Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  He sipped at his coffee. Mission accomplished.

  “You need to give us more than that,” said Cora.

  “No, I don’t. You know a hobby, a favorite food, and a quirk. That’s plenty.”

  “Jogging isn’t a hobby,” said Tykeso.

  “Do you have experience in the financial sector? Or do you just know the tax laws?”

  “You look like a lawyer,” added Tykeso.

  “Where do you jog?”

  “None of that matters. You know enough to vouch for me. That’s what we’re counting on.”

  “No, we don’t,” said Cora. “We hardly know anything about you.”

  Romney fished for his phone to check the time. This was a small diversionary tactic that worked much less than he imagined. That is when he noticed the message.

  The message was simple and to the point.

  “Are you free? Let’s talk.”

  Romney didn’t know the number, but he knew who it was. The buyer. They were ready. And they knew he was ready too. He typed out his response.

  “Where? When?”

  He dropped the phone back into his pocket, and then felt it buzz. The reply was waiting on his screen.

  “Reymus Building. Soonest.”

  This time he placed the phone in his inner coat pocket. His new associates were still watching him.

  “Finish up. It’s time to go.”

  Romney stood and moved one entire step from the table, when he noticed his new associates weren’t following. They looked like they were waiting for something. He would have to concede again.

  “I used to do tax returns for people on campus. I also set up retirement plans and helped people with their savings.”

  Cora and Tykeso remained seated, watching him from their seats. These two are gonna kill me, thought Romney. What else could he say? Something innocuous?

  “I used to be on the rowing team at Lanvale Prime. We placed second in the nationals once, nothing big. It was a great exercise, but I don’t do it anymore. I jog. It’s a lot cheaper.”

  They continued to watch him. Too much info, Romney thought to himself. You could learn a lot with a little. Especially if you knew where to look, like Cora did. But for the first time, they weren’t glaring or staring disdainfully. After a warm and somewhat awkward moment, they rose and followed him out of the Underbrew.

  ◆◆◆

  The Reymus Building is not the tallest skyscraper in Lanvale’s skyline. With only forty-seven stories, it’s practically a dwarf. When compared to the next tallest building, the Khyber-Rondo Tower and its fifty-six floors, there’s no contest. Don’t even bother with the rulers. It’s clear as day that the KR Tower is taller. It also has an open top that serves as observation deck and garden, where visitors can get a sense of Lanvale’s size. The Reymus Building ends in a flat landing pad, for a personal helicopter. When parked, the helicopter adds roughly one story to the building. But no one counts the helicopter. There isn’t much the Reymus Building can claim that isn’t done taller or sleeker by other Lanvale skyscrapers, except for two things.

  The first is the Reymus “R,” the symbol for Reymus Industries and the largest standing logo of any other building in Lanvale. The “R” sits between floors twenty-six and forty-six, suspended just above the building’s glassy surface by hundreds of steel supports. This gives the impression that the massive symbol is floating just over the surface. At night, hundreds of energy-efficient LED lights illuminate its outline. You can’t miss it. Even as one passes over Lanvale at cruising altitude, one can’t help but make out the legible “R” on a small rectangle, like a beacon among other formless glassy slabs.

  No expense was spared on the “R.” This detail relates to the second aspect. On its own, the Reymus Building has a net worth of 3.7 billion ON, helicopter included. This is the most money spent on any building in existence.

  But if you want to see some really big numbers, add Reymus Industries back into the equation.

  No expense was spared. The main lobby is Azerran granite: floors, walls, and ceiling. The remarkable thing about Azerran granite is that, when polished, its surface can keep a mirror shine for weeks. Even with heavy foot traffic. This makes Azerran granite a cornerstone of wealthy architecture. It’s also very expensive.

