Hostile Takeover

by David Bruns

  And they would be wrong.

  They were like the proverbial frog being boiled alive on the stove, unable to sense the heating water until it was too late. Graves grimaced. With climate change, baked alive might be a better analogy.

  “Is this a private party, General, or can anyone join in?” Cora’s dark eyes flashed with humor. “You look very handsome in your dress uniform.”

  Graves grunted a reply, unwilling to acknowledge her. With the speed of political will, the incident at Fort Hood had disappeared in favor of a more palatable narrative where Graves and Corazon Santos had unified the Neos and the government objectives. The ten dead were collateral damage.

  Cora moved closer and rested her hand on his arm. Her fingernails were painted deep red, the same color as her dress. “I’m very sorry about your soldiers, William. They did not deserve what happened to them. My people did not deserve it either. But you and I, we were able to move past that. It could have been much worse.”

  Graves gritted his teeth. It could have been so much worse. Their trust in each other had averted potentially hundreds of casualties.

  “Please,” she said. “I want your friendship, William. Perhaps we can start over.”

  Graves sighed and nodded at her empty glass. “What are you drinking, Cora?”

  “Soda water. I feel like I need to keep a clear head in this pit of piranhas.”

  Graves chuckled to himself as he refilled their glasses. When he turned around, he saw Cora for the first time. She was dressed in a long crimson gown that hugged her slender figure. The slash of color across her chest left one shoulder bare. The muscles of her upper arms rippled under her skin when she reached for the glass. Her long sliver hair had been curled and drawn into a chignon at the back of her neck, exposing her Neo tattoo for all to see.

  “You look beautiful,” Graves said.

  Cora’s red painted lips parted in a dazzling smile. “Thank you. I feel like a fool in this dress, in this room …” She let her words trail away.

  “I know what you mean.” Graves returned to his post against the column. “I don’t belong here.”

  “Where did you grow up, William?”

  Graves mentioned his family’s home on the outskirts of Boston, then an anecdote about his late sister Jane. That led to a description of the family lighthouse in Maine and his fear of heights, which he somehow connected to an appointment to West Point and his service in the Sinai Wars. Before he knew it, Graves had been speaking for twenty minutes, captivated by Cora’s dark eyes. He stopped himself, blushing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t normally talk this much. It’s not what I do.”

  Cora’s fingers found his and she gave them a quick squeeze. “It’s okay. Your secrets are safe with me, William.”

  “What about you, Cora? I know nothing about you.”

  “Oh, come now, General. Military intelligence has been watching me for months, years even. I have no secrets from you.”

  “No,” Graves said, and it was true. Their dossier on Corazon Santos was uncomfortably thin. They suspected she was a doctor, but there was no record of medical school anywhere in her background. She had no police record under her name or any other. They weren’t even completely sure of her country of origin. The intel community was split between Brazil and Argentina.

  “Where did you grow up, for example?” Graves said.

  A tritone sounded. “Ladies and gentlemen, please move into the adjoining room for the next part of the evening.”

  Cora laughed, a sound that made Graves’s pulse race. Had he ever heard her laugh before? Had he ever even seen her with her guard down?

  “I believe you Americans call that ‘saved by the bell,’” she said, touching his hand again.

  An usher showed them to their assigned seats in the front row, where Graves learned he was sitting next to Cora. “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said.

  “I can think of worse places to be.”

  The chairs in the ballroom were bunched close together to allow as much room as possible on either side of the stage for the press pool. Floating screens along the wall showed a looping video, a promo for the Taulke Renewal Initiative. Graves could have linked his data glasses in, but he didn’t bother. It was the normal baloney about “fixing” disasters made by people who had no idea what it took to recover from a disaster.

  Instead of air transports filled with nonperishable food and tents, the vid showed grinning children playing tag in a grassy field and a woman handing out fresh bread to well-groomed young men and women in native dress. Their eyes were friendly and full of hope.

  Graves had been to the front lines where hope was a commodity in short supply. The people he’d met were dirty and desperate. Dirty with the kind of ground-in grime that comes from weeks without a chance to bathe. Desperate for one thing—anything, really—in their life to be the same from one day to the next. That was what life on the edge looked like.

  Cora’s bare left shoulder pressed against his uniform. She pointed to the screen. “That’s what he’s really after.”

  The vid had changed again. The Earth viewed from space, the sun line creeping across the globe. Animated dots like a grid checkered the surface. The image zoomed in on one to show a satellite with a comms array facing downward, toward the planet. A pretend signal shot downward to the ground and a newly planted field received a gentle rain shower. The sun came back out and morphed into a flare with the Taulke family logo zooming back out into space.

  Weather control. What was it with Anthony Taulke and his weather control obsession? He’d tried twice and failed twice—why not just go live on Mars and be done with it?

  “He thinks he can pick up where the New Earth Order left off,” Cora said, her tone scornful.

  Graves looked at her in a new light. “You don’t agree?”

