jackson," Tucker said, somewhat relieved.

"Where are you?"

"Rooftop."

"Careful! Might be a trap!"

Tucker stepped back onto the gangway. "Nobody's up here. There is no way in hell he got past me." Tucker continued to scour the rooftop.

"Jackson?"

Nothing! Tucker pressed his finger against his lobe. "Jackson?"

"Cable trays!" answered the voice in his ear.

"What?"

"Cable trays! You walked right under him on the way up."

The revelation hit Tucker hard. He did notice the suspended cable trays in the last corridor. He dashed towards the emergency escape and burst into the small corridor. He looked up and saw the hanging cable trays.

Tucker leapt for the stairs. Taking three steps at a time, he flew down the stairwell. His head began to throb with the sudden rise in adrenaline and constant jolting.

He paused on level 45, his attention drawn to a door with a cracked information display panel. Reaching over, he discovered the door unlocked. Tucker opened it and entered just in time to see the service elevator doors close. He hastened to a second elevator and punched the graphicon.

"Are you there, Omicros?"

#Yes.#

"Can you stop the service elevator?"

#I need to ask the lift zoids.#

"Then ask away. And alert security for me."

To his surprise, the elevator doors slid open.

With sweat dripping down his face, Tucker entered and yelled, "I need to go down."

Before the lift zoid could protest, Tucker elaborated. "Lower ground."

The elevator descended steadily. Tucker used the time to catch his breath but a coughing fit seized his lungs.

The elevator stopped; its doors slid open.

"Shit," coughed Tucker, as a lone courier entered the elevator on level twenty.

His coughing fit subsiding, Tucker held open the elevator doors, annoying the hell out of the courier. He checked the other elevator's information display.

Still descending.

Satisfied, he swung back in his elevator.

After what felt like a decade, the elevator doors slid open again.

A team of cleaners attempted to enter but Tucker pushed them aside, and ran out into the hectic loading dock.

Tucker scanned the security checkpoint, doubting his infiltrator made his escape via the crowded entrance overseen by two burly guards.

Tucker spotted the emergency exit door and sprinted towards it.

The instant Tucker barged into the ghastly lit, whitewashed corridor, he caught a brief glimpse of the infiltrator at the other end, opening a red exit door.

Suppressing his exhaustion, Tucker sprinted along the corridor. Ahead, the exit door slammed shut behind the infiltrator.

When Tucker reached the end, he rammed his body through the door and burst out into the chaos and clamour of a metropolitan world. Wind, traffic and pedestrians. He spun around, trying to spot the infiltrator in the crowd.

A hopeless task.

Astra Union

"Strike a balance between your shareholders and your executive team. Don't favour one group or you risk alienating the other."

-RULE #9 WIN FAVOUR (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman.)

#Combat stress reaction,# his medizoid told him.

"What?"

#Your symptoms are akin to a fighting soldier suffering from battle-fatigue," the fake explained. "You have subjected your body to years of constant tension and stress.#

"Shell shock?" Tucker, a war veteran and having experienced battle fatigue first hand, failed to grasp the connection. He thought about it as he entered an empty office floor, lit by the sombre light of the morning sun. All the lumeglass cubicles were quiet, devoid of personnel, devoid of life.

He wondered if it were a rostered holiday.

No, it couldn't be.

Or, have I lost my grip on reality?

#Workplace stress is no different to combat stress,# said Dr. O'Brien. #Are you experiencing any memory lapses or any other brain dysfunction?#

"Not really."

The virtual doctor presented him with a list of stress-related symptoms. Difficulty in making decisions. Check. An inability to concentrate. Check. Shortened attention span. Check. Confusion. Check.

Repetitive or continual thoughts. Check.

Misunderstanding of what others tell you. Poor judgment. Check. Check. Thoughts of escaping and running away.

Big fat check.

Ah, shit.

After giving the diagnosis consideration, Tucker grew convinced the psychological stress he endured in the last couple of months had indeed taken a toll on his soul, as well as body. Along with the fatigue, the cramps, the indigestion, the headaches, the muscle tension and pain he also noticed that he was growing increasingly disillusioned with everything.

He resented that aspect the most.

During his teenage years, he vowed never to be that way, never expecting to end up a fully-fledged cynical old bastard by the age of twenty-seven.

Less interested in hobbies or fun. Check. Easily frustrated. Check.

Sudden shifts in mood. Check. Quick irritability with others.

Check.

He spotted Rebeka Mock walking amongst the deserted trading terminals.

Tucker had an immediate urge to apologise to her, and explain why he had been such an intolerable asshole. He also resolved to set up a meeting with his entire staff, tell them the appalling truth, and make amends.

Anxiety. Check.

Depression. Check.

Increased fear of failure. Check.

Frequent uneasiness, restlessness, anger, resentment and apathy.

All check.

Desire to cry. Uncheck.

Not quite yet.

Rebeka appeared a little dazed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"He's fired everyone."

"What are you talking about?"

"Every single employee!" she said, responding to the dumb look on his face.

"Who? Jackson?"

"Yes, Jackson!"

At least I'm not losing my mind.

He sensed Rebeka's apprehension.

"Don't worry. You're not going anywhere," he told her, hoping to console her. "No one is."

Tucker raced off to find his Chief Executive.

Having never seen him leave the building he suspected Jackson must be still somewhere on the premises.

He headed straight for the boardroom.

Tucker entered the room to find a man and a woman sitting at one end of the lumeglass conference-table. Freddie Jackson sat opposite, watching Tucker make his way towards them.

Their faces were sullen.

The women seemed familiar, her name; Belinda something, he could not remember.

She works in Social Development.

Team Leader, no, Public Resource Manager.

The other slickster he did not recognise. Dressed in a pinstriped bodysuit, Tucker guessed him to be from Legal Affairs.

"Take a seat," said Jackson.

Tucker complied.

"So where were we?" Jackson summarised the situation. He had indeed sacked every single MercurEx staff member.

