The Dauntless

by Jillian Dodd

  “But you and I both know that it’s not just the Sphere where the profits lie. It’s in the fact that my father was the first to perfect the quantum computing that makes this technology light-years ahead of what is currently available now.”

  “And in the wrong hands it can be dangerous, unstable, and unpredictable,” Sergey scoffs. “Yada, yada, yada. There are quantum computers commercially available now. I should know. I’m an expert in the tech industry.”

  “While that might be true, to my knowledge, there are none being used to power a city. They aren’t this advanced. Therein lies our challenge. How do we sell the Sphere without it? How do we earn money on a project that we’re so heavily invested in?”

  “You can’t,” Zayn says.

  “Absolutely not,” Rutherford agrees.

  “Actually, you can,” I counter. “I had the pleasure of visiting the Sphere earlier this week. I’ll be honest. I really don’t know all that much about quantum computing, but I did discover that my father had been very concerned about what he was creating. For a reason that has nothing to do with the stability of the Sphere. Quantum computing has the potential to become the cyber-battlefield of our future. Quantum computing—the kind Ares developed—has the ability to defeat all modern encryption.

  “He didn’t know that’s what he was creating at the time. He simply set out to make the Sphere so that it wasn’t vulnerable, something to shield it from attack, using quantum-resistant cryptography. To test it, he also created a weapon of sorts. One that could destroy our banking and military systems. So, I have a plan.” I smile. “Well, actually, my father had a plan. I know that you already know this, but for my father, building this Sphere wasn’t all about the profits. It was about the betterment of our world.

  “If it wasn’t for the CIA telling me, I wouldn’t have known about this meeting—with the date being changed and all—or of its importance. That is kind of odd to me, considering my brother and I own it.”

  “There is nothing sinister going on,” McClellan replies coolly. “It was rescheduled simply due to a scheduling conflict. With former president John Hillford’s passing, we had a chair to fill, one we chose Speaker Bessemer for. Congress was in session during our planned meeting date, so we moved it up a week. And you were notified by mail. As were we all.”

  I don’t say anything, just stare at McClellan.

  “Fine,” he finally says. “I am proxy voter for Ares’s shares. I assumed, if you became interested enough in his company, you would contact us. Until then, it would be business as usual, as your father intended when he made me chairman.”

  “Makes sense,” I say, breaking eye contact and passing around copies of the document I brought with me. “I hope this will all make sense as well. Before you are new contracts. One where we agree to use Ares’s power source model with The Shield technology in the TerraSpheres we sell. The second is a joint agreement between Von Allister Industries, the US government, and the UK government, who will be exclusively allowed to use The Sword technology to increase their national security by hacking into those of their enemies—which will be easy now that we can break RSA and elliptic curve cryptography—as well as use Shield protection on their own infrastructures.

  “As you can see, it’s a win-win for Von Allister Industries. We get to sell the Spheres with The Shield, and we will obtain an extremely lucrative contract for The Sword and The Shield technology.”

  I pause, emotion overcoming me. I still have very mixed emotions about the man who fathered me, but as my mother said in her letter, he was an incredibly brilliant human being, who I wish I could have known.

  “But more importantly, and the reason I will be casting my majority vote for this option, it’s what Ares would have wanted. And I hope that’s the reason you’ll vote for it, too.”

  “Hang on just a second,” McClellan says with a laugh. “I assume the stock was split between you and your brother in Ares’s will. Unless you can produce a proxy from him, that means I control your brother’s votes.”

  “Not really.” I turn to Royston. “Can you explain the legal jargon in the trust to the group?”

  “I can,” he says and does, quickly shutting down the opposition in that regard.

  “Look,” McClellan says in a patronizing tone, “while I appreciate you taking some initiative, you can’t just decide this will be a good idea and have us vote on it. Contracts have to go through a lot of red tape in governments before they are agreed upon. For example, in the US, you can’t get an extremely lucrative deal without first going through the Senate Appropriations Committee. It also has to go through appropriate channels in the UK. Those things take time. Time we don’t have.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. However, the contract I presented is already fully approved. Of course, it helps that I am friends with Bill Callan, the head of the Senate Appropriations Committee, as well as Mike Burnes, the director of the CIA, and it probably doesn’t hurt that I’m engaged to the president’s son. As for the UK contract, it just so happens that I was at a knighting ceremony last night for the British agent who had rescued me along with the now King of Montrovia from our would-be killers. You’ll never guess who else was in attendance.” I tap my finger against my lip, pretending to try to remember. “Let’s see … the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, Sir John Sampson; the British Defense Secretary, Richard Barnett; and, oh, yes, the Prime Minister and the Queen of England.”

  The board rustles through the papers in front of them, murmuring in astonishment.

  “Oh,” I add, “and just to be sure we weren’t getting screwed, I had Speaker Bessemer go over the contracts with a fine-tooth comb this morning.”

  Royston smiles at me as Malcolm Prescott makes a motion for the contract committee to convene for thirty minutes.

  When it comes time to vote, everyone votes in favor of the deal, except for McClellan.

