Hostile Takeover

by David Bruns

  “Ambitious,” was all he said. In truth, Teller’s plan was too little, too late. Graves would have set up the logistics completely differently. They were being arranged by country of origin, not by need. Africa needed far more support than South America, but they had the same number of supply depots and transport ships for each country. Political considerations, no doubt.

  “Oh, come now, General,” Adriana chided him. “A man of your experience can certainly offer a less diplomatic answer. Since I’m paying for it, I think I have a right to know if my money’s being spent wisely.”

  “I think there are some opportunities for improvement.” Graves explained the differences in need between the two southern continents.

  Adriana nodded. “I see. You know, he wants to name the plan after himself?”

  Graves suppressed a grimace. “I didn’t know that.”

  She dropped her empty glass off with a passing waiter. “Absolutely. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you that.”

  “I haven’t met with the president in some time, Adriana.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Really? Then this should be an interesting evening.” She walked away before Graves could say anything else.

  He moved back to the bar and ordered another whiskey, nodding to a woman he vaguely recognized as one of the attendees from the Marshall Plan briefing earlier that day. When she made a move to speak with him, he pretended he was meeting someone else and walked away.

  Graves moved like a slow-motion pinball through the crowd, careening off various clusters of talking people, never stopping, never engaging, just walking as if he had someplace to go.

  He gauged the wisdom of trying to sneak out early. There was a presentation after the cocktail party by President Teller, probably an empty thank-you-for-coming speech. Graves glared at the glass in his hand, frustrated by the inanity of it all. Millions, maybe billions of refugees in the world tonight were going to bed hungry, or maybe not even going to sleep at all because it wasn’t safe to close their eyes. Yet all around him in this room, their leaders and diplomats and people of power laughed and made witty remarks about the weather.

  A stirring in the crowd made him turn. President Teller had arrived with his entourage. The man of the hour. The brains behind the Twenty-First Century Marshall Plan—some wag on YourVoice had already dubbed it the Martial Plan because it relied so heavily on the military.

  He hadn’t seen Teller in person in nearly a year. The man had changed his look, opting for a statesman gray. Graves had a strange flash of compassion. Whatever his motives, at least Teller was talking about the problem, which was more than the rest of this room was doing. He needed better advisers to be sure. The mismatch in aid to Africa was the kind of mistake a politician made, not a real expert in disaster mitigation.

  Graves craned his neck to see if H was with him. She stepped from behind the president and swept her gaze across the room. Helena Telemachus’s vivid green eyes found his and her face twisted into a smile, at least her version of one. That woman made him more than a little uncomfortable. Teller he could figure out. The man wanted the kind of power that made other men fear him and envy him. The kind of power that made legacies. Teller was a history junkie, he wanted nothing more than to be remembered for eons as a great man.

  But H … what she wanted was a mystery to Graves. She seemed content to be the woman behind the man, but somehow that simple explanation never satisfied Graves. She had power and lots of it, but a different kind of power than her boss. The kind of power that wasn’t written about but changed the world all the same. The kind of power that lived in the shadows.

  A woman’s carefully modulated voice came over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join our host, President Teller, in the De Gaulle Room for a short presentation.”

  The wall opposite Graves slid apart and the crowd shuffled in that direction. Graves dropped his drink on a passing waiter’s tray. If he wanted to duck out, now was his chance.

  “General.” Adriana Rabh appeared between him and the exit, taking his arm. “I saved a place for you in the front row.”

  Graves plastered a tight smile on his lips. “How kind of you, Ms. Rabh.”

  She patted his arm. “Adriana, dear, please call me Adriana.”

  The second whiskey had been a mistake, Graves realized as they moved to the front of the presentation room. He felt a lightness in his head and a looseness in his bearing that made him extra careful as he walked. The room was set up with a lectern on a dais and three chairs behind it. Teller was on the stage, chatting with the secretary-general, a dour Brazilian woman with raven-black hair that made her look young next to Teller’s new gray look. To his surprise, Adriana left Graves in the center of the front row and made her way to the dais.

