NationStates Jolt Archive

He was the Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors, and the Prime Minister of Montecito, so he didn't think there would be any danger, no matter what the nay-sayers in his parliament said. Troy Pon wouldn't have gone if he'd thought it'd be a risk to himself.

At this point, he figured, his political reputation couldn't get any worse. He was a puppet and he knew it. Well, the puppetmaster wanted to see him personally.

He remembered Joe Chiapetti, the International Affairs Minister and what could be considered a friend, asking him if he thought that the trip would 'not be beneficial for the current situations.'

"Name one thing that's been beneficial for the current situations," he had replied. Joe laughed it off, but they both knew it was true. Joe didn't care, he had a modicum of actual power in the 'Districts, and of course Troy had his bank accounts.

Packing for his trip was light. By magrail, it would be one and a half hours, and who knows how long Bob Pratt wanted to see him for. Probably, just for a little bit. A nicer payoff, perhaps, or a new title. Bob so loved those title changes. First he was President, then he was Emperor, then he was Chief Executive Officer, now he was Honorary Chairman. Troy Pon's titles had not changed so much, but those of the Conglomerate shifted titles like an amorphous monster, never quite the same but never quite different.

The truth was, he really didn't like the Pratts. Their corporate dictatorship was disgusting, and he was glad when Toby had died up there in those damn fool spaceships. He laughed it off, drinking a Scotch to him when his informers had told him what had really happened. The press said it was an accident in the line of fire. Well, that was partially true, wasn't it?

"Exiting Santa Cecilia," chimed the melodious, programmed voice of the train car. He looked outside, scanning the usual wooded hills of north-western Montecito. The sky was gray, bleak, depressing. They would be entering Summerland any second now, which was then true Santa Barbara territory.

He turned his head away, not wanting to see the change. He knew it all too well, he had travelled the main railways many times over the years. Since before they had been magnetized, even. Countless years. Always, the same deathlike environment of Santa Barbara, even in comparitively mild Summerland. Wearing away his old bones like vultures pecking at dead cattle.

And then the ride was west, across the blackening industrial jungle of South Carvajal, under the aptly named Devil's Crown Mountains. They were little more than megafactories, built on mines that raped the earth kilometers below the surface in extensive underground complexes. Millions of the lower class worked in the lower depths, doing god-knows-what for god-knows-why there. It was Hell, like in that trendy Santa Barbaran Catholic mythology they had now. In some places you would die of radiation poisoning simply by staying there for a few days. The magrails were all radiation shielded, or so the ads claimed.

Troy Pon closed his weary eyelids, eyelids which had been open perhaps 50 of those 63 years of his. This part was easy. Reaching anything like a comfortable sleep never was.

New State City was a vast expanse of towering corporate headquarters, air ports and huge military logistics camps gridded by a network of gravrailways and ordinary streets. Many of the buildings extended miles underground as well, and beneath and through it all ran conduits of electricity, magnetisim, sewage of all types, military tunnels. Various computer nets-- some say the same one, or same type as the one that had old Toby Pratt executed in that 'accident'-- controlled it all and made the chaos orderly.

The magrails thankfully travelled some space above the level of the streets- where pollution these days tended to cluster in a noxious environment of continual, noxious fog- and when Troy turned his head back, opening his eyes after his non-sleep, he saw the mighty towers blurring by, with lights at the immense harbor glimmering faintly in the further distance, like watching an old motion picture.

His PDA rang. He felt it, shaking insistantly and irregularly, animal-like. He unclipped the small plastic cuboid, saw it was from Pratt's office. It would only be one of his secretaries, or Pratt himself. Troy felt his stomach turn cold as he answered it.

"Vice Chairman," the voice on the other end replied. Young, female, slightly nervous sounding: a secretary.

"Yes," he said, his voice warming up now.

"I'm afraid your PortLift card expired three days ago, and they won't let us book you a lift from the station until you renew it in person. I'm really sorry. Can you find some other mode of transportation to the Headquarters?"

Troy responded, no longer so relieved, "In person, you say? Are you sure? I've always renewed by g-net."

"Apparently it's their policy, about renewing after the card expires as opposed to before. Like I said, I'm really sorry, and I can try to find you a cab if you want..." the woman sounded genuinely apologetic, not that this really made him feel better.

"No, that's alright. I, uh, I'll find a way," he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Okay," came the reply. "Then we'll see you soon. The Honorary Chairman is still... in a meeting, I think. So you can probably expect some leeway with the deadline. Okay?"

"Okay," he muttered.

"Okay! Bye bye!" she said cheerfully, and hung up.

For a few moments, Troy felt utterly lifeless, inert. Like a spaceman drifting in zero gravity or like travelling in a speedy elevator. This had never happened before. Now he would have to find a transportation through the damn city to the Towers. There were no public ways, and it was far too much for him to walk. The magrails didn't extend that far in. He would have to book a flight, or find a taxi, either of which was a dubious proposition for a meeting in 45 minutes. Besides, he loathed the prospect of hanging about in the fog, chocking on shit while he begged for some privately wealthy cab driver to pick him up. No, thank you.

Come to think of it, he hadn't ever missed the expiration deadline either. A prompt man if nothing else, the Prime Minister liked to pay for things in advance.

Of course, he thought grimly, that adds up. Oh yes, over the years you've paid for a lifetime or more's worth.

"Entering New State City, Central District," the train voice chimed, urging him to leave, now, bye. As a few around him in the plush compartment stood up now too, he slowly rose, feeling those years in his legs. He could have gotten artificial ones by now, or various implants. But he wouldn't, because he enjoyed his humanity- his sense of pride- a dwindling and miniscule sense by this point.

Now he walked down towards the exit, feeling the smell of the outside permeate the opening like an infection. He knew that among the small crowd, two or more agents guarded him discreetly. He didn't bother looking; he knew they were there. He could get a cab, and one would go with him. The rest would fan out in various ways. They were members of the Montecito government, but he didn't trust them too much on that basis. They were undoubtedly Conglomerate agents, or those loyal to other groups. Loyal, and effective, but all the same he didn't think most would be too unhappy if he accidentally fell off a roof.

He bent his head and clambered into the taxicab. He closed the door behind him before anything else, and then saw that the driver was a red-haired, ruddy-skinned woman, a girl really, and she smiled widely and easily at him. "So?" she asked bluntly.

"Hello," Troy said with a croak in his voice.

"Yeah. How ya doing," she replied, not particularly sounding interested in his answer.

"I'm... all right, I guess..." he began, and then a knocking came from the window to his left. It was one of the security guys, stuck outside.

"Well? Where you going, or I have another passenger, son!" the driver exclaimed, referring to the security agent.

"PCC headquarters," Troy said smartly.

Without any further ado or response, she turned, restarted the engine and the car began burning hydrogen and rubber as it peeled away, leaving the man standing behind, ridiculously.