  “Cassandra’s teachings have been perverted by men like Anthony Taulke and his council. The New Earth Order in its purest form is about restoring our planet to health, not controlling the weather.” She gestured at the screen. “This is a distraction from their real goal.”

  “Which is?” She had Graves’s attention now.

  “Domination, of course. People are expendable. What they care about are the resources. Food, mostly.” Cora leaned in close enough that he could smell her faint perfume and feel the gentle pulse of her breath against his cheek. “In the past year, Taulke’s council has launched pilot operations on Titan, Callisto, and any number of asteroids. What do all those operations need to be successful? Resources. Smart people, skilled labor, and most of all food.”

  Graves sat back in his chair. Why had he never seen an intel assessment on this concept? “So you’re going to launch a rebellion?” he said.

  Cora offered him a quizzical look, then shook her head. “Not me, William. The Child. I serve the Child of Cassandra. She will set her people free.”

  Graves stared at her. She had sounded so sane—up until the Child nonsense. It was all he could do not to snort. How could a baby stop the Council of Corporations?

  “You do not believe me, but you have a part to play, William. A big part. I have seen it.”

  She faced the stage, her profile in repose. Beautiful, charismatic, and completely out of her mind.

  A ripple of applause distracted him from Cora.

  Anthony Taulke’s son, Tony, was at the podium. Graves had seen the young man in the newsfeeds and on YourVoice, but never in person. Now that he was a scant eight feet away and above them, Graves was able to make a close study.

  On the surface, with his square jaw and curly dark hair, he looked remarkably like a younger version of his father. But on closer inspection, Graves saw subtle differences. It was in how they held themselves, Graves decided. A chin-out, face-the-world attitude versus a bob and weave. The old man, for all his foibles, was an idealist, who said what he said because he believed it to be true. Anthony was the height of hubris. I want this thing to be true, so it must be true
.

  But the son … Tony was a realist. A guy who believed not only that he could take whatever he wanted, but that he was entitled to whatever he wanted. He would never say that, of course. Tony was the kind of man who would smile sweetly at a baby even as he stole her candy. Not because he was hungry, but just because.

  The young man’s gaze swept over the quiet audience, lighting on Graves for a split second, then moving on. Behind him, Anthony sat flanked by Adriana Rabh on one side and Teller and the UN secretary-general on the other. Tony’s vacant seat was next to Adriana. The wall behind them was all windows. The sun was nearly gone, leaving a dusky glow on the horizon. The pair of security drones flashed by like a reminder that all was not well in the world at large.

  The cloud of tiny indoor news drones ebbed and flowed as the networks jockeyed for the best angle on Taulke the younger.

  When Tony spoke, it was with an intensity that startled Graves. “Tonight I have the distinct pleasure of introducing a man who means everything to me. A man whom I have looked up to my whole life. My hero, really. My father, Anthony Taulke.”

  Thunderous applause. Graves and Cora got to their feet along with everyone else. Not because they wanted to clap, but because everyone behind them had already gotten to their feet.

  Anthony Taulke hugged his son and kissed Adriana Rabh on the cheek before he moved to the podium. He gripped the sides like he was commanding a ship. Behind him, the security drones flashed by, their navigation lights blinking in the darkening sky.

  Graves had worked with Anthony up close and personally when they’d outfitted missiles with the nanites of the Lazarus Protocol. He’d studied the man’s mannerisms and seen him under pressure.

  But the Anthony Taulke before him now was a man brimming with heartfelt emotion. His knuckles turned white under the strain of his grip on the podium and the crowd hushed. Even the press pool seemed subdued. When Anthony looked up, tears glistened in his eyes.

  “I have led a fortunate life,” he began, his voice husky with emotion. “A life of privilege and wealth and opportunity. I have tried to apply my skills and my resources where they could best serve my fellow humans.” He took a break and squinted into the distance as if he was trying to think of what to say.

  “When President Teller approached me about his next-generation Marshall Plan, I was enthusiastic in my support.” Teller straightened in his chair and beamed for the cameras, nodding in agreement. The security drones flashed by.

  “But then I asked myself: Is that all I can do for the planet that has given me so much? Is the Marshall Plan equal to the task of stopping—and even reversing—climate change?” He shook his head slowly as if the idea just came to him. Teller’s smile suddenly looked plastic.

  “No, it’s not. I need to commit myself—not my money or my company, myself—to this cause. That is why tonight I am announcing the Taulke Renewal Initiative, headed by me, to solve this problem once and for all.”

  More applause. A single security drone buzzed behind Anthony. The thought registered in Graves’s mind. Why one? They always operated in pairs to protect the other’s blind spot. The people around him were standing again and he did the same automatically, but the unpaired drone floated in his head like a loose bit of information.

  The noise was deafening in the high-ceilinged hall, waves of applause reverberating from every surface. Then, under his feet, Graves felt a pulsing motion.

  Regular, rhythmic, like the rapid heartbeat of a small animal … or the firing of a point-defense cannon. He stood on his tiptoes and swiveled his head to see all the windows.