  Add to this the fact that the top ten floors, the executive suites, are furnished with postwar Tambridesian elko wood furniture. If a chair or desk isn’t embellished with authentic Tambridesian ornamentation, elaborate carving embellished with gold filigree, then the piece comes a near-identical replica. It is rare to find a craftsman who can replicate the intricate patterns of the postwar Tambridesian style, and rarer still to find an authentic piece. This says nothing of the comfort. Sitting in a chair made of elko wood is like resting on a pillowy dream, with lumbar support. This makes elko wood, and all postwar Tambridesian furniture, unbelievably expensive. And we haven’t even gotten to the computers yet. Every high-class office building needs stylish Vock brand computers on every desk.

  This fact impressed Cora the most. She could not believe her eyes. Each of the four receptionists at the Tambridesian elko wood front counter had a twenty-seven-inch iVock 4 with wireless keyboards and mice, dual optical drives, and Veri-Vock ID cameras.

  “The Veri-Vock recognizes facial features,” Cora whispered to Tykeso. “No passwords involved. They just sit down and the computer runs its facial recognition algorithms to log them in. These models came out last week.”

  Romney nodded, only slightly impressed by this. He approached the front desk with feigned nonchalance. He leaned on the counter, appraised it in his head, and then tried buffing out the mark he had left behind. The receptionist smiled at him.

  “Good morning and welcome to Reymus Industries. What can we do for you?”

  Cora and Tykeso remained silent. Romney took it upon himself to speak for the group.

  “We have a meeting here. I believe they’re already inside.”

  “With who?”

  Romney stalled to check his phone. There was a new message waiting: “Mila.”

  “Mila,” Romney read aloud.

  The receptionist’s smile tightened.

  “There are a lot of people named Mila. Do you have a last name?”

  Romney waited for another text, but nothing came.

  “Could we narrow it down?”

  “No,” said the receptionist, warm as ice, “we need a full name.”

  Romney looked to Cora and Tykeso. They were now standing several arm lengths away and gaining distance.

  “She sent me a text from this number,” said Romney.

  He revealed the phone screen and the brief string of messages. The receptionist was getting testy.

  “I’m sorry, but there are thousands of employees working hard to keep Reymus Industries in motion. And several of them are named Mila. Unless this Mila has a last name, then I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to—”

  Romney’s phone buzzed in his hand. The receptionist stopped and read the new message on the screen. Her frustrated glance became a mask of horror. She scrabbled for something underneath the counter, then procured a small plastic badge and thrust it into Romney’s hands. She pointed to a line of elevators on the northern wall.

  “Go to the middle elevator over there, swipe this card over the console, and the elevator will take you to her office.”

  Her iVock computer chirped. She turned to read the new instructions on her screen. Her head craned slowly back to Romney.

  “I apologize for this mix-up, Mr. Balvance. I hope you understand. Please have a wonderful day.”

  Romney moved to the elevator with Cora and Tykeso following close behind. He swiped the card over the call buttons and the elevator opened to more Azerran granite with a golden panel of numbered buttons. Their destination was already selected. Number forty-seven, top floor. He checked his phone.

  The last message was one word. “Rin.”

  Mila Rin. The name didn’t mean
anything to him. To the receptionist, the name held tremendous power. She was likely an executive, thought Romney, someone at the very top of the largest company in Lanvale. Little did he know, he was right in more ways than one.

  The elevator ride was quick, uneventful, and void of any conversation. Even the best of friends have nothing to say in elevators. Romney’s new associates were only strangers following along. And soon, they would make their way back out of his life. He was looking forward to this fact. When the doors opened, he was the first out.

  Romney stepped into a library. This wasn’t the musty, rundown library of his childhood, or the sickly, hangover-ridden library of his college days. This library had class. It was the kind of library one expected in a mansion. Each of the four walls was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, with rows of dark leather spines. Romney looked back at the elevator, now a pair of golden doors framed inside a bookcase.

  Tykeso seemed unimpressed by this room, even a little disgusted by its excess. Cora had trouble keeping her mouth closed. She was reading the spines of the books.