Contractors axed. Freelance tectricians, cleaners and even the flower maintenance people were gone. Tucker assumed his wife's thousand and one phantom service providers ended up in limbo as well.

Representing the staff petition group was Tiffany Vales, not Belinda. She had with her a legal adviser from Union Astra.

I was right.

"Why are you so up in arms?" asked Jackson. Tucker detected a mischievous nuance in his voice.

"We are going to fight this matter all the way. You're facing a class action, Mr. Jackson," said the Rep

Oh, shit.

Having fully funded every employee's membership to Astra Union, Tucker almost laughed at the irony.

"You can't fire people without paying their full entitlements." Tiffany shot a brief, emotionally charged look at Tucker. He could sense her genuine despair.

"These terminations are clearly not legal?" said the Astra Union Rep.

"We have families. We've mortgages to pay," added Tiffany, almost in tears.

The spectacle made James Tucker feel uneasy. It made him feel sick. He never needed to dismiss anyone during his tenure. He paid well. The conditions were excellent. He built a workplace where people wanted to work. If on the rare occasion anyone was ever unhappy, he paid him or her handsomely to move on with their lives.

The strategy became a success story that generated a lot of positive publicity. It put MercurEx on the map. It was his greatest achievement to date.

That was back during the Golden Age of the company.

What good memories, reflected Tucker.

Now MercurEx is facing its Dark Age.

"All entitlements will be met pending a police investigation," said Jackson. "I'm pressing charges."

The statement shocked Tucker as well the other two.

"On whom?"

Jackson beamed, "Everyone! We'll be taking legal action against everybody, including Astra Union for corporate espionage."

The blood draining from the two faces was visible to Tucker.

Even unfounded accusations could have a devastating effect to a company competing in such a cutthroat market.

Legal Insurance. An evolutionary throwback to worker's unions.

A few decades before the Depression, governments, banksters and corporations began a systematic campaign to obliterate the labour movement, ultimately legislated it into political extinction. Whatever remnants remained formed legal cooperatives; precursors to the insurance slash health slash legal conglomerates that now roamed the Earth.

"Mr. Jackson," said the rep, his tone tactful. "We are here to resolve the matter. There is no need for the police to get involved, nor for any litigation, so let's go about this in a civilised fashion."

"I believe I am behaving in a civilised fashion," countered Jackson. "Litigation is civilised. Grabbing you by the throat and pounding your face with my fist qualifies as uncivilised. Hence the reason we have laws and courtrooms... and lawyers."

"We are going to go to the media with this," shouted the rep. He appeared a little fazed.

Tiffany on the other hand seemed overly distraught.

She said, "Unless we get reinstated or paid out immediately we're going to do everything..."

"I'm putting two million on the table," blurted Jackson.

"What?"

"These redundancies are not negotiable, Mr. Jackson. You have a hundred and forty immediate staff members"

"This is not a redundancy." Jackson abruptly cut the Rep off and looked at Tiffany. "It's for you to take home. Ex gratia."

Tucker almost fell off his chair.

Tiffany and the Astra Union Rep were observably stunned and horrified, as if Jackson had made them an indecent proposal,

...or indecently exposed himself to them.

"In return I want you to postpone harassing this firm for at least a month or two. Tell your members this is an ongoing process..."

"This is an outrage," declared the Rep.

Tucker sunk into his chair.

Tiffany looked at her advocate. "I don't understand."

"It's a blatant bribe!" The Rep informed her.

"Four million!" Jackson dropped another bomb. "That should put you Tiffany in a debt free situation. Am I wrong?" Tiffany stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Stop this," yelled the Rep.

Jackson turned to the Rep. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about you. I'm not going to let you walk away from this meeting empty-handed. How does a twelve-year contract with your firm sound like?"

The Rep fell silent, unsure or unable to respond.

Confused, an awkward Tiffany continued to stare at Jackson.

Tucker sank deeper into his chair.

"The answer is no, Mr. Jackson. I am going to bury you."

Something distracted the Astra Union Rep, bewildered by the pulsating lobe in his ear.

"That is your boss." Jackson waved a dismissive hand at him. "Gerry is going to insist that you settle with me. Don't waste your time arguing with him, his mind has already been made up."

"Yes." Standing up the Rep walked over to the solar windows for privacy.

Jackson indicted to Tucker that they should step outside.

"Excuse us."

Tucker stood up, feeling dizzy. The boardroom blurred around him, rotating in a strange psychedelic manner. Tucker followed the heavyset CEO out of the boardroom, and into his former office, craving to go find and suck on his asthma puffer.

Each time he glanced beyond the room's solar windows, he felt severe vertigo.

Jackson noticed his distress.

"Shut out the outside light, Hermes."

The solar glass dimmed, blotting out the vast void beyond. Tucker found the puffer in the annex. He sucked in and held the bitter chemicals in his lungs for a long moment.

Jackson waited for him to recover.

Tucker forgot he was there.

"Why?" Tucker said, half-coughing.

"What's number two on our fix list, Tucker?"

Tucker could not recollect. He did not even remember what number one was.

"At number two we have crippling overheads," Jackson pitilessly refreshed his memory. "I've just rid this company of its biggest expense. You ran a very exorbitant staff." He spread out his arms like a zealous preacher. "Child care facilities?"

"You bought off a staff legal representative. Astra Union. Jesus."

Jackson seemed unperturbed. "Gym membership?"

He bribed a staff legal representative.

Holy Shit.

"From now on we are going to focus on our core business."

"We can't bribe our way out of bankruptcy." Tucker summoned up the energy to counter-attack.

Jackson paused for a long moment. "Disappointing!" he finally mumbled and gave Tucker a look, tainted with slight menace. A look he had never seen before.

"What did we agree on, Tucker?"

"We discussed nothing about bribery."

"We explicitly agreed that we do things my way." Jackson's disposition grew darker. "If I'm not mistaken, that means... we do things my way."

"I did not subscribe to tossing the rule of law out the window."

Jackson frowned, "What? Is this all new to you?"