Troy couldn't help but grin at this. He felt rebellious suddenly, and knew that, Conglomerate agent or no, the guy would be scrambling to restore protocol. It would, for his job, be something of an emergency; one wasn't supposed to let the man you're guarding ditch you.

He didn't care though. He'd found a cab, and was on the way to the central office tower. He did find it odd the lady was so smooth about it. He would have expected something like awe or fear or maybe doubt at the mention of his destination. Probably, because he felt the trepidation himself, he reasoned. It wasn't as if the driver would be going with him to see Bob Pratt, after all. What did she have to worry about?

And he was quite well-dressed today. He was a suit, for sure. There would be no question for her about whether he could afford the fare.

He looked and watched as the city sped by, the omnipresent tendrils of chemical smoke passing like clouds. The seat here was comfortable, old, and smelled like oiled leather even if it wasn't. He stared at the back of the driver's head, the curled orange tinged, slightly greasy hairs protruding out over the headrest. He met her eyes in the mirror, and smiled sheepishly for staring. She smiled back.

She's fairly attractive... another year, another lifetime, I may have gone with her. Another lifetime...

They drove on in silence towards their destination, and he felt his fear growing.

The Prime Minister ducked and stepped partially out of the cab, after paying the fare with not much extra tip. Why spoil the driver, he thought, she was already a hopeless capitalist...

Yeah. Pretend you're still a nonmaterialist. Not buying it, Troy old buddy.

The yellow hued cab drove off behind him. He paid no attention, and luckily did not hear any of the names the lady had bestowed upon him for his... generosity.

Truth was, he was a hopeless capitalist too, but not capitalizing on hard work. Merely on his once being the true leader of Montecito, and his current status of crushing indignity mixed with a bribe big enough to turn even a socialist into a no-good fatcat.

He quickly distracted himself. It was easy, here, to ignore the millions of huddled masses too poor to live, living anyway. New State City business district had long ago been purged of the 'unpleasants,' making the Conglomerate headquarters appear just a building, on a street. No huddled maskers in the white smoke. No unsightly hobos clawing at the heels of the suits.

Tilting his head back, he gave a furtive glance upward, taking in the sight of the center of power for the PCC. Like the others in this area, the HQ building was enormous, giving new meaning to the word 'skyscraper.' It was, in fact, slightly bigger than the rest, but otherwise had a similar, 20th-century 'feel' architecture to it's foamed steel alloy frames and glass spires. And why not? They were all Conglomerate owned. The whole city was. The whole world.

Like me, he thought.

As he started to walk up the series of steps towards the lobby, passing a statue of Toby Pratt riding a horse and wielding a sword-- a highly fictionalized idealization, that, he suspected-- rain began to fall. Shivering in anticipation, he felt a fat droplet on his shoulder, then more plummeted missile-like from the darkening gray mottled sky above.

He hurried his pace, not wanting to bathe in acid today.

He passed through three separate entry examinations of various kinds. Troy was not a technical man, and he didn't know the mechanics of Conglomerate security- other than the obvious barcode implants, which even he had. Nevertheless, the scanning machines and their steel-faced operators seemed satisfied that he was not here to cause anybody harm, or at least that he couldn't get very far even if he was.

Past the desk, which was empty. How odd; it was usually held by an attractive young lady with a plastic smile and a lovely voice.

The Prime Minister looked around in slight confusion. The lobby of the PCC headquarters was an enormous open room, with a waterfall in the center, false skylights above, and stark, carpeted interior walls and floors which seemed to absorb all sound and thought like a sponge. The place felt wrong somehow, oppressive. Perhaps it was all the moisture outside.

Mostly, there were few people. Two suits walked along the far wall, headed somewhere, looking fairly important. Another sat eating a sandwich by the waterfall. Security guards everywhere. No receptionist.

He looked at the elevator, the one he knew went straight up to Bob Pratt's office on the top floor. Two guards stood on both sides, watching him impassively. They wore suits, but he knew that underneath they were loaded with weapons and training and by their look alone, he understood that they could kill him quite easily and quickly.

He walked towards them.

"Good day, Mr Vice Chairman."

"Good day, good day. I am expected, then?"

"Of course."

The second guard said, with a slight smirk, "We saw you coming all the way from Montecito."

The first frowned, and, after a brief but thorough frisking, stepped aside and the elevator door opened. Then he smiled. "You know the way?"

It was Troy's turn to say, "Of course."

Of course I do. Every humiliating, cheap step of the way from righteousness to....

Whatever I am now...

He nodded at the first guard and stepped, somwhat stiffly, into the elevator. "Top floor," he said, clearly to make sure the damn machines didn't mis-interpret (they never did, but Troy had an inherent distrust of such things).

The door closed, blocking out the sight of the fountain, and beyond that the grim light of the rainy weather outside. For some reason he felt suddenly like stopping the elevator, jamming it open, and running, running, never to return. Running while he still could.

Nonsense. Why run? You get paid more if you're bought.

The magnetic lift gently accelerated up to the Executive Office, bearing it's wayward passenger dutifully, stolidly, without protest or second thought.

If only men could be rid so easily of those dangerous second thoughts...

The top floor of the PCC Headquarters was reserved. Part of it contained the Board Room, and as Vice Chairman of that Board, Troy Pon had seen it several times. Filled with disgusting corporate types, the stench of Toby's omnipresent cigars, heated discussion on how to market and enslave and squeeze the Santa Barbaran -- and Montecitan -- peoples ever more.

No Board meeting today. Toby Pratt was floating, in small pieces, in space.

Nevertheless, the ambience of the hall and entry desk was... disturbingly quiet. At all other times, there had been suits wandering around, clerks and operators working full-speed.

The giant polished wood desk, stationed guard-like before the hall with the Offices, was empty. Pon had expected there to be a young lady, presumably the same one he had talked to earlier, waiting patiently for his arrival with a plastered plastic smile. Odd.

He wandered hesitantly up to the desk, looking beyond. Cubicles, all emptied.

There was no bell to ring.

Well... you know the way...

He turned left, down the main hall. Walking with a mixture of curiosity and dread in his steps, he passed several key offices... Sonya Chang... Harry Barns...Chairman of the Board, Heinrid Abadas...

He didn't open any of these doors (and was sure they were locked), but he felt somehow that they were empty as well. Surely Abadas, with his new "Lord President of the Federal Government" position, would be working elsewhere.

The last door in the hall bore a golden plate saying, "Bob Pratt." The owner of the PCC, the ringmaster of ringmasters.

What am I supposed to do, just knock?

It was with no small amount of trepidation that he lifted his hand and knocked softly, three times. He reconsidered his options to run.

"Come in," a muted voice responded from inside.

No running. Here at last.

He opened the door and stepped into the office.

The first thing that Troy Pon noticed was the overwhelming darkness of the room, compared to the brightly lit hallway. Light seemed to penetrate, but not far enough to see much inside the office.