  The carpet was plush Tambridesian, another expense unspared. Romney watched the intricate golden patterns repeat across the satin-like floor, separate down a small set of dark wood stairs, and then end on Ontaran oakwood floors. He didn’t notice the two leather couches or the bronze statuary he had passed along the way. He nearly missed the lady sitting behind the Tambridesian wood desk. She was smirking at him.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  Romney turned to her. She appeared small behind the massive desk, but still regal. Like a modern monarch standing over her throne. He returned her smirk with his own.

  “Sure. You’ve got a nice setup here. Expensive, yet tasteful.”

  Cora and Tykeso remained silent. Cora was still scanning the many shelves, in search of more rare titles.

  “The couches are a little much,” said Mila Rin, standing and crossing to Romney. “I always say you’re not supposed to sit on leather. But there’s no arguing with Devon Reymus, is there?”

  Devon Reymus? Romney was surprised by this. The name was familiar, but Romney couldn’t figure out from where exactly. It was a big name, he knew that much. And he had a feeling he shouldn’t ask anyone to jog his memory.

  “Pardon the dark. I work better this way.”

  “It’s fine,” said Romney.

  She raised her hand like a conductor preparing for a rising note. And like a chorus, the lights came on in full. In the new illumination, Romney began to see the smaller details of the extravagance. The bookcases were elko wood. Every single book was leather. The lady’s desk was held up by four intricate carvings of men. They were straining under the massive weight, their faces creased by a stoic agony. A little grotesque, thought Romney, but not when you wield this kind of money. At these prices, everyone else could be weird instead.

  “Mr. Balvance,” said Mila.

  “And you must be Mila.”

  There was something impressive about Mila Rin, though Romney couldn’t quite pin it yet. She seemed to tower over the three, though she was maybe an inch taller than Cora at most. Her clothes were everything one would expect from a modern executive: black silk blazer, a neutral white blouse, a pair of silk gray slacks, black flats. But it was the way she wore these items that further defined her presence. Each item became an essential piece of Mila, as if her very persona had hangers for black blazers. Her closet likely held variations on the same theme, precision professionalism at its absolute finest. This wasn’t her career, Romney decided. Reymus Industries was her life. Her hazel eyes seemed sweet and coy behind her designer glasses, but Romney caught a deeper intelligence in them. She was watching them.

  Or maybe, Romney thought, she was sizing them up.

  “I wouldn’t want to keep the boss waiting anymore,” said Romney. “You two must have plenty to do.”

  Mila nodded.

  “Devon is almost finished with his morning meetings. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  “Water,” said Romney, and then, “I’m sorry. Devon?”

  Mila didn’t answer. She reached under her desk and procured three bottles of water, each marked with the Reymus “R.” Romney smiled as he took the proffered water.

  “Aren’t you the point of contact?”

  “Yes, but it’s Devon’s deal. I am the mediator, nothing more. He has all the details.”

  Romney unscrewed the cap and took a quick swig of water. It tasted clear and crisp, as if Mila had just bottled it from a glacier. The cool sensation had somehow dislodged a stray thought in the back of Romney’s mind. Devon Reymus. He was a pretty big deal, wasn’t he?

  “Now, when you say Devon, you mean Devon Reymus.”

  “The one and only Devon Reymus.”

  “Ah,” said Romney.

  He took another swig of water. The one and only Devon Reymus. The president and CEO of Reymus Industries. The single largest company in Lanvale, and the second largest company in all of Ontar. Devon Reymus wasn’t just a “pretty big deal,” he was arguably the biggest deal that ever was.

  For the first time, Romney noticed the double doors beyond Mila’s desk. They were dark wood, plain. And now they were opening. A tall man in a dark-blue suit stepped into Mila’s library. His brown hair was slicked back with a tussled elegance, often found on businessmen and supermodels.

  Mila smiled at him. “All done?”

  Mr. Devon Reymus grinned back. “Finally,” he said.