  Royston Bessemer is taken aside after the Von Allister board meeting by one of its members and invited to join him for lunch. Upon accepting the invitation, he and McClellan are driven to a luxurious home outside of London.

  “So glad you are here,” the man who invited him says when he arrives. “We need to fill another one of Hillford’s seats and could use someone with your political expertise.”

  Royston is intrigued, of course, particularly when he’s taken to a secret room in the home and seated at a round wooden table for ten with McClellan and the man who owns the home. The man, who is clearly in charge and the owner of the home, tells McClellan to begin.

  “As I’m sure you have heard at many of your political briefings, our population is racing toward critical mass, and an extinction event will occur,” McClellan says. “If we don’t change our ways, the world as we know it will cease to exist. These are the facts. We can’t continue to deplete our natural resources. The planet we live on cannot support our predicted population. It’s imperative that we take measures now that will change this outcome. What we are presenting to you today is a project, created by the brilliant Ares Von Allister, that will usher in a new era.”

  “A new era?” Royston Bessemer asks.

  “Yes,” McClellan says. “Imagine a world with no crime. No inequality. No hunger. Using quantum computing and environmentally sound practices, the people of the world will live in harmony with our great planet. Rather than chasing profits, we will focus on quality of life. Everyone will have what they need, eliminating greed and damaging wars.”

  Royston nods, indicating his approval. “Sounds like the perfect world.”

  “It will be,” the owner of the home says. “World leaders are pushing their own agendas and not coming together for the greater good. Because of it, we face terrorism, civil uprising, and political unrest.

  “Ares Von Allister had a plan to change that. It started out as a doomsday scenario. Catastrophic events caused by population, disease, war, weather, or space could change the world as we know it. Ares believed there needed to be a plan, a way
for life to survive after such disasters. Once he designed the TerraSphere that you heard about today, he realized that we had the power to make changes now for the good of all people. This is our model for the future.”

  “Our Renaissance,” McClellan adds.

  “Renaissance?” Royston Bessemer asks and is quickly filled in.

  Of course, they don’t give him all the details of their plan. They definitely don’t mention that they are going to make the extinction event occur. Just broad strokes that tell of a new world order of which Montrovia would be the capital.

  “While I completely agree with your ideas in theory,” Royston says, leaning back in his chair, “and I mean no disrespect, but I’m a little confused as to how this could all happen peacefully.”

  “Since the group’s inception, its goal has always been for a select few to gently guide the world to perfection,” McClellan says.

  “I’m no fool,” Royston says with a chuckle. “Countries start wars to help gently guide. That means there would be a few flaws in your plan. You want to start this movement in Montrovia, but their military is minuscule compared to other world powers who might not agree with your idea of perfection.”

  “Ideally, we wouldn’t need a military if we were all one world, but you are correct. It might take a military nudge to make it happen. In Montrovia, the king controls the military,” the owner of the home counters. “We also have a well-placed asset there who commands half of the forces.”

  “I don’t trust the asset,” McClellan says. “He gave us incorrect information about the black jet that landed in Iraq. Told us an Israeli spy was on it when it was actually one of our own.”

  “Thank your lucky stars your men didn’t kill Huntley Von Allister,” the leader says fiercely. “Or you would be dead yourself. You have to admit though, she was impressive at the board meeting today. Ares would have been proud. Maybe we should present his ring to her.”

  “A woman? Are you kidding?” McClellan scoffs. “Tradition says it should go to his son.”

  “She has the kind of killer instincts her brother doesn’t have,” the leader disagrees.

  “We’ll vote on it at the next meeting,” McClellan states, ending the discussion.

  “What do you think?” the leader says. “Would you like to join us at the table to gently guide the world to perfection?”

  Royston nods his head in both understanding and agreement, knowing that, if he doesn’t, he probably won’t leave here alive. The fact that McClellan almost got Huntley killed—and would have been killed himself if he had—tells him that these men are very dangerous. And very serious.

  “I proudly accept your offer,” he says, for he has no other choice.

  When he does, he is presented with an old emerald ring.

  “Rings like these have been passed down for generations,” McClellan says, “since Lorenzo the Magnificent, the first King of Montrovia, started this group with the intent to create a new Renaissance. A worldwide Montrovia full of wealth, power, and beauty. A place he called Arcadia. And the place we strive to achieve.”

  “To Arcadia,” the leader says as he raises a cut-crystal glass. “And to our newest member of The Echelon.”

  “Are you so ready for this?” Blair twitters, snapping a photo of us in front of an English designer’s wedding dress shop.

  “I think so,” I say, not sure if I feel it.

  I’m still coming down from the fact that I managed to pull off what I did at the board meeting. For someone who doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing, I think it turned out really well. I’ve also discovered there’s a lot of validity in the saying, It’s not what you know, but who you know.

  “What kind of dress do you want?” she asks.

  “I honestly have no idea.”

  She links her arm into mine. “It’s a good thing you have me.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t here with your family.”