The second thing was the smell.

A massive wave of odors, some of which Troy recognized as stale sweat and alcohol... and more vile scents... some of which Troy could not recognize, and which hit him like a brick wall. He reeled before the onslaught. The stench was unutterably foul.

Christ, what the hell...

It wasn't just the scent of stale sweat. It was as if sweat had grown exponentially, adding on to itself bit by bit to become something more than mere chemicals in the air, but like a beast with a will of it's own. It frightened, repelled and nauseated him.

He gasped for breath, holding back bile.

"Close the door," the voice spoke, this time clearer... but still sounding muffled, as if from far away. It was quiet, and it was recognizably the voice of Bob Pratt, though without the usual animation and strength. Something was definitely wrong here. Bob Pratt had never been a total slob. Something was definitely wrong, but he didn't know what.

He only knew he didn't really want to be here. And he definitely didn't want to close the door.

"Mister Pratt?" he found himself asking. "I... I can't see my way without the light from the door..."

This was partially true. In fact, even with the light from the door, he couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. And the floor was littered with objects... papers, bits of clothing, undefinable masses of God-knows-what.

The voice of Bob Pratt, somewhere up ahead, presumably by his desk near the now-covered-and-closed bay window, spoke again.

"Can't see your way... without the light... with the light..."

It was a voice that faltered and wandered, teetering. Drunk, possibly? Troy frowned, unsure of what to say, his feet frozen in place.

Bob Pratt continued, as if sensing his visitor's confusion. "Come, come forward... into the light, the light..."

Troy now knew what the voice contained a hint-- nay, more than a hint-- of rough-hewn insanity.

As if on cue, Bob began to laugh... slowly, unstoppably, like a wave crashing on the helpless beach of Troy's mind. Cackling with mad glee.

The door... slammed shut.

Troy looked behind him, surprised and alarmed, but saw nothing. Blackness.

"It's just me and the other one, then?" Bob Pratt asked, as if speaking to someone else. "Come along, little one! Come closer so that I can see you."

Troy found himself compelled to obey, to see the man he had once considered mad, but now knew to be.

And obey he did, to avoid the capricious wrath of such a man.

He walked forward, reluctantly, shuffling his feet as he waded through what felt like stray articles of clothing and masses of paper. He could see nothing. His foot hit something soft and squishy, audibly, wetly. He tried to step over the something. It was somewhat large, and he stepped into more squishyness. He stepped to the left and felt firm ground.

The smell was getting worse as he made this slow little journey. Rising pungently like smoke from some foul burning fire. Troy once again held back nausea and the accompanying urge to vomit, turn, and run, breaking down the door and leaping out the nearest window just to get fresh air.

"Ah, there you are!" Bob cried jovially from somewhere to his left, sounding suddenly like he was at a cocktail party. "You look frightened..."

Troy wondered how Bob could see him. Maybe he couldn't. It wouldn't have taken much to figure that he was frightened, assuming Bob's mind could reason that out still.

The Prime Minister's eyes were adjusting to the darkness. There was some light, but it was very, very faint. A pale glow from where he reckoned Bob Pratt to be. Suddenly, the glow got brighter, illuminating part of the desk... and the man who sat at it.

http://www.angelfire.com/ex/a51/images/bobprattcrazy.jpg

"So Mister Prime Minister," Bob said in a mock-serious tone. "What is it we can do you for?"

Troy Pon looked at the figure illuminated by the faint glow. Bob Pratt it was, yes, but a Bob Pratt in shambles. His eyeglasses, so characteristic of him to wear, were gone. Tufts of hair went out in all directions, uncombed, unnoticed. Giant bags hung under his eyes.

And his eyes had no pupils.

Suddenly Troy realized he hadn't responded. He forgot the question.

"WELL?" Bob boomed suddenly, shrilly.

"I-I, uh, bring greetings from your operations in Montecito, M-Mister Pratt," he stammered unevenly. "And am here at y-your request, in good faith."

Bob leaned back, away from the light again. Only his pale face was really visible in this dim light, which Troy now figured to be that of Bob's wrist watch or PDA. In the darkness, Troy thought he could make out the tattered cloth of his suit.

"In... good faith?" Bob asked quietly. Danger lurked in the voice, ready to strike. Troy knew he needed only answer one question wrong, at least wrong in Bob's eyes-

-ignore the eyes, he's probably wearing contacts or something, that's all

-and he would be as dead as Toby Pratt in a spaceship.

"I am here to do your bidding," he said simply.

"Ah," Bob said thoughtfully, apparently satisfied. His unnaturally white eyes appeared to stare both at him, and through him, and simultaneously looking at something else entirely.

Something that had driven the man quite insane.

Troy heard a clinking sound of glasses and a bottle, and blinked. Apparently Bob had not lost his fondness for liquor.

"Drink, drink," Bob said, again with joviality. His mood swung fast and switched without warning. "Drink!"

Troy helplessly looked about him, "Drink what?"

The sound of the glass sliding along the desk toward him was loud, surprising him and fraying his already weak nerves once more. "Drink," Bob Pratt said again.

Troy picked the glass up. It was half-filled with something, presumably whiskey. He lifted it, and brought it to his mouth. He couldn't smell the liquor. All he could smell was the omnipresent, sickening stench that filled the room. A smell of decay and death.

"DRINK!" Bob Pratt bellowed.

Troy drank. He titled the glass back and liquid flowed into his mouth. It wasn't whiskey. He gagged on the salty, warm taste, and the urine spilled out his mouth, down his chin, and some sprayed out uncontrollably onto Bob.

He looked, alarmed, expecting retaliation. Instead he saw only Bob sitting quietly, observing him with apparent calm.

"Drunk now, yes?" Bob asked.

Still trying to get over the nasty dose he had been given, Troy assured him, "Yes. Drunk."

Then he felt clever, and asked, "This isn't your usual brand?"

Bob looked shocked. It would have been comical, under completely different circumstances. But even then Bob Pratt was not a man to laugh at. Troy held his tongue. Finally, Bob dropped the look of shock and frowned. "It is now," he said.

"...efficiency," Bob added, as if that explained everything.

Troy said nothing. He stood uncomfortably, wondering if the door had just closed on it's own, and if maybe it was still unlocked.

Bob tilted his bottle back, swilling the liquid inside down. He watched, satisfied, as Troy recalled in horror.

Has he been in here... this whole time? Drinking piss? Jesus H. Christ... save me...

"Montecito," Bob said. Then: "Yorn."

Troy knew full well what those two words meant. Sylvenna Yorn was in Montecito, and she was working her plots. Moving things. Turning Montecito into a nation again. Abadas had agents in his country, turning things of their own, hunting the seductive half-elf down. The place was on the verge of breaking away from the Conglomerate, except for Troy's handle on things.

But that handle was as tentative as Bob's grasp on reality.

Pratt sighed, loudly. "Oh, I tire of it all, you know, it's all so very tiring work," he confided.