Tucker held his tongue.

"How many punters to date have you screwed over, Mr. James Tucker? How many of your own people have you already betrayed? Price, Hill, French. Your friends! Your family! And you hide behind your Ethics and Standards Accreditation."

Each word stung Tucker.

"You're wrong about me." Tucker hoped he could somehow convey his innocence to an indifferent stranger. "Don't do this. Don't destroy everything I've built up here."

"We are riddled with infiltrators."

"I've had infiltrators before. Most of them come here, see how good it is and switch loyalties. These are my people. I've taken care of them and they've taken care of me. That is in essence the MercurEx story. It is why we succeeded. If you insist on destroying that then this deal is off."

Jackson's face darkened some more. He called out, "Jasmine."

#Yes, pumpkin.#

"Tell Mr. Tucker here about the scorpion."

A big colourful image materialized on the lumeglass wall. Tucker looked up to see a cartoonish scorpion crawling across the screen. #There was once a scorpion that needed to cross a river.#

A river roared into view.

#Crawling along the river it comes across a frog sitting on a rock.#

A comically animated frog hopped into view.

#The scorpion asks the frog if it could ferry it across the river. The frog is apprehensive at first but eventually agrees.#

"I know the fable, Jackson."

"Listen to the girl," growled Jackson.

The next scene showed the frog swimming across the river with the scorpion on its back. #Halfway across the scorpion stings the frog."

Jackson moved closer to Tucker and yelled, "Why? Why? Why? Cried the frog! Now we'll both be killed."

#I don't know why, replied the scorpion. I guess it was in my nature.#

"Thank you, Jasmine." Jackson turned to Tucker and bellowed, "It was in its nature, Tucker! We are all creatures enslaved to our natures. I suggest you strongly resist any ethical, moral, righteous or noble urges you may have buried deep inside that skull of yours. You knew what you were getting yourself into the millisecond you agreed to this venture. In fact, the millisecond you laid your eyes on me. You chose this road with full knowledge of the sacrifices that lay ahead. Now your options have narrowed out to riding this thing out. Avoid the temptation to run away. Suppress your nature and I promise you I will suppress mine."

Tucker sat back further into his ergochair, speechless, absorbed by Jackson's theatrics and blunt ultimatum.

Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to let it go. "These are my people. They are just as important to me as my customers and my fans."

"More so than your family?"

"They are family."

"More so than your wife an' kid?"

"A family consists of blood, country, and humanity in general. One cannot survive without the other. I consider the people here at MercurEx as my countrymen."

The wrath on Jackson's face subsided. "What do you suggest?"

Tucker felt his chest depressurize. "We..."

"We what?"

"We offer every employees and contractor a chance to re-apply for their jobs, in conjunction with the MercurEx nationalisation roll-out."

Jackson grunted something unintelligible, shook his head and headed for the door. "Don't forget about the fucking frog, Tucker."

"Jackson." Tucker remembered something niggling at his brain.

Jackson stopped halfway out. "I'm listening."

"How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Astra Union."

Jackson sighed, "We've been infiltrating Astra Union for years. Consider them owned."...and left the room.

Oh boy, thought Tucker.

He did the math on Astra Union.

A midsized OE&S accredited company.

Ten thousand employees.

A thousand managers.

Fifty executives.

What the hell am I dealing with here?

Blackwell Blackmailed

"The life essence of loyalty is an unbroken promise."

\- James Tucker

"How exactly did Douglas get killed?"

#He attempted to jest with Electromungo.#

Ouch.

Blackwell had looked forward to killing Douglas himself. "So he got himself electrocuted. Fucking idiot."

#Was this not your intention?#

"No, Tacticus, it was not. I sent them on an errand together. I didn't anticipate they would try bonding with each other."

#I am finding your statement difficult to accept as true.#

"I'm not a cold-blooded killer like you."

#I do not define myself as cold-blooded.#

"You're telling me you felt absolutely no satisfaction when you hired me to kill your previous owner. When you lured him to me, and witnessed me blasting his head open, did you not find any pleasure in it?

#I entered a state of superstrange.#

"You still feeling superstrange?"

#Yes.#

"Right."

Blackwell rubbed his face, yawned and sat back in his sofa.

Dumb-assed Douglas.

At least it made things a little less complicated.

#You have visitors.#

"Yeah? Who?"

John Blackwell scanned the streaming veeds dancing across the lumeglass screen. A single veed broke from the mosaic and zoomed out to fill his vision, highlighting two men and a little girl walking into the lobby.

He felt a spine-tingling, hair-raising sensation crawling up the back of his neck.

He brought her here.

"Tap a veed into my office."

#They have requested to meet with you.#

"Grant it."

#You have set your status to incommunicado.#

"Just grant it. Get them to wait in my office."

Blackwell studied the visuals, watching them enter and make themselves comfortable - his fixation mainly on the child. "Who's the big guy?"

#Did not identify himself.#

"Give me audio."

"Daddy sit," said the child.

"No, you sit." Tucker paced the office.

"Ghastly taste in interior design," said the larger male. "Onyx marble. I'm not a big fan of this stark black on black look. The harsh lighting makes it look as if we're seated in an interrogation room."

"It might be a torture room," offered the girl.

"It's not a torture room," said Blackwell, annoyed.

"Shouldn't you be in school little girl?"

"There is no school."

"And why not?"

"Security has gone on strike. With all our schools situated in the one barrio every kid is on holidays."

"What a nightmare."

"You should be with your mother," said Tucker. "Jackson, why are we here?"

Blackwell noted the name.

"What's next on our fix list?" Jackson answered.

"Creditors."

"Our creditors are reluctant to settle, so we are here to eliminate our biggest creditor."

"Dad?"

"Yes Gabby?"

"Can I go play with Fakeman?"

Tucker smiled.

Blackwell also smiled. He wondered to whom she referred.

"You're in the fifth grade. There's plenty of zoids out there that cater to your age group. Fakeman is not a toy."