  “Oh, girl, I tried that. Took my bridesmaids, mother, grandmother, and future in-laws. It was a colossal disaster. Everyone was all, I’d like to see her in … instead of, What does the bride want? Grandpa offered to bring me to London, so I could figure out for myself what I wanted. I’ll get my family’s opinions once I do, but I will never shop with a big group like that again. It’s my wedding. My day. There will be no shopping by committee.”

  “Your grandpa is awesome. It was so nice of him to help me understand the trust.”

  We step inside the shop, are immediately handed flutes of champagne, and then taken into the showroom where Blair is asked all about what she wants.

  But she keeps the conversation going as she tries on dresses. “He is. Although he used to seem to love Ty, but since our engagement party, he’s been asking me if I’m sure. Telling me I’m young. This from a man who got married at twenty. What do you think of Ty? Honestly?” She comes out in a slinky silk dress that clings to her body in all the right places. “Way too plain,” she says to the consultant.

  “You know, sometimes, people say that, and when you tell them the truth, you find out they really didn’t want honesty. They wanted reassurance. Which are you looking for?”

  “Let me think about that while I try on the next dress,” she says.

  This dress is fitted down to her hips, covered in lace and bling, and then poufs out at the knee.

  “Love the lace,” she says. “Hate the bottom.”

  “I think maybe we should try more of an A-line next,” the consultant says.

  Blair turns and gives me a grin. “I want honesty. I figure you and I aren’t that close yet, so worst case is, I hate you for life.”

  “And best case?” I laugh.

  “I’ll be forever grateful,” she says, her face turning serious.

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. “My opinion of Ty is, you’ll be one of those girls who is the last to know.”

  “You barely know him. Why do you say that?” she asks as the consultant brings back four more dresses, two of which she quickly dismisses without trying them on.

  “Because he flirted with me at your engagement party. If he can’t behave at that event, with you there—”

  “He’s friendly,” she says dismissively. “He seems like a flirt, but he’s harmless.”

  “Okay,” I say as she goes back into the dressing room.

  When she returns, she’s wearing a dress that is truly stunning on her. Fitted bodice, slight train, nude-colored illusion neck, and sleeves covered with a bold cream lace.

  “Wow! That’s amazing on you.”

  “I do like it. Ty would like it.”

  “Any man would like it.” I laugh.

  “I about died when Peter showed up at our party. He was not on the guest list I prepared,” she says.

  “Ty invited him by text at the last minute. Peter believes it’s because Ty heard the girl that Peter had been dating—”

  “That model, Allie,” she states with her lips pursed.

  “Yes. She recently got engaged to my brother.”

  “Your brother? Really? I had no idea that’s who it was. Do you like her?”

  I smile big. “I actually do.”

  “Do you want to try on more dresses?” the consultant asks, seeming to grow tired of our chatting and wondering if Blair is taking this seriously based on our conversation.

  “Of course,” she says to the woman. “I flew to London just to try on dresses.”

  Her next dress is pretty, a sexy boho style with feathers and a sheer bodice.

  “You were telling me about Allie,” she says, studying herself in the mirror.

  “She’s completely clueless for the most part about all this society stuff, so she never would have been a good match for Peter. In my opinion though, she’s clueless in a good way. She speaks what’s on her mind. She’s incredibly honest. And she and Ari have crazy chemistry.”

  “I heard they were hooking up when she and Peter were dating,” she dishes.

  “She and Peter did not
have chemistry. At all. She was Peter’s date. Someone to look pretty on his arm. And you should know, she felt horribly guilty about it, but Peter was constantly telling her it wasn’t serious.”

  “Peter and I used to date,” she says, smoothing out the feathers on the dress. “I look like a chicken.”

  “He told me. We’ve gotten to be good friends, which is fun because our fathers were friends. And his dad has been just great.”

  “I think we’re done here,” Blair says to the consultant. “I really like the long-sleeved dress and will put that on my short list.” She hands her a calling card. “I will be in touch.”

  As soon as she’s back in her clothes, we leave the salon and walk toward the next one on her list.

  “Tell me what Ty did or said to you at the party. I can handle it.”

  “Okay, well, I was watching a kid playing the shell game. Ty stood very close to me and whispered in my ear.

  “We had a brief conversation about it, and then he said, ‘I’ll be honest. I’m here because I’m following the girl.’

  “Since we had been talking about the game, I asked, ‘Which girl?’ Before I realized he meant me.

  “He introduced himself and was sliding his hand down my arm in a very suggestive way when I asked how he was related to the happy couple. Peter must have seen what was going on because he was there and told me that Ty was the future groom. I was shocked honestly.” I carefully study her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Peter broke my heart. That’s how I ended up with Ty.”

  “You loved Peter?”

  “Probably always will,” she says with a sad nod.

  I stop walking and turn to face her. “Why the heck aren’t you marrying him then?”

  She bursts out in laughter, crazy, maniacal laughter that causes me to laugh, too.

  “I can’t even,” she sputters out.

  But then she grabs my hand as we approach our next appointment. “Oh my gosh. Look at that dress!” She stands in front of the window, tears in her eyes. “That’s my dream dress. That’s the kind of dress I’ve pictured getting married in.”