Troy sensed Bob was trying to say something, through all that madness. In fact, he didn't seem to be that mad, in comparison to before... but his madness had taken on a desperation and was advancing towards oblivion.

Was the owner of the Conglomerate trying to say he wanted to step down?

"And I never wanted your stupid country," he went on to say. "But things, you know how they turn out. The interests. And the interests, heh heh, the interest and interests. Too many interests and not enough interest. Isn't that the old saying?"

Troy replied, "Yes. That it is."

Bob Pratt smiled. A genuine smile. It was so unusual a sight it looked completely unnatural, and alarming all the same. "Thank you. I knew you'd understand, Gonzalo Tzu."

Troy began to respond, to say he wasn't Tzu, when Bob's eyes widened. With recognition or naked hostility, he couldn't tell. Bob stood up, suddenly, and a chair behind him toppled to the floor with a crash. He was shaking now, and now Troy was sure it was hostility. Rage.

Bob directed a look of pure hatred at Troy Pon.

"YOU!" he managed to say, between gritted teeth. The darkness seemed to grow.

"I-I-I'm not Mr Tzu, s-sir, I'm-"

And Bob Pratt suddenly ravaged the desk, yanking open (and completely out, toppling to the floor) drawers, searching hastily for something.

Troy knew Bob kept a pistol in that desk, always had.

"Oh, I'll kill you, you... I'll... BETRAYER!" Bob screamed now, screamed deafeningly. "YOU AND YOUR GOD DAMNED HORSE!"

Troy turned and ran.

He didn't get very far.

Almost as soon as he got his frozen and old joints to move, his foot tripped the squishy something and he went toppling down to the floor.

Now face-to-face with the squishyness, he noted the smell of decay was strongest here. It was too dark to see, even from an inch or two away... but by the shape and size, Troy imagined that it was a body... a dead body.

"BETRAYER!" Bob's voice shouted after him, echoing metallically in the office.

Troy Pon was in full flight mode now. He managed to stumble up to his feet again and came crashing against the door.

Please let it be open, please let me escape, Jesus...

In his mounting panic, Troy fumbled for a few brief eternity-seconds with the door knob. It was turning, but the door didn't open.

-behind him came the distinctive sound of an Ort-2 semiautomatic pistol loading....

Troy finally backed off the door, realizing that it opened inwardly and would never budge with his weight against it. He turned the knob and was blinded by the bright light outside of Bob Pratt's cave-like office as it flooded his vision.

Then he was out, and running. His legs unsteady, he swirved and crashed his shoulder into the right side of the hallway and jammed his elbow against a door knob there. Undaunted he went on. He fully intended to run as far as possible and not stop running til he was safe from the raging madman.

Curiosity made him look back, though. Maybe, he reasoned, maybe he wouldn't be followed.

Bob literally leapt out from his office, with surprising spry, at that moment His suit, unchanged from whenever he had first holed himself in the place, hung like oily rags off his body, which was much leaner than Troy had ever seen it. His face was alarmingly pale. His right hand held the pistol, which he now waved above his head like some demented skeletal cowboy.

Troy ran again, turning. A gunshot echoed, deafeningly loud in the corridor, followed by three more in quick succession.

"YEE-HAW!" Bob shouted with mad glee. "RUN, MOTHERFUCKER! BLOOD! BLOOD!"

Troy did. He bolted down the hallway, amazed that he hadn't been shot yet. He made it to the end, turned, his eyes wide with the fear of the hunted. Suddenly he wondered, how the hell to get out of this place?

Elevator. Elevator.

Another gunshot crashed, blasting a hole in the wall a scant few inches to his left, pelting him with bits of wood.

He searched desperately for the elevator door, which he knew had to be around here somewhere. He chose right, if only to get out of the line of sight from Bob's gun. More gunshots echoed, seemingly closer than the last, and through it all he heard Bob's laughter, shriekingly shrill laughter choking with great gasping sobs.

The halls were empty, as before. No one was around to help. No guards had even come at the call of the gunfire. Perhaps they knew that it was just Troy in danger, not the great Bob Pratt. Or perhaps Bob had the place locked down...

Bang. Bang. Bang. What was Bob even shooting at? Troy was out and heading for the elevator doors. He crashed up against them, instinctively pounding on them to let them in. They were thick, solid, seemingly good protection against bullets.

But they wouldn't open.

Helplessly, he watched as Bob Pratt rounded the corner he had just come from, gun in hand, jaw relaxed and hanging open. Bearing down on him, the madness in his white eyes gleaming.

The man came straight up to him, panting with the labor, his insane breath bathing the Prime Minister in a moist, sickening heat.

"P-please... Mister Pratt, I'm not Tzu, you must see that..." he managed, his voice reflecting his submission and fear.

But Bob's eyes didn't appear to see a thing. He staggered, almost drunkenly, crashing into Troy who recalled, the gun just inches from his face.

"Don't you hear..." the last remaining owner of PrattCo began, his voice wandering off weakly.

Troy's heart shuddered against his chest, his throat. He could think of little but that gun, the barrel still smoking, bullets still left unfired, a madman's finger on the trigger. He gave a helpless look of confusion.

"Don't... youhear... the voice?"

And suddenly it seemed as if his heart stopped. Troy listened in the silence, listened for a voice. Maybe one of the guards, thought he hopefully.

But he heard nothing, only Bob Pratt's belabored breathing. He seemed an old man now, somehow less harmless, the gun barrel drifting loose-wristed, forgotten over the past few seconds.

"Listen... it speaks to everyone... it's growing..." Bob said.

Troy again listened, but heard nothing. Madness.

Suddenly, Bob collapsed, to the floor, the gun thumping mutely on the shell white carpeting. He dropped to a knee, his paranormal eyes staring, his great chest heaving and shaking.

And then something happened that had not happened, as far as Troy knew, ever. As he watched, now horrified more than ever, he saw tears streaming from those cold, boiled egg-like eyes, and Bob Pratt began to weep.

OOC: Egad! Excellent stuff!

Troy felt distinctly uncomfortable. Not just for having nearly been shot a moment before-- that was certainly uncomfortable. And drinking Bob Pratt's urine wasn't a romp in the hay either. He was fairly sure this whole day, this whole life qualified for "uncomfortable." It earned a place in the friggin dictionary.

But now that Bob was just crying, like an old man with Alzheimer's... and a gun... he was torn between leaving and staying. What to say to the man? What did he have to say to him?

He looked at the door. Outside that door was freedom, and all the good and bad that entailed. He could run and never have to deal with a Pratt again, never have to be summoned to get his dog biscuit of a pay off.

But then what? Without that biscuit, would he survive? Could he afford to live in luxury? He would have the title of power, but no power.

The snakes in Montecito would eat him and send him to an even earlier retirement.