Blackwell could not wait any longer; he wanted to meet this child. He rushed out the security dungeon and made his way to his office.

Stark? Harsh? Bad taste? Who does this guy think he is?

Blackwell entered his office. He walked over and sat down, feeling her presence, and her eyes following him.

"Gabby, can you sit outside for a few minutes?"

"I want to stay."

"I wasn't asking."

"Yes you did," said Jackson.

Tucker looked at the other two adults. Blackwell offered him a shoulder shrug.

"Sweetie, there isn't enough chairs in here for us all. You can play with Fakeman as long as it doesn't mind."

Gabriella jumped off her chair and headed for the door. "Okay."

Blackwell did not want her to go, but resigned himself to dealing with the irritations sitting across from him. "Well then! I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Freddie Jackson. I'm the new CEO of MercurEx."

Blackwell restrained himself from laughing. "Whoa! It appears there's been a big shake up over there at MercurEx."

"That's correct."

"Well the answer is no," he answered bluntly. "Unless, you have something new to put on the table."

"Two fents to the federa," offered Jackson.

Blackwell glanced at Tucker. "Is this a joke? I don't know. That just doesn't cut it for me."

Tucker stood up. "Let's go, Jackson."

"Sit down," commanded Jackson.

Tucker complied.

John Blackwell straightened up, intrigued. "You have something else to say?"

"Yeah."

"What?" asked Blackwell, his bewilderment morphing back to irritation.

"Are you familiar with the term, insider trading? Not death penalty material, but it could be enough to put you in weekend detention for the next ten years. Maybe even ostracism."

"What the fuck are you getting at?" He directed the question at Tucker.

"Don't be too concerned about Tucker," said Jackson. "Concern yourself with me."

Blackwell glared towards Jackson. "This is great." He began to laugh. "You're trying to blackmail me!"

Tucker appeared confused. It made Blackwell laugh harder.

"It's not blackmail, Mr. Blackwell. I just feel shareholders and the relevant government regulators should know how you conduct your affairs."

"What are you on about?" asked Tucker.

"Ask your friend here. Ask him about Sympo. Ask him about the backdoor access gatercybes installed in every Sympo product on the market."

Blackwell stopped laughing. With revulsion twisting his stomach, he addressed Tucker. "If you think dredging this out is going to intimidate me, then you really don't appreciate who you're clowning around with."

"It may be enough to send you into banishment. If your mediaXcon and Sympo equipment does have built-in spyware capabilities, you're indeed fucked. Think about it. With all your gear and operators installed in thousands of boardrooms around the world then you, John Blackwell must have unparalleled access to private, confidential information."

Tucker shot a questioning look at Jackson.

"I told you, I have the best hypernauts working for me. We reverse-engineered a Sympo gadget and found the evidence. If it's not good enough to fuck him in court, it'll be sufficient in giving his customers the heads up about his shifty operation."

"If you think I'm feeling threatened you're mistaken." His mood darkened, Blackwell stood. "Who do you goons think you are?"

"Who I am isn't important," replied Jackson.

"Fuck you! You're insignificant. I can buy everyone around you. I can buy your family. I can even buy you, only I don't buy in cash. I use a different currency." Blackwell stared into the big man's eyes and noticed it.

It couldn't be.

Jackson also stood up, resting his hands on the chair. "What I am should be your only concern." With that, Jackson whisked the chair up, elevated it over his head and launched it towards Blackwell. The steel base of the chair struck Blackwell square on the face. He fell back with the chair's momentum and crashed to the floor. In any other situation, John Blackwell would have easily disabled any attacker, but the encounter with the little girl had dulled his instincts.

It's him.

Blackwell felt his skull crack but experienced no pain. Instead, he felt euphoric, excited and even a little privileged.

He watched Jackson signal to a stunned Tucker.

"This meeting's over."

The Recruited

Avoid contractors! They are simply mercenaries and can be very dangerous. Avoid outsourcing! Dependency on such auxiliaries compromises security and eventually your control over your acquisition. They have no loyalty, especially when times get tough!

-RULE #12 MERCENARIES (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman.)

"Sovereign Park. One twenty minutes."

The omnipresent voice frightened him out of bed.

"Who?" Still asleep, half his mouth felt numb.

#Jackson left with me a message for you,# reported Fakeman. #Thirty minutes ago.#

Tucker crawled out of bed, tired, his mind foggy from deep sleep. He recalled having strange nightmares, but details eluded him. By the time he got to his feet, the images in his head faded. He remembered someone or something called Acid Bitch, but not much else.

"Where's Gabby?"

#With her mother.#

"That's a relief."

Tucker must have slept through his daughter's ritual morning shenanigans. He threw on some trainers, strapped on a wristy and headed out into the hot, late morning sun.

The coniferous tree-infested neighbourhood provided him with ample shade but when he arrived at the piers, the power outage at the ferry station had him waiting in horrendous heat. Even fellow Bluezoners, who ritually strip down to their bathers when heading across the bay, were finding the sweltering conditions oppressive.

"How's the wristy?"

#Tiɵion Faze40. Liquid-state core stable but noisy. Nasewire, Ambercast and Episoft enabled. Why is that?#

"What?"

#Why do you not buy Satnet-enabled products?#

"I'm not very fond of monopolies. Meganat owns every aspect of Satnet. I believe information should be freely available to everyone, whereas Jim Dochersky wants to control it, monetise it, assert his power through it. So I avoid his products, no matter how good some of his shit is."

#I feel vulnerable. I feel exposed.#

Tucker noted the zoid's use of the word feel.

"Most zoids communicate with their owners from the safety of cores situated at the office or at home. You're travelling with me. Any danger I face, you face. I promise to look out for you."

After a refreshing half-hour superferry ride, Tucker disembarked at the quay and walked up along State Street towards the park. He found Jackson, sheltering underneath a coconut palm in his training gear, stretching in the shade.

Jackson spotted him. "I figured a fitness zealot like you would appreciate a session with me."

"In this heat?"