  He did his best to put the alcoholic buzz behind him by focusing on the details of the room. They were on a high floor and the windows overlooked the brilliant lights of New York City at night. The room was set with well-cushioned chairs for a hundred people or so from the cocktail party, but what caught Graves’s eye was the overly large press pool. There had to be almost as many press as there were attendees, and a clouds of tiny newsfeed drones, each the size of his thumbnail, buzzed overhead, held back by an EM barrier. A quartet of string instruments provided a melodic backdrop to the white noise of the crowd.

  The music ramped up to a crescendo, then stopped, the signal to the crowd that they were about to get started.

  Teller took the podium and waited for silence. He had his serious face on, Graves noted. The one that usually delivered portentous news. Not the usual trust-me face of a politician in full persuasion mode.

  He took his time thanking the delegates for their attention and the secretary-general for her cooperation. Teller’s deep voice had a hypnotic effect on Graves’s mood. He felt his breathing evening out as he relaxed.

  “More than one hundred fifty years ago, when our planet was devastated by a world war, the United States had a choice. We could retreat behind the safety of our borders and let the rest of the world recover, or we could take a leadership role in that rebuilding. Make the world a safer, stronger, more robust place for all people. We chose the latter. The Marshall Plan poured millions of dollars and countless resources into rebuilding a shattered world. In my mind, the Marshall Plan goes down as the single greatest achievement in US history.” He paused.

  Graves wasn’t sure he agreed with Teller’s historical ranking, but he certainly had the attention of his audience.

  “Today,” Teller continued, “we face an even greater challenge: a world devastated by weather. Weaponized weather has destroyed our cities, gnawed at our borders, and made millions of people homeless.” Graves gauged the mood in the room. Teller—and Graves, for that matter—had been at least partially responsible for some of those events, but the room seemed to be buying what Teller was selling.

  “We have tried to solve these problems as individual countries with mixed success. Weather recognizes no borders and it threatens the very livelihood of every person and every country represented in this room. We need a better solution, a more comprehensive solution, a Marshall Plan for our time. The briefings you received today are just the beginning. The Council of Corporations, represented here by Ms. Rabh, has agreed to match every dollar raised by your governments. Tonight, I am announcing a three-trillion-dollar commitment by the United States to the new Marshall Plan.”

  The room erupted in applause and the news drone cloud shifted as their handlers angled for the best shot of whoever they were following. Graves stood dutifully with the rest of the audience, clapping along as Teller smiled for the cameras. He waited for the noise to die off before he continued.

  “But the Marshall Plan had a leader, former US Army General George C. Marshall, a hero of World War Two and revered by his country. Under his leadership, the plan was a resounding success. We need that same kind of leadership today, which is why I am naming General William Graves as the leader of this Twenty-First C
entury Marshall Plan!”

  Graves imagined he’d misheard the last part. It was the second whiskey, he told himself. Teller had not just named him to run this entire operation, that hadn’t happened.

  But it had. H appeared by his side as if by magic and pulled him to a standing position, pushing him toward the dais where Teller and Adriana Rabh and the secretary-general were all standing, applauding.

  Teller reached down and hauled him up to the dais, then he pumped his hand.

  Graves stood slack-jawed, still numb to the announcement. He didn’t want this, didn’t need this. He already had a job.

  Then he looked at Teller and he saw the reason: Graves was being set up.

  Teller’s lips were smiling but his eyes were cold. He pulled Graves close and whispered in his ear. “You screwed me over on the Havens, Graves, but let’s see you wriggle your way out of this one. When you go down in flames, I’ll be right there to pick up the pieces.”

  He stepped back and Graves was alone next to the lectern.

  Adriana took his hand, squeezing gently. “Congratulations, General.” Her eyes flicked to Teller, then back to Graves. “I just want you to know you have my full support.”