He looked again at Bob Pratt, the founder and majority owner of the PrattCo, and the honorary chairman of the Conglomerate. Still shaking with those unnatural sobs of his. Troy's neck itched with heat and sweat.

"Bob..." he began uncertainly. "Is there anything I can do?"

He slid the gun away from the honorary chairman with his right foot, just in case...

"Look at this," Bob Pratt said through tears, still kneeling and clenched.

Feeling safer, the Prime Minister also knelt, managing to feel compassion but also feeling a rush of a sense of superiority as a result, resting his arms on his knees.

"You don't... see..." Bob said after a moment. Troy could hardly disagree. Whatever Bob was looking at, it wasn't in that shell colored carpet--

-Bob's hand suddenly reached out, grasping Troy's right arm like a clammy vice, and then...

A sky full of ash.
Yellowish smoke and water.
Trees of black.
A dim, harsh light.
Many in one.
One in many.
Vast caverns.
One in many.

-the images, thoughts and sensations came just as suddenly to his mind, flowing like a river, unstoppable, drenching him...

Many without one.
Enemies, enemies.
An alien land.
Destroy.
Hate.
Longing...

They repeated, endlessly, like a chorus screaming, without words...

Destroy.
Hate.
Longing...

A general, pervading sense of hopelessness; Troy could no longer stand it, if he ever could. He managed to pull away, violently wrenching his arm out of Bob's grasp and toppling backward, thumping his head in a starburst of pain against the nearby door. He winced and clenched his teeth in pain, both inward and outward.

"You see?" Bob asked, his voice as far away as his eyes, voicing a quiet sadness as deep as an ocean.

"I- I see," Troy echoed.

"No, you don't..." Bob shook his head. "You don't see... it's impossible... it's not good to look at..."

"Bob," Troy said, his voice springing with life, "We need to get you some help. You need someone to help, I'm sure we can find scientists, doctors, from the Company its-"

No.

The voice spoke, but not with a word, not with a mouth, but from within Troy's head. He sensed it was Bob's... or was it? Bob was standing now, his face emotionless, just standing over him.

It is time.

Then Bob collapsed again, sobbing louder than ever, howling really, his head clutched in his forearms.

Troy looked at him, and then rediscovered that he had places he would rather be. It was just as well, for not long after Bob's sobbing had begun again in earnest, it stopped.

"Go," Bob said again, hoarsely.

Troy hesitated. A deer caught in headlights.

"May leave us," Bob said again, this time a little louder. But calmer. It was the same as when Troy had first heard it today-- a strange tone, coated in cotton.

This time, Troy didn't hesitate. He stood and turned, realizing the elevator surely would still be stuck as he did so. He tried it helplessly, but it opened this time, effortlessly and quickly. The elevator beckoned. Safe. Warm.

He looked back at the Chairman. He was still covering his head, as if he had a headache he couldn't stand. But through the shredded threads of his coat and his pale, stocky forearms, Bob's head nodded slowly, once, up and down, assuring the question before it had been asked.

Troy stepped into the elevator.

"Lobby," he said, his voice wavering. "Lobby," he said again, to make sure.

The doors closed, and down he went.

He never heard the gunshot.

The Office was not monitored. Where a camera might be present in dozens to hundreds in each Santa Barbaran home and business, the owner of PrattCo and leader of the Conglomerate had earned his privacy, and no video logs ever captured the strange meeting the Prime Minister had with the Honorary Chairman of the PCC Board of Directors.

And as his journey took him back down to the lobby, Troy Pon, for the first time, felt a lightness in his heart, a calm, an odd understanding with the world and, accompanying that feeling, a sense of newfound hope.

Though no words as such had been shared between Bob Pratt and him as to the matter, Troy felt he was now free of a burden he had been carrying for many years. The burden of the richest slave, unable to be free, shackled by greed.

And then the door to the elevator opened...

The two guards were waiting for him, but not as they had been previously. Troy caught a fleeting glimpse, an impression of extreme agitation and activity. The lobby was filled with people now, all of them crowded around the elevator, the front desk, everywhere. The noise was surprising.

Where had they all come from? He wondered.

He never made it past the elevator. The feel of cold metal binding his wrists.

"I'm sorry, Mr Vice Chairman, but we're going to have to bring you in now," one of the guards had the decency to say to him, looking genuinely apologetic.

"What is this?" he asked, already suspecting the answer in his heart.

"Top floor security heard a gunshot, and responded," the other guard said in a no-nonsense tone, "They found Mister Pratt, dead, right by the elevator you got into just after you shot him."

Blood ran cold through his hands, but maybe it was the handcuffs cutting off his circulation. Throngs of reporters and suits clamored before him, silently popping pictures while noisily interjecting their questions, but now they were reduced to a surreal backdrop to a new nightmare.

"He's dead? I didn't shoot anybody..."

The first guard put up a sour half-smile. "He's quite dead. And we'll have to let a court decide about you now. Awright Sammy, clear these people out of here, let's take him in..."

The news was brief. Despite his great wealth and power, Bob Pratt had lived a secluded, behind-the-scenes life as Honorary Chairman of the PCC Board of Directors. He would be given a short funeral by assorted friends and mourned by PCC employees.

Memorials, historicals, look-backs and special documentaries would flood the media nets for weeks to come, enlightening the world (to a degree...) about the fallen leader, his family, his rise to power. They also began to focus on the crime drama surrounding his death; the psychology of Prime Minister Troy of Montecito, and the future ramifications for Santa Barbara in general.

Throughout the business world, however, things moved immediately. From the first moment the reporters caught wind of the story, Conglomerate stock began to plummet.

The hundreds of shareholders, most of them corporate executives with unimaginable amounts of wealth invested in the PCC, were now faced with the choice of either selling now at a loss and cutting future losses, or hanging on in the hopes that the PCC could, financially speaking, survive the inevitable tumult to come...

And some saw that a window of opportunity was opening, and that the potentials for profit were so great as to risk.... well, anything... on it.

IDG Director Eric Love hadn't risen to power by being dumb.

But he hadn't made that rise on his own, either.

Bob had been dead for a long time. The end of his body was only the last straw. For months, years it seemed, he'd been a total recluse, offering nothing to anyone. But he was still the Owner, and as a result still managed the loyalty of the IIA. (Unknown to Eric Love, that same IIA loyalty had conspired to have General Toby Pratt killed.) That loyalty and protection extended farther than Bob's body.

One could certainly hope so, anyway, seeing how they had been unable to protect old Bob from himself.

Claire, his wife, was out of town. Never feeling comfortable in the urban jungle, or even sitting above it in their NSC condo, she was currently sequestered with her sister in one of the underwater cities-- Eric had not been told which, and it didn't really matter.

He could never see her again.

The clock in the wall read 10:21 AM. It had now been a full day since the great man's death. Enough time, perhaps too much time.