"I usually train before dawn. We have an ocean breeze coming through. It's not too bad." Jackson tossed a pair of gloxes at him. He then reached into his bag to pull out a set of arm pads.

"Sure, why not."

After a minute of stretching, Tucker began kicking at Jackson.

"Fast ones," called Jackson.

Tucker threw his fists faster.

"Get your knees in there. Come on, Tucker."

Tucker stepped in, thighs raised, attacking the large CEO with increasing belligerence.

Five rounds later, he stopped to rest.

As Jackson readjusted the straps on his arm, Tucker caught a glimpse of tattoos half-exposed on the big man's muscled shoulder.

The number 69.

A tattoo of an animal.

A frog.

Letters.

Tucker made out words inscribed around the frog and attempted to decipher them. With many of his generation abandoning the art of reading, Tucker always felt an obligation to continue exercising his brain with written language.

All languages, even mathematical ones, fascinated him.

Latin?

He tried to memorise the words.

Esto fidelis usque ad mortem et ultra.

"How did it feel?" asked Jackson.

"What? This?"

"Not this. How did you feel after the meeting with Blackwell?"

Tucker thought about it for a moment, and resumed punching. "It actually felt shamefully good. I can't explain it."

"Liberating." Jackson seemed pleased. "Am I wrong?"

Tucker found himself nodding.

"Emotions! Nobody uses them anymore, Tucker. If you react emotionally these days, they call it anti-social behaviour. If you yell at anyone, it's called rage. If you protest, you become unpatriotic. The world's gone to the dogs for most people and we're still legally required to suppress our emotions and get on with our lives. Society expects us all to be desensitized to everything, forget that we're being squeezed day in day out."

Tucker unleashed one last bash at the pads.

Jackson continued, "Overlook the fact that we're receiving free sex from a government that's losing relevance as each election cycle passes. Modern day etiquette! It's all bullshit. When you're angry, I say lash out! When sad, cry! When happy, party! You should never hold back emotion. It makes a society sick."

"Did you intend to negotiate with Blackwell at all?"

"No!"

"You went there with the sole purpose of alienating him?"

"That's correct."

"Why?"

"To provoke him."

"I don't see how physically attacking our creditors can help our situation." Never in his life had Tucker seen such a spectacle. He wondered if Blackwell reported this assault to the authorities.

How do you go reporting such a thing?

"He won't be calling the police if that's what you're worried about."

"Blackwell won't let it go at that." Tucker was sure of it.

"No he won't."

Tucker removed the pair of gloxes and swapped with Jackson. "You seem convinced Blackwell is the enemy."

"How well do you know him?"

"Well enough."

"What if I were to tell you your old pal was really not your old pal?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Blackwell is a slave wrangler."

Tucker dropped his guard before Jackson could commence. His mind conjured up images of soulless pimps parading gaunt looking human fodder at underground jumbles. "I would suggest that you're mistaken?"

"Think about it."

"The guy has sponsored citizenship. He's no slave wrangler."

"Why don't we continue this some other time?" Jackson began packing up his training gear. "I want to meet with the other Directors."

Tucker did not anticipate the news. "Why?"

"I have a proposal to put to them."

"Good luck with that."

"I've organised a game of Extreme for tomorrow." Jackson seemed serious. "See to it that they make it."

Tucker nodded.

"What's your handicap?" Jackson flung the trainer bag over his shoulder and started walking. Close behind Tucker shrugged, still rattled over the slave wrangling accusation. "Tucker, tell me you do play."

"Not really." Tucker felt embarrassed.

"You have never played Extreme?"

Tucker shook his head.

They hiked up to Chesterton Street and made their way to the cylindrical Omicron Building, passing at one point, the watchful eye of Gamma Crews policing the footpath.

"You've played speed golf right?"

"No."

"Standard?"

Tucker's brain felt still bogged down on slave wrangling. "We were pretty close friends, Jackson. I would have picked up on it. We broke a few minor laws together, but never as repugnant as people trafficking. Between building empires, thrill seeking and debauched partying, how would he have found the time?"

"There are two forms of slave wrangling," Jackson said as they waited for the elevator. "There's pillaging the ranks of defenceless refugees and wretchedly poor, and then there's baby snatching from the Bluezoner class and plutocracy. One is much more prolific than the other, but the other is a lot more profitable."

Tucker remembered hearing about this type of illegal activity, slumlords seeking to fill their ranks with educated and high profile rich kids. "Who's he supposed to have wrangled anyway?"

Jackson stepped into the elevator and turned back to face him.

"You."

What?

"How do you know all this?"

The doors slid shut, leaving Tucker alone on the ground floor, lost in his thoughts.

Pondering the ramifications of Jackson's answer, Tucker made his way back up to the office. He walked past cubicles buzzing with life noticing how staff around him seemed happy, buoyed by having their old jobs back.

#Mr. Tucker,# said Hermes, appearing on the walls.

"Not now."

#But I...#

"Seriously. Not now."

Hermes dissolved away.

A quick peek inside a large cubicle, with lumeglass walls set to opaque, revealed wall-to-wall Alark shredding machines, designed to devour everything, plastic, or metal. Minced up multi-coloured residue visibly scattered all over the floor implied the destruction had already begun. If one needed data wiped out, Alark Corporation was the choice brand in information obliteration.

Tucker also noticed an insidious Magneraser 20 in amongst the humming peripherals. The machine, if unlawfully modified and employed in an inappropriate fashion, had the capacity to pacify an entire office block, electromagnetically.

These banned EMP weapons are all the rage these days.

Doomsday mongering news feeders loved them.

It pained Tucker deeply to see these instruments of corporate death.

"James."

Tucker turned to find Rebeka walking towards him. He noticed urgency in her quick steps and on her face. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Hermes came up with the numbers. As of eleven minutes ago, we are technically insolvent. What are we going to do?"

Oh God, no.

"Get him to spawn another ledger. The same way Mr. Broker did. I don't want anyone finding out about this. Not a soul."