  Graves mumbled his thanks.

  She gestured at the lectern. “I think you should say a few words.”

  Then Graves stood all by himself.

  Chapter 9

  Ming Qinlao • Shanghai, China

  The next morning, when Ming drove her maglev chair into the Qinlao boardroom with Marcus at her side, she heard the collective gasp of the room. She didn’t need Echo to read their expressions: pity, disgust, sorrow, anger … not a shred of decency in the room.

  Ming approached her aunt. The older woman did everything but sneer at her. “Back so soon, Ming? You were not missed, Niece.”

  She started to turn away when Marcus spoke. “Ms. Qinlao would like to add an item to the agenda for the board meeting.”

  Her aunt’s green eyes might as well have been carved jade. “The agenda is closed, Marcus. You can put forth a request when we get to new business.”

  “As CEO of Qinlao Manufacturing,” Ming said in a clear voice, “I will adjust the agenda as I see fit, Aunt.”

  The buzz of the room stopped to watch the dance of the lionesses. Ming could feel their eyes on her—Sying, her mother, JC Han, Danny Xiao—and they all had reasons to vote against her. For a fleeting moment, a twinge of unease filtered through her defenses. She was taking a step that was not easily undone.

  Xi backed down, just as Ming had known she would. “Very well.”

  Ming displaced Xi at the head of the table, enjoying the scarlet flush that crept up her aunt’s neck as she forced the rest of the board to slide down so she could still be close to the chairman’s seat. Ming engaged Echo as they shifted their seats and Marcus called the roll.

  “Xi Qinlao.” Her aunt was flustered and angry. Perhaps she had expected Ming to make a subtler attack, not this direct assault on her base of power. But she was also confident. Her aunt had long prepared for this day.

  “Jong Chul Han.” JC’s square face was ruddy with anger beneath his oiled gray pompadour. In the elevator, Marcus had reported the old man was furious about the divorce and her betrayal of his trust.

  “The Xiao family.” Danny Xiao, her former boyfriend whom Ming had dumped in a spectacularly public way, acknowledged his presence. He slouched in his designer suit, cuffs rolled up to his elbows, eyes surveying Ming. Danny might be a pretty boy, but he knew how to play the game. He was watching and waiting to see which side he should support.

  “Sying Qinlao.” It pained Ming to look at her former lover. Sying’s beauty had only ripened in Ming’s absence and looking deep into her eyes did nothing to lessen the impact of her presence on Ming’s emotions. She had dreamed of this moment for so many nights, but it was not to be. She hardened her gaze and looked away as Marcus called out the rest of the board.

  “We have a quorum, Madam Chairwoman,” Marcus said quietly. The room was still, tense, watching every move she made, trying to divine meaning from nuance.

  “My aunt has failed to follow the course set for this company by my father and by me,” Ming said. “As Chairman and CEO, I call for an immediate vote to remove her from the board.” The whooshing of the air conditioning was the only sound.

  Marcus cleared his throat. “We have a motion. Do we have a second?”

  There was none. Marcus waited as Ming challenged each board member with her gaze. Echo reported anger, resentment, and frustration, but no fear and no trace of pity now. Certainly no agreement with her motion.

  As she had expected. Ming let the coldness of reason settle on her. Focus. This was the only way.

  “The motion to remove Xi Qinlao does not pass,” Marcus said, making a note in his tablet. “Moving to the next item—”

  “We’re not finished, Marcus,” Xi said.

  Ming feigned surprise as she turned to her aunt. “You have something to say, Xi?” Using her aunt’s given name infuriated the older woman, Ming knew.

  Careful, Echo cautioned, her anger is barely under control. Which was exactly where Ming wanted her aunt’s anger level.

  Xi rose from her seat and posted her fists on the tabletop. “In the last year, we have created more wealth for our shareholders than in any one-year period in the last three decades, despite the global economic slump caused in part by the rash actions of my niece.”