He hurried, piling the Will into the suitcase beneath just two rather dull Lace-Tintown suits. Atop these he placed an Ort-2 semiauto, a special light design with almost no metal parts. The hard suitcase did more than contain it's contents, it concealed them, to a limited degree. It offered scant hope for it's owner, though, who knew just how much Conglomerate security was capable of.

No, the only question was what Conglomerate security would be trying to do. He could guess the answer, and was rushing based on the answer, and didn't like that answer.

He'd find out soon enough.

tag.....sooo much reading..... :P

Another day for the CEO of Power Corp. The endless shifting of money, stock, resources, and people in order to further its ultimate goal – the domination of all Vrakian markets and to be a major player overseas. Although the CEO was incredibly wealthy, he moved in a pond filled with other big fish such as himself. Indeed, many of the Vrakian conglomerates were always seeking to undermine their fellow fish – with “strategic alliances” merely one method to stave off an impending takeover.

He scanned the daily paper and found a most interesting headline. Ever since Vrak joined the Order, the free trade agreement guaranteed, among other things, an exchange of news from distant lands. The CEO had been a distant admirer of Bob Pratt and consumed as much information about him and the company (some would say nation) as possible. Suddenly, his heart jumped to his throat.

Pratt dead? Funeral? Conglomerate stock taking a dive? Hmmmm.

He quickly drafted a letter and, depending on the answer, was ready to leave at a moment’s notice.


To: IDG Director Eric Love
PCC headquarters

Dear Mr. Eric Love,

Please accept my sincerest condolences for the death of Chairman Bob Pratt. If it would not be too much of an imposition, I would like to be in attendance of his funeral.

Sincerely,

Gruyol Ruik
CEO of Power Corporation.


OOC: I made some assumptions on the nature of the free trade agreement in the Order and I didn't know the correct address. I can always edit.

The new secretary settled comfortably into his desk, glancing over the day's incomings. There were so many, but so few were relevant to the new Federal Government's concerns. Much would continue as it always had in the IDG.

Short and to the point, vague yet fairly specific, were the ingredients for this one. That was Eric Love's written style (he was more of an orator than most supposed), and so it would be used. Perhaps even, Mr Love would be notified of it.

--

To: Gruyol Ruik
Power Corporation

Dear Mr. Ruik,

On behalf of the International Developments Group and the nation of Santa Barbara, I accept with honor your condolences. A state funeral is indeed to be held sometime in the upcoming weeks, but as plans are still formative, I see no reason to exclude your attendance. You will be included on the initial RSVP which will be recommended to the caretakers.

Eric Love
D-IDG

"There will be no sale. Calm down," said Abadas, setting his mug of coffee on the Table. More than fifty eyes bored holes into him, or tried to. But they lacked his depth.

"All those shares are rightfully ours," Hartman, the CEO of RFPI, insisted.

Heinrid didn't respond. He didn't need to.

Julia Bennings took the bait and offered one of her own. "Chaz, the bylaws are very specific about this--"

-this received a snort. The bylaws were rarely specific about anything, having been hashed out by some of the old man's cronies back in the stone age, designed merely to keep most of the PCC wealth in one pair of hands. Everyone knew this.

"--and until we find that will, his shares stay where they are."

"...in the hands of a dead man?" Hartman responded, apparently looking for logic. How amusing, Julia thought.

Abadas held up a hand. "We can argue this for hours, but I'm afraid Julia is correct. We can't do things half-assed and emotionally, here. You know better than that."

He didn't name Hartman specifically, but his mere gaze silenced the opposition. In some ways, he had been Bob Pratt's student and lesser. In some ways, the student equalled and even surpassed the mentor.

"A half trillion nondollars..." murmured Barns, with obvious regret.

Abadas could understand the man's feelings. That was quite the hefty sum of cash, but some things had too high a price, and the Eizen Imperialists would not be getting a majority share of the PCC, not when the PCC still ran things in Santa Barbara, Isla Vista, Noachia and Montecito.

Ah... Montecito. Now there was an issue worth considering. Just as some things could have too high a price, others were beyond price. Abadas amused himself with the image of that elven shitstirrer, naked, upside down, being flayed alive. Such an act, barbarous and crude though it was, would not be frowned upon by God, who would only give Yorn even more, in Hell.

Sonya Chang spoke. Yes, she was still here too. So many bodies gone, so many more to come. "PrattCo's stocks are continuing to fall."

Bennings responded, a slight smile playing on her creamy coffee colored face. One might even say, flirty. Abadas noticed this with feelings of both disgust and intrigue. "Oh, PrattCo we can wait on. With a dead man at the wheel, that ship's not going anywhere except down. We wait til she's sunk, then the Glom salvages. Am I correct... Lord President?"

Abadas knew she was. She knew he knew. She was looking for appeasement of Chang's ambition, confirmation. Abadas gave it.

Sonya, however, knew better. PrattCo wasn't owned by a dead man. There were a very few men in the world who knew who exactly did own PrattCo-- not to mention the Conglomerate-- and Abadas was one of them. "Any word on that will?" she asked benignly.

"I've got the OP and the IIA both searching all records. But you know, of course, Bob's codes were very tough," Abadas responded, with equal benginity.

And that was that for that meeting. Abadas had other business to do, with the Federal Government in an official role. A hard working man, he. And taking on more jobs by the moment.

Sonya could count, after all. Those who attended this Board meeting were relatively unimportant to those who did not. GladBurger was making so many tender offers. Abadas was rapidly consolidating his power, eliminating those who stood in his way-- not, oddly, suspiciously, herself yet-- climbing the same old path of brutality and power play that men throughout history always have.

And there was not a damn thing she could do about it.

The new secretary settled comfortably into his desk, glancing over the day's incomings. There were so many, but so few were relevant to the new Federal Government's concerns. Much would continue as it always had in the IDG.

Short and to the point, vague yet fairly specific, were the ingredients for this one. That was Eric Love's written style (he was more of an orator than most supposed), and so it would be used. Perhaps even, Mr Love would be notified of it.

--

To: Gruyol Ruik
Power Corporation

Dear Mr. Ruik,

On behalf of the International Developments Group and the nation of Santa Barbara, I accept with honor your condolences. A state funeral is indeed to be held sometime in the upcoming weeks, but as plans are still formative, I see no reason to exclude your attendance. You will be included on the initial RSVP which will be recommended to the caretakers.

Eric Love
D-IDG

As soon at the letter was received, Gruyol contemplated the message. First, why are they waiting so long for a funeral? He then brushed it aside, attributing it to cultural differences. He then attended to various preparations since he believed more than just Bob Pratt's death would be discussed. The latest information about the PCC was brought to him while various analysts were tasked to focus exclusively on the performance of PCC stock.

All this did not escape the notice of the Vrak government, who were busy making their own plans.

(Crossposted)

"Situation," Abadas said.

"We've got three teams on him, and two air units. Seems he's been in the apartment for two hours so far; overhead satellites showed him going in and he's still there."