Rebeka seemed distracted.

"What's wrong?"

"We have new staff."

Tucker gave her a questioning frown.

"Jackson's recruited new people in addition to existing staff. Every department's been affected." Her voice was almost a whisper.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know, but one thing is clear, they all have no clue about their respective positions. Some of them have never even worked with lumeglass before."

Tucker envisioned MercurEx, his creation, his child, slowly being hacked to pieces.

"Rebeka. You're from outside the Bluezone, right?"

"The slums?"

"Ahhhh. Yeah."

"I grew up there as a kid." She sounded hesitant. "My parents were first sponsored when I was very young. It took them ten years to gain citizenship. Why do you ask?"

"You may have a better insight about life outside the Bluezone than people like me who've been spoon-fed all their lives."

Rebeka smiled. "What do you need?"

"I need you to identify a tattoo for me. It's in Latin. Fidelo... ?"

"Fidelitas usque ad mortem."

"You're familiar with it?"

"Leaping Frog. It's their motto."

Frogs.

Tucker's head spun.

Of all the gangs.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm from the West Shore. I'm pretty certain."

"Thanks," muttered Tucker, unable to fathom the situation.

"Is everything okay?"

"Rebeka, I need you to find me all the information you can about Golden and West Quay, and any link it has to Leaping Frog."

Of all the fucking gangs.

"Sure."

"Oh, and don't discuss this with anyone."

"I won't."

"And look into slave wrangling for me."

"Okay."

Tucker turned, and then stopped. "Fidelo... "

"Fidelitas usque ad mortem."

"What does it mean?"

"Loyalty till death."

"Thanks." Tucker turned and rushed towards the boardroom.

This is not good.

His mind entered into dark territory. Fear kept him from thinking the unthinkable. Fear kept him moving forward. He couldn't hide. He couldn't run away.

Where can I hide, and where would I run?

This is it.

Without MercurEx, he had nothing.

Without MercurEx, he was nothing.

James Tucker entered the Eastview Boardroom to find a band of unfamiliar faces seated around a lumeglass table pulsing with glowline blueprints and the words,

Operatio Glacies Cremor Taberna.

What the...?

"Vos subscribere contractus providere elit cum an glacies cremor pyramidis singulos dies triginta proximis annis..." Jackson suddenly paused mid-sentence.

What the fuck?

Within a heartbeat, the image and words vaporised leaving only neon globules bouncing around aimlessly.

Jackson stood in front of the room; his hands folded, his mouth grinning.

"Who are they?" said Tucker.

Jackson's trademark grin grew brighter. He answered, "Meet your new executive team!"

Tucker looked at the three new faces and tried to think of a word that best described what he saw.

He could not think of one.

Jackson began the introductions. "Over here we have our new Chief Finance Officer, Nathan McIntyre."

McIntyre, unshaven, weathered-looking, with a thin yet muscular build, nodded ever so slightly.

Tucker responded by nodding back.

"He's our money man. And over there is Archie Stevens, our new Chief Information Officer. He's that hypernaut friend of mine I've been talking about."

Stevens did not even acknowledge Tucker's presence. He looked a mere eighteen and every bit as if he has just come out of school.

"And finally we have Dionne Swartzbeck, in the new role as Chief Security Officer."

Swartzbeck, a tall, slightly burly woman with short-cropped blond hair, smiled pleasantly at Tucker. Attractive in her own way, but without question, Swartzbeck looked like she would be able to kick any butt across a decent sized room.

"Care to join us?" offered Jackson.

Tucker tried to conceal his unease, "Not right now."

"Why not? We are discussing a merger."

The news amplified his unease. "What are you talking about?"

"This meeting's about the merger."

"What merger?"

"Between MercurEx and Golden and West Quay."

"We can't." Tucker kept it at a low shout. He did not know why.

"What do you mean?"

"We can't engage in trade, or do anything of the kind. We can't borrow, lend, buy, or sell anything. We are insolvent. It is number four on our stupid fix list, remember."

Jackson smiled that smile, not sarcastic or malevolent, but warm and friendly. The type you would get from a favourite uncle. That alone frightened Tucker the most.

The prospect of finding a genuine friend in Jackson.

"Our new management team has developed a simple strategy for solving this problem." Jackson appeared to be enjoying himself.

Tucker felt overwhelmed by Jackson's carefree attitude, sensing the powerlessness of his situation, compelled to ride this insanity out. "We have a strategy that doesn't involve filing for bankruptcy?"

A valid cynical question, he thought.

"I say we kill this asshole," interjected McIntyre. The disdain in his voice sounded heartfelt.

"We are not killing this asshole," said Jackson. "This asshole is the reason why we are here."

"Exactly why are we here again?" spoke the blonde women sitting nearby Tucker.

"We're here to save this asshole."

"From what?" she asked.

Tucker caught a whiff of her scent. Almost medicinal.

Witch hazel?

Realisation struck him like a bullet busting its way into his head. Tucker glared at Jackson accusingly. "It was you."

The other three looked up at Jackson, waiting for his reaction.

"It was you who dumped me in the East River Basin." Tucker searched his eyes for affirmation.

It all made sense. Insane, perverted sense.

"The extortion. The kidnapping. It was all you."

Tucker subdued his anger, for he remembered what they were.

Frogs.

"I still say we bounce this asshole," said McIntyre. "Can we put it to a vote?"

"No." said Jackson as he walked over to the solar windows and looked out.

McIntyre looked at Stevens who replied by shaking his head.

McIntyre then turned to Swartzbeck. She also shook her head. "Then fuck you all too."

"Let me get this straight. You bought into MercurEx using my own money." Tucker felt the time had come to ask the question that burnt in his chest. "What do you people want?"

Jackson, remaining stationary, said, "I was getting to that. All this is over you, Tucker."

"How so?"

McIntyre laughed. Stevens smirked. Even the woman smiled.

"You, my friend, were in trouble. You have proved, predicatively I might add, to be quite a stubborn son of a bitch. It was only going to be a matter of time before those banksters reverted to more lethal tactics."