  He turned to Romney and slapped him on the shoulder. It was as if they were already best friends. This was part of Devon’s magic.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of these people,” he said. “They could talk for days if they had the time.”

  Romney chuckled. His arm felt tingly. Cora and Tykeso were silent. They wanted to be an audience and nothing more.

  “So, you’re Romney,” said Devon. “You have to be. There’s no one else in this room as sharp as you.”

  “That’s me.”

  Romney extended his hand. Devon’s handshake was equal measures of friendly and viselike. Devon Reymus knew business dealings better than anyone else. You could say he invented them. That would be hyperbole. He didn’t really invent the art of the good business. But it wouldn’t be far from the truth.

  “And this is your crew,” said Devon, turning to the two-person audience, “Cora and Tykeso.”

  “Hello,” said Cora, shaking Devon’s hand.

  Tykeso said nothing. His handshake was unenthused.

  “And it’s just you three? Wow, I am impressed.”

  They nodded. Devon motioned them to the double doors.

  “Please don’t be shy. Right this way. We have a lot to discuss and not enough time. Story of my life, really.”

  The group nodded as one bewildered person and slowly followed him in.

  Romney and his associates moved to a very nice living room. Unlike Mila’s library, Devon’s place was all modern furniture. A wall-sized TV took one side, and the other carried paintings in slim, dark-wood frames. In the center, there were two leather couches huddled around a glass coffee table. Romney didn’t have time to gather more details, because Devon was passing through to the next room.

  This was a small art gallery, complete with standing glass displays. The walls were lined with more strange art. Romney tried to take in more, but Devon was stepping up a small flight of stairs. He turned and smiled.

  “This is my gallery. Remind me to say more on this later, if we have time.”

  Romney followed him up into a conference room. Tall office chairs with mesh backs bordered a long table. A VockVoice Conference Caller stood as a silver square in the middle. They were moving past it, into a large, open office.

  Devon finally stopped behind a desk that was at least twice the size of Mila’s. It was difficult to tell its exact dimensions at a glance, because it was crescent shaped. Devon took his seat at a modest-sized office chair, then motioned to three more in front of the desk. Thes
e were the same mesh chairs found in the conference room.

  It was much like sitting in a hammock, Romney decided, with the same floating, comforting feeling. Like a hammock for business, though few hammocks have adjustable lumbar support. Romney found it difficult to do anything but lean back and relax. Cora was seated beside him, testing the mesh back by rocking into it. There was a suitable level of bounce. Tykeso leaned forward, hands folded, scowl in full. Devon watched them settle in, then leaned onto his moon desk and grinned. His hands were folded neatly.

  “I don’t need an introduction, do I? Hells, I’m on every magazine and newspaper. Am I right?”

  “Devon Reymus,” said Cora, “president and CEO of Reymus Industries.”

  “Thank you, Cora.”

  “Richest man in the world,” added Romney.

  Devon’s grin fell slightly at this.

  “What did they put me at last year? Mila, do you remember?”

  “Eighty billion. But that didn’t count our newest Azerran branch.”

  Mila was standing at Romney’s side with a streak of pride on her face. He didn’t notice her approach. And that bothered him. Romney was beginning to feel uneasy. There was something about these two that didn’t sit right anymore.

  “Enough about me,” said Devon. “What about you?”

  “What is there to know,” said Romney, “besides our names and phone numbers?”

  Devon didn’t respond, so Romney continued.

  “How did we get the Katarin stone? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

  Devon looked briefly to Mila, then back to Romney. Mila moved away to shut the door to the office, then silently reappeared beside him. Romney caught her nod from the corner of his eye.

  “You’re a businessman. You get right to the heart of the matter. I respect that. But, in my experience, the best way to do business is to make friends.”

  “You want to know if we can be friends. Is that it?”

  Devon nodded. His warmth faded. It was clear now this would be a difficult deal for everyone involved.

  “Depends,” said Romney. “I like my friends honest. I don’t like them snooping on me, for starters.”