"Dammit, what's he playing at. How sure are you he hasn't skipped out somehow?"

"Completely, sir," replied Adler. "The satellites don't lie. He's a warm body and we know which room that body is in, and in that room, there's a body. No way he coulda gotten past all we've thrown at him."

Abadas leaned back, satisfied with that answer for the moment. "Motives?"

"Well sir, he knows we're after him. He hasn't spotted any of our spotters, but he's not dumb. He went immediately for his safe deposit and extracted a small piece of paper. We think that paper might be the will."

"We need to find out if it is, without destroying that paper in the process," the Lord President said. "If it isn't, we could be in the clear no matter what we do. If it is, however, I want that paper in my hands by tomorrow."

Adler nodded. "We can send an extraction. It'll be quick, so he won't have time to burn or eat it."

It wasn't the destruction of the old man's will that he was worried about. Abadas knew that if that information was bad for the PCC, and Eric Love was no longer working for the PCC, he may try to send it out to just anybody, and call into question the legitimacy of the Chairman/Lord President. That he could not allow.

"Good. I don't want to have to call in a favor from Tzu," Abadas confided without meaning to.

"Gonzalo Tzu? Why... he's a good man for the job, sir, if you don't mind me-"

"I do."

And that ended that subject.

Abadas didn't feel the need to mention he had other plans for the IIA, which he'd already discussed with Tzu.

Adler continued. "We'll bring in some more teams and surround the place, come in through the windows and door, though that could be noisy. Sir, what about the subject, is he to be arrested or...?"

Heinrid Abadas shrugged. "Do what you have to to ensure he cannot damage the Conglomerate with that will, or his insider status."

Adler would have said something, like perhaps it wasn't neccessary to kill him, but he knew better. This was his boss giving him a direct order to eliminate the director of the International Developments Group.

Well, it'd make the job easier, at least.

12:46 PM

He'd chosen to stay put after a small sensor in his wristwatch told him he was under surveillance. Actually, it told him unusual amounts of radiowaves were being tossed around the general area of the apartment tower. But this was sign enough; besides, he wasn't dumb. They must have read his entry to get the will, and he was sure he was tapped in ways he didn't care to think about.

He clung to the hope that if they had wanted to stop him, if they'd really cared what the old man had to say, they could have done so already. That perhaps the agendas of the Federal Government and the Conglomerate's BoD differed enough to give him a chance.

Why'd it have to be me, he groaned inwardly.

It was the will that drove him to it, he decided. How fitting, and a double entendre as well.

Pacing back and forth. The Lord Vice Executive, the Special Envoy of the Board, Eric Love felt powerless.

Perhaps they would not try to bring him in, perhaps they didn't know what he had. But if he tried to leave the country, or just hide, it would tip them off, just as surely as fear tipped off a stronger predator and incouraged brutal death.

He could destroy it... Bob Pratt's plans, dashed to ruins, and no one would ever have to know.

Sure. Right. Then Abadas smoothly takes over both the FG and the PCC, starts persecuting consumers left and right and in the open, and everyone merrily goes running off towards economic disaster.

Why couldn't they see it? Those foolish sheep! The most powerful and wealthy men in Santa Barbara, reduced to compliant yes-men to Abadas.

He wasn't a nice man, Eric knew. He would quickly turn the state into something out of a WWII vid, because he burned with hatred and emotion, however cool and smooth he came across as. A dangerous man to have so much power. It wouldn't surprise him if Abadas had arranged the deaths of both Pratts. Hell, maybe all three. Then again, there were many who had it in for that dynasty. Who could say?

It was all about the future. Bob's vision, and his chosen successor. The inheritance of the world.

Eric Love had the future in his suitcase... but like so many of us, for him the future wasn't a road one could safely travel just yet.

Domingo "Red" Reducida lifted the heavy chopper off the pad with the grace and skill of a long-time helicopter pilot-- which he was. Helicopter pilots were rarely young these days, and the helicopters themselves tended to be rather old. They had fallen out of favor again.

In the bay, three men worked. Well, three men sat. There was no work for them quite yet, but they were alert.

The gunner, monitoring scopes and listening intently to the com chatter. Power and safety sitting there, hoping his job would involve little more than turning the thing on and off today.

And a third man, a suit, who quietly observed and reported back in real-time everything he observed. From time to time he would mutter commands into his headset, but Red couldn't hear from the front. And those sensors were really good, despite the noise of the twin sets of blades spinning above the vehicle, eliminating the need for shouting.

And of course, the MP1 downlink guided them to the target area with utter precision. No maps, no mistakes, MP1 showed the way and illuminated the target already.

It was nearly time. Three minutes to range.

Tag, good stuff.

tag...always up for a good read, Santa

You are hereby charged...

How did it come to this, he thought.

He'd grown up with such high hopes and ambitions, ideals to steer him by and a country that needed leading. But then like a cancer, the corporations in the West grew and grew, and finally cascaded into his country despite his best efforts.

...High Treason against the Santa Barbaran Federal Government...

No, that wasn't exactly true, he realized. Best efforts? He hadn't known what to do. He listened to his advisors, and in a way he was helpless to stop the corporate invasion. But he'd given in too easily, and then given up.

...conspiracy to murder a Corporate Executive...

It was all about that damn money. He'd never liked it. OK, well, like anyone else he enjoyed having it. But he would have liked to see the whole system crash, and the money-driven games of power stop and be replaced... by... what? What could ever replace it? There was no going back, anymore than the first agriculturalists could destroy their own city and go back to hunting and gathering...

...murder of a Corporate Executive...

He no longer felt outrage. The coldness that bound his hands now subsumed the hands themselves, and further. He'd been bought, and then he'd been screwed by circumstance. But it was the buying, he now knew. That was where he'd gone wrong, accepting those yearly summons and packages from the Glom.

...this court, under article 470 dash 40 of the PrattCo Conglomerate bylaws...

He'd sold his soul to the devil. Oh, he didn't believe in God, or Satan, or even of soul. That was clearly all nonsense, especially since the Glom was peddling it now. A marketing ploy. But he'd sold himself, and sold his country, for those packages. There would be no revolution in Montecito, he knew. The people were far too easy to be bought as well... and he did sorta set the example for them.

...and under civil laws established by the Federal Government of Santa Barbara, finds you...

He could no longer see. Blinded. Beside him, he knew, were others. They were from the Glom as well, in a way like him, but they had had more power and doubtless less guilty consciences. He heard one of them, the man, still sobbing, but he himself could not find any tears or emotion at all.

...guilty on all charges...

No fear, just that aching regret that he had not done better, made dull by so many years of ache. He did feel one thing; tired.

...and let me say personally, sir, that this court finds you a despicable traitor...

There was a woman, too. And another man. He'd only gotten fleeting, ill-remembered glimpses on the way in. But he, like they, had other things on the mind.

...and the crimes you have committed to be of the most serious possible nature...