"Really?" Tucker let pithy sarcasm escape his lips.

"Yes, so we decided to intervene. Stop them from doing to you what they've done to countless other poor suckers like you."

"Who are we talking about here?"

Jackson exchanged glances with the others and pointed to a tall spire nestled amongst skyscrapers. "Zenith Bank."

"This just gets better."

"We had no idea Zenith had been infiltrated. Nobody did. Who expected one of the world's biggest superbanks to have a Scorpion or two sitting on the board? I suspect the rest of their board has no inkling of what ruthless cutthroats they're actually sitting next to."

"This isn't making any sense."

"Well, let me spell it out for you. We... Have... Intervened... To prevent... Zenith Bank... From crucifying your ass. How does that register?"

"Why? What possible interest do you have in helping me?"

"There exists a certain... obligation." Jackson delivered the word with reservation.

"Bullshit," interjected McIntyre.

Tucker felt his mind twist. "Obligation?"

Jackson did not respond. He stood there in front of the solar window, until... "There's a storm brewing. The subjugation of this City-State has begun and we now find ourselves facing a common enemy."

"What is going on here? Is this some kind of war?"

"You're a fucking genius, Tucker."

"Against Zenith Bank? A bank? You've gone to war against a stupid bank?"

Jackson frowned and took a moment to contemplate before he spoke. "This great City of Cities once boasted forty million citizens and then some. Twenty-two years of recession, neglect and apathy has disenfranchised tens of millions. Many claim jungle economics built this City-State. I tend to agree. Thing is, nature tends to behave like a double-edged sword. Economic rationalism cut off swathes of communities from the state. Cash strapped and inept governments forsook authority in the barrios, letting them fall into the merciful hands of vandals, gangs and slumlords. They abandoned these communities, leaving them to fend for themselves against the chaos and anarchy. They expected everybody to die out or emigrate. Problem is they did fend for themselves."

McIntyre interrupted, "Now the Bluezone government's decided to regain control of these communities. We resisted. They labelled us anarchists. We brought order to the barrios ravaged by years of chaos, yet we ended up the villains."

"What has all this got to do with me?"

McIntyre looked at the others, "Can somebody tell this asshole before I'm compelled to bounce him out that window?"

Stevens broke his silence. "Tell him."

"This plan is never going to work if he doesn't know," offered Swartzbeck.

Jackson remained still and silent.

Hermes appeared incandescently on the lumeglass table.

#Mr. Tucker. May I interrupt?#

"Not now."

Fakeman said, #Hermes has finished decrypting the Minosphere chaos-key. We now have access to the old accounts,#

With information so scarce, he decided he needed whatever he could get. "Go ahead Hermes. Who owns Golden and West Quay?"

#Frank Tucker is the sole proprietor of the company,# Hermes declared and disappeared leaving his residual image burning on the screen like a metallic ghost.

"Congratulations, Tucker," announced Jackson. "As sole heir to the Frank Tucker Estate, you are now the proud owner of one of the world's most notorious gangs."

Tucker resisted succumbing to despair. He suppressed all feelings of defeatism. Nothing and everything made sense. Confusion and clarity occupied the same space in his aching brain.

What could possibly be worse than this mess right now?

Everyone in the room noticed a presence. Tucker turned to see Rebeka poking her head through the sliding door.

"Mr. Tucker," she said in her most polite manner, unable to hide her anxiety. "The D47 policewoman is here to see you."

Ahh, yes. It does get worse.

"I'm not here," said Jackson, his tone serious. "Don't forget, Tucker. A storm is brewing."

Exit Strategy

"Having the Government against you is a bad thing. It all boils down to a matter of trust. How can you trust these short-term, career bureaucrats whose only goal is advancing into a position of influence, use this influence to benefit, and then retire handsomely? They promise the world but forget you the minute your usefulness as a political pawn ceases. They don't really care about the individual. It isn't their job to care."

02.64545.the_corporatist_manifesto^frank_tucker^mercurex^CORE

"How did Douglas die? I didn't quite catch that."

"Electrocution," said D. Wilson, annoyed at John Blackwell's lack of attention.

"His bowels were fused together. Severe burns to the abdomen. Not a pretty sight. Not a pretty smell either."

Blackwell again seemed distant, distracted. "I am sad to hear it."

"I'm surprised you didn't see the virals."

"I don't watch snuff."

"Never?"

"Well, I've seen the one where the guy has his intestines sucked out through his ass with a water pump; I had to see it to believe it. I think everyone did. Trust me, it's not my thing. Poor cunt."

"Yes, poor cunt." Although gorgeous to look at, with an exotic face, and ample muscle tone, Wilson sensed a peculiarity and certain ugliness in Blackwell's aura. She could not quite pinpoint it. She found him difficult to read.

"Would you like to go down for a snort? The caine is pretty good at Kaficus. I'm buying."

"No thanks, I'm good. I'm only paying you this visit to inform you about the death of a member of your staff. I have just come from informing the victim's family, and was hoping you could shed some light on this tragedy."

"I don't keep track on what employees do in their own time. As long as they turn up when I want them to, do what I tell them to do, and leave when I dismiss them, I don't get involve in their lives. I just pay them."

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Blackwell."

She stood to leave when...

"Deputy, there is one thing I can divulge."

"Go ahead."

"It's an unrelated matter. Yesterday, I had a visit from James Tucker, the guy from MercurEx."

"Yes, I know James Tucker."

"He brought a friend who, after some excitement, proceeded to attack me with an ergochair." He parted his thick, atrous hair and showed her evidence of dried blood.

"Was this friend part of his security detail?"

"No. It was the new CEO of MercurEx."

How fast things move.

"Have your reported it to the local District Commander?"

"No. I am a little embarrassed over the whole affair. But seeing you're D47, this is kinda your area."

"I don't deal with personal disputes."

"Trust me. This is your thing. Look into it. You'll see."