  “That’s all a result of council money, Xi,” Ming said. “Have you delivered anything yet? Do you even know how to deliver what you promised?”

  “That is enough!” Xi crashed her fist onto the table. A strand of hair slipped from the clasp on her nape and draped across her face, giving her a wild look. “I demand a vote of no confidence in our newly returned CEO. She is clearly unwell and needs rest.”

  “Seconded,” Sying said.

  Ming met her eyes for a split second, then let her gaze slide away. Focus.

  “We have a motion before the board,” Marcus said in an even voice.

  The vote was unanimous. Ming let tears she didn’t feel run down her face as she pushed back from the table and headed to the door.

  Step two complete.

  • • •

  Ming sat at the window of her father’s apartment, watching the sun set. Burnt orange on a muddy brown horizon. The rain from the night before had washed Shanghai clean and deep reds gleamed on the buildings and the aircars flashing by.

  Lander let Marcus into the office. He stood by her at the window. “I can still smell those vile pipes your old man used to smoke in here.”

  Ming rested her head against his narrow hip. “It’s almost gone,” she said. “The smell, I mean.”

  “Eventually, we all move on, Ming. Even you.”

  The sun slipped below the horizon, changing the city from solid buildings into arrays of pinpoint lights. “That was quite a show you put on today,” he continued. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get fired.”

  “It’s time for a change, Marcus. I’m going away.”

  Marcus chuckled. “That’s good, because your aunt wants you out of this apartment by tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged for security to take you—”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have my own security.”

  “I hope that’s enough.”

  Ming had had enough. “Goodbye, Marcus.”

  She waited in the dark for her next visitor, studying the patterns in the city lights, enjoying the anonymity of her position. Lander pulsed her when the visitor showed up.

  “Send her in,” she sent back.

  As the door opened, Sying’s lithe form stood silhouetted in the light of the hallway. Ming caught a glimpse of her face, then darkness again.

  Sying stood beside her in the same place Marcus had stood. Her hand trailed across Ming’s shoulder and Ming felt a shiver of anticipation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Sying asked. />
  Ming ignored the question. “How is Ruben?”

  “He’s a boy in a man’s body,” she said with a laugh. “Hormones, muscles, and the attention span of a mosquito. Makes me glad I was born a woman.”

  Ming tried to reconcile this description with the kid she had protected for months, until he was bartered away by Anthony Taulke. She felt her hands clench and she twisted away from Sying’s touch. She was wasting time.

  The woman’s fingers followed her. She stroked the line of grafted skin. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “I don’t feel anything anymore,” Ming replied.

  Sying knelt so she was at Ming’s level. Taking Ming’s face in both hands, she said, “I don’t believe that.” She kissed her, and the touch of her lips was a rush of pure energy in Ming’s head. She pulled back. This was not the plan. She needed to stay on track.

  “What’s the matter?” Sying’s hands pushed Ming’s regrown hair behind her ear. It was all Ming could do not to rub her head into Sying’s arm like a cat seeking affection. “Come home with me,” she whispered, her breath hot on Ming’s cheek. “We can be together again. That’s what you want, right?”

  Her plan was all mixed up now, all twisted in her head. Up was down, left was right.

  Echo, help me…

  Icy calm descended on Ming’s consciousness. She reversed her chair, leaving Sying kneeling on the floor. A flash of annoyance crossed the woman’s face, then she stood.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Ming. You don’t have to be alone.”

  Ming spun the chair. As she passed the desk, the 3-D picture of young Ming and the butterfly caught her eye. On impulse, she picked it up and tucked it next to her hip on the chair seat.

  “I was just leaving,” she said.

  Sying followed her into the hallway. “Wait, Ming, don’t leave like this.”

  Lander was waiting for her at the aircar dock. “Ready to leave whenever you are, Ming.” He eyed Sying, trying to puzzle out what was going on between them. His expression told her he wasn’t buying that the only relationship between them was stepmother to stepdaughter.