He was so very tired. Let it come, he thought defiantly. He was guilty, not of the crimes they said, but of selling his soul. His countrymen.

...it is rare indeed that the full power of law cannot truly bring justice for the crimes committed...but...

Perhaps it was treason, though. But that judge didn't know, did he? Not of the real treason. It was almost a private joke for him, and he felt a tinge of humor at this cleverness.

Ah hell, he had probably, in the end, been the only man to show concern for Bob Pratt. The old man had gone completely balls crazy, and apparently his supporters hadn't bothered to do a thing about it. Now they blamed him, him for the death!

...the sentence for your crimes...

He finally felt it, now. Rage.

The click echoed throughout the chamber, and the crying man started sobbing harder now, blubbering for his life. The stench of urine filled the room.

With rage came other emotions... flooding unstoppably... indignation, frustration, sorrow... fear. Fear, because there was nothing ahead, the train to New State City had gone on into the darkness of nothingness...

His blindfolded face revealed twitching musculature as he tried to maintain dignity and resolution before the end.

...is death...

Another click, and from a distance he could hear the men give another order.

Breathing quicker... this wasn't the end, was it? Maybe there would be a mercy... maybe there was life beyond, or maybe this was all a bad dream, a perverse scene in a play created by his perverse mind at sleep...

Another order from afar. Unlike the previous he could make this one out. It was "aim."

Sleep, sleep. He was so tired. He desired sleep... but genuine sleep, not this abrupt and bloody death. The sobbing man probably would agree with him. Then he realized that he himself was sobbing as well.

Another order, and then the guns ended the former Prime Minister, and former Vice Chairman of the Board, Troy Pon. Like the suicidal bullet which had gotten him here, he never heard these bullets, but for a different reason.

...this court is adjourned.

12:49 PM

"VECTOR 2 to NIGHTTIME, we are within range, over," Red informed command.

"VECTOR 2, this is NIGHTTIME, copy that. Do you have a target, over?"

"NIGHTTIME, got a warm body at location, request confirmation, over."

Red was not a religious man either, but he, like so many ITDO pilots, was a perfectionist at heart. Despite the Glom's general lack of care about so-called collateral damage, he didn't want to end up toasting the wrong guy.

Back at command, a signal was now traveling. That signal went from the commo officer's desk, to a relay station within the base, to four huge satellite transceivers, and there bounced at the speed of light up to a small, nondescript satellite in low earth orbit. There, a near infinite series of subatomic particles changed their states in a chaotic, yet ordered manner, as a singular intelligence interpreted the signal into what, for it, was ordinary language. It took into account probabilities far beyond that which any human or group of humans could comprehend, and briefly reflected upon the near infinite amount of data it had on the subject currently, and then called up its own operational standards, limited still to its basic programming. It then came up with a solution to the implied problem. This solution found its way, back down the same route, to the commo officers desk.

"VECTOR 2, target is confirmed. You may fire when ready."

Red turned his head slightly, making sure to hold the bird steady. It was no simple task at this altitude. Unlike a gravity driven bird, the helicopter was subject to all kinds of buffeting winds and forces. It was a little like trying to balance on a tightrope while playing tennis.

"Okay guys, light 'em up," he said.

In the rear, the gunner, a Specific named Olafson, nodded with his usual sobriety, and planted his eye carefully downward, peering into a comprehensive scope. Power and safety, another Specific, went through a checklist as he turned the thing on. It wasn't a very long checklist.

Meanwhile, in orbit, another satellite-- this one in geosynch, and much larger-- had already aimed another kind of transmitter at the bird itself. This it now used to pump energy from a fission reaction, powering the MASER by remote control; the required power for which was too much for a mere helicopter to possess by itself. Power and safety did a small prayer, hoping there wasnt a mis-aim that would scorch him out of the sky.

But those doing the aiming had superb, unnatural precision, even accounting for the wind changes that would jolt the helicopter about occasionally. Those doing that aiming, took it as routine to predict that wind with great accuracy.

A small button was depressed, and a beam of high energy, microwave frequency death lanced out from the side of the chopper, passing harmlessly through the apartment's windows. A warm body turned cold.

12:51 PM

The ground team that went in consisted of just two men.

One had a bionic eye, arm, and both feet. The other was more fleshly, but that flesh was of a distinctively higher genetic quality than most. They were what some called "premium and super unleaded," two common modifications to agents of the Overwatch Program.

The first, whose common name was only an alphanumeric designation, and who for this mission was using an entirely different designation in the military manner of things, encountered first the door.

The hallway was empty; this was a much less crowded apartment than it would have been at other times of the year; the residents were singles and travellers mostly, no screaming children or clustering families. And it was in a nice enough area that no maskers or criminals were in evidence anywhere.

With an almost lazy motion, he kicked the door open. Doors were harder to kick open in Santa Barbara than in many places of the world, but with a metal alloy foot and immense strength he couldn't go wrong.

The room was nice, tidy, neat. Outside, a helicopter was now flying off.

He'd had his gun out, of course, prepared for possible resistance, but on seeing the body he knew there would be none here.

"I see it," the second agent said, both to him and command, and then the first did as well. The suitcase was opened already-- how nice, they wouldn't have to fry the locking mechanism or just bust the damn thing open.

The first walked to the bed, stepping over the body. He casually tossed things out of it until he found what he was looking for. "I've got it. It's intact," he informed his superiors, who confirmed it and ordered him to bring it back. This was, strictly speaking, unneccessary. He knew the mission objectives.

The Lord Vice Executive's body was unharmed, but the head had been neatly cooked. Pieces of the skull had blown out with the imparted energy, and bits of brain and blood spattered in a roughly conical pattern leading away from the window.

The second agent glanced around the room, not expecting to find much, just out of curiosity. Unusual for an OP agent, thought the first with a slight furrowing of his brow. He glanced at the window, not expecting to see the agent of this scene's conclusion, and did not.

He motioned for the second to follow, and stepped over the body again as the agents left.

"We have it, Lord President. It's on it's way here."

Good, thought the man who would now rule unimpeded by law. "Very well," he said aloud, concealing his relief. "You are dismissed, Mister Adler. Good work today."

"Thank you, sir."

Later, alone in his office-- well, as alone as a man under constant surveillance and guard by the Overwatch Program could be-- he made a quiet decision to sell off about a fifth of PrattCo to Eizen. It would strengthen their ties, and with Eizen capital investment, that would give a powerful nation a powerful reason to see to the success of business in Santa Barbara. The rest would be purchased by his own people, and then re-sold to grant power and loyalty in one swoop... just as a feudal lord might re-sell his lands in return for loyalty, and promising only military protection.

The PrattCo Conglomerate, however, he would not sell, though it was now his to do so. (Regardless of what its former majority owner had planned.) He had other plans for those five-hundred odd megacorporations, and their directors who he'd so skillfully cowed already into submission.

It was a new day in Santa Barbara.