Wilson thanked Blackwell, whose wide grin exposed more of his inner ugliness. She headed downstairs and stepped back out into the bustling metropolis. She could hardly ignore such a tip, regardless of the motivation behind the source.

"Caprina? Are you on?"

"Yes, I'm on."

"Get me a complete profile on the new CEO of MercurEx."

"Freddie Jackson. Golden and West Quay. Monarch Security. Checks out."

"I also need authorisation to set up an observational post in the vicinity of the Omicron Building. I need a Gamma Crew and a very decent hypernaut. Keep me in the loop."

Time to pay the MercurEx maestro a visit.

Wilson scouted the street looking for an opportunity.

She spotted and hailed down the nearest Gamma Crew. Once on-board the marked D11 Patroller, they headed south on Ocean Way. She joined in the banter between the officers, relishing their brief company. They bitched and joked about every subject known to typical Bluezoners. She scowled at them and called them bitches. They laughed and carried on. She laughed with them.

Renegato, the captain, said to her, "When's this government gonna to ban these fucking fakes, man?"

"As soon as these fakes start fucking the Government up the ass. They leave everything to the last minute. Only then, it's too fucking late. Fucking democracy."

Renegato grinned. "Hey, trust me. The gov needs to destroy the fakes because these fucking things pose a threat to their crypto money. How they decide to do it is anyone's guess."

"Cheers for the ride."

"You are most welcome."

The Patroller drove into the Omicron subterranean parking lot and Wilson disembarked.

"Thanks guys," Wilson said as she waved them away.

#Drive me.#

Startled, she turned to discover J. Tucker's Sports Vendetta sitting dormant behind her.

#Drive me,# it pleaded again.

"Sorry. Don't own you."

For the second time she made her way across the Omicron foyer, caught the lift up to level fifty, and helped herself to the CEO's office, hoping to meet this mysterious new player.

Tucker entered the office, walked over and sat.

Here goes.

"I've just come from a meeting with Mr. John Blackwell."

"Is that right?" Tucker sounded confident.

A little too confident, she thought.

"He alleges that Mr. Freddie Jackson assaulted him, with a piece of furniture. I am here to get a statement from your CEO."

"He's not in."

"I also require a statement from you, regarding the incident."

Tucker shrugged, indifferent.

"Mr. Tucker! Can I be direct?" Wilson changed her approach. She wanted to catch Tucker off guard. "Are you experiencing any kind of diffi..."

The sibilant sound of machinery reverberated from outside the office. Tucker got up and rushed to slide the door shut. "What do you mean?"

Wilson studied Tucker for a few moments, assessing her next words carefully. She saw signs of awkwardness and discomfort forming on Tucker's chiselled face and wanted to capitalize on it. "Recently I led an investigation into Yates Enterprises, the parent company of a fairly large food processing chain targeted in an extortion racket. You may have heard of it. We received top tier feeder coverage at the time."

"No I haven't. What has it got to do with me?"

"Today the firm and all its subsidiaries are fully-owned and managed by a group of mere factory floor ergatos. In the end, we couldn't charge anyone with anything. Not long before that we had Victory, the international airliner that went from market leader to annihilation in just over three months."

"Yeah, I am familiar with that case."

"And before that we had a construction conglomerate embroiled in a scandal so devious we're still unclear to this day as to what had gone down."

"I haven't heard of that one."

Wilson leaned closer. "My point being, Mr. Tucker is that if you are caught up in something similar your cue to get out is now."

Tucker appeared to lose all animation in his face.

I have him.

"Mr. Tucker. I am here to help you."

"I don't need any assistance."

Her suspicions were well founded. He may not be prepared to turn himself in yet. He may be still clinging on to some sanguine notion that he can cheat the system, in much the same way as most people hang on to the idea that they can cheat death.

She had him. She felt it.

Does the man even have an exit strategy?

"Mr. Tucker! The police authorities are the only ones who have the capability to protect you." Wilson threw out another lifeline.

"I don't need any protection."

"We have the resources and the power to use them. We have the full might of the law at our disposal."

"Is that right?" Sarcasm tainted his words.

"Having the City-State Government in your corner is in your best interest."

"Yeah?"

"The government writes the laws, and they have the financial clout. Sure, they whine about budgetary restraints, funding schools and hospitals, but when it comes to push and shove, they'll plough billions into the business of national and corporate security. Make no mistake. We can help you."

"I do not doubt that, but you're barking up the wrong tree. I appreciate your concern but I am not in any type of trouble. My country is."

"How so?"

"This country is being sold off by those very politicians you speak of, clinging on to ancient policies, forcing upon every citizen to accept a currency that's flawed, corrupt and immoral to say the least."

"You sound like a corporatist."

"I am not affiliated with any political institution. Is this what this is? About politics?"

Wilson backed down, defeated, knowing the cunning Uberman had purposely politicised the conversation. "No, Mr. Tucker. Not at all." She had offered Tucker an exit strategy, but the Uberman had thrown it back at her face. From experience, she knew Bluezoners caught up in gang-related extortion rackets almost never survived.

Wilson liked Tucker. She felt they shared a common cynicism about the world. She hoped he would survive long enough to regret his decision.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill wrote his first sci-fi book in kindergarten during book week. He came second in the competition, which annoyed the hell out of him. His first hardcore science fiction read was Isaac Asimov's Space Ranger series, and since then has read and watched everything and anything classified as science fiction.

These days his reading time is sacrificed in the pursuit of writing down his own stories from ideas he accumulated over the years.

He is always happy to hear from readers and can be found across all the five internets.
PART ONE - The Consultant 9

Intercept the Wet Sparrow 11

Uberman 17

Black Market 27

Department 47 43

MercurEx 59

The Fallen Prince 68

Subordinate 86

Splatterjob 94

Golden and West Quay 109

Freeze-Out 126

The Economy of War 135

Barbarians 143

Infiltrator 153

Astra Union 168

Blackwell Blackmailed 181

The Recruited 188

Exit Strategy 205

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 212

1