  There, in the final gasp of the sunset, he saw a flash of light. A drone, surrounded by tracer fire, was headed directly for the windows.

  Graves reacted. He seized Cora and threw her to the ground, pushing her up against the edge of the stage.

  The drone fired. Graves saw the spits of light and the windows behind Anthony Taulke dissolved in a shower of glass. He lunged onto the stage. Adriana, Tony, and Teller were gone, but Anthony stood there, transfixed by the oncoming wave of glass. Graves saw Taulke’s body stutter as one of the slugs took him in the chest. He seized the collar of Anthony Taulke’s jacket and hauled him backwards as hard as he could.

  Chapter 19

  Ming Qinlao • Outskirts of Shanghai, China

  Ming crouched in the shadow of a stone wall, letting the night sounds flow around her. A rat scampered across the faint cone of light thrown by the lamp hanging over the cobblestone street. The lights were of the made-to-look-old variety, fashioned in the shape of an ancient lantern possibly carried by some historical figure.

  The building on the other side of the twelve-foot-high wall was like that. New, but made to look ancient. Except for the square, one-story structure in the center. That one was real. Once upon a time it had been the home of her Qinlao ancestors. Ming’s father’s grandfather had been a farmer, and the brick and stucco building with the red tile roof ornamented with fanciful dragons on the corners was real.

  Everything else about the compound was a lie.

  She remembered her father’s amused comments about her Auntie Xi’s passion project. Her aunt had found the old Qinlao homestead and moved it to Shanghai. Every brick and carved dragon head was disassembled, restored, and rebuilt in detail in her compound outside of the city.

  But that was not enough for Xi Qinlao. With the three-room structure at the center, she built an entire village around it. Wherever possible, she used native materials, but when those were not available she created authentic replicas. Hence the lamps that lit her authentic alleys so poorly.

  She pressed her cheek against the stone, feeling the vibrations on the other side of the wall. The heavy tread of a man’s boot, an aircar passing overhead, the faint sound of music. All the sounds of a household settling in for the night.

  Ming stood, pressing her back against the wall. She was wearing the skintight MoSCOW suit, the new one from Viktor. He had made many improvements. The haptic sensors embedded in the suit exterior sang with data about the night around her, so much so that she had to use Echo to manage the flow. The body armor moved with her like silk over skin. And the camouflage system worked now.

  She lifted the hood and dropped it over her head so the leading edge came just to her eyebrows. A simple command to Echo and Ming Qinlao became a hole in the darkness.

  Ming scaled the wall in two bounds, feeling the suit augment her muscles. She crouched atop the wall for a second, then dropped lightly to the ground.

  The deserted alley around her was barely lit by more of the ancient-looking lanterns. She knew enough not to be fooled by the low-tech shell of this faux village. Any guards she encountered would be well-armed and using infrared enhancements, so the light wasn’t really necessary for them to do their jobs. In her MoSCOW suit, Ming would appear like a dim silhouette of a woman-shaped ghost.

  But she had no intention of meeting a guard face-to-face. With a quick leap, she landed on the roof of a one-story building. The red clay tiles looked black in the dark. She carefully climbed to the peak of the roof. These tiles were made of heavy ceramic and held in place by gravity. A false step could loosen one and cause the kind of noise that would make even the most inattentive guard look up.

  She ran lightly along the roof peak, the soft tread of her suit gripping the narrow capping tiles. Auntie Xi’s compound was laid out in rings like the Forbidden City, all encircling the center humble dwelling where the Qinlao dynasty had begun. At the end of the first building, Ming leaped across the space to the second row of buildings, then a third and a fourth.

  Her breath sang in her throat and Ming felt the rise of invincibility in her chest. The jade medallion given to her by her mother was layered between her suit and the bare skin of her body, leaving a dead spot in her senses. Fitting, Ming thought as she launched across another row of buildings.

  And then she was at her destination. Ming engaged Echo to help her assess the low-slung building at the center
of the compound. Cracked stucco covered baked clay bricks. A lintel of cut stone hung over the open doorway. Golden light spilled onto the courtyard and the twanging sound of a zither floated into the night.

  Ming shook her hooded head. Her Auntie Xi was a woman in conflict with herself. By day, she was the picture of modernity, the hard-bitten executive who reveled in the intricacies of finance. By night, she retreated to an ancient replica house to play an even more ancient instrument.

  Another careful scan of the area showed no guards, no cameras, no drones, no security of any kind. Ming dropped to the ground. She would have expected her Auntie Xi to have better security.

  The mournful sound of the zither wound into the night. A vague memory tugged at Ming. An image of her mother—before she was taken ill—playing the same instrument. It stopped her. What was she doing here?

  Echo prodded her forward. She had a mission to accomplish.

  Ming eyed the doorway, then flattened herself against the wall of the building. The time for second thoughts was past. She stepped into the doorway.

  The square front room of the homestead house was lit by another of the faux lanterns. The rough stone floor of the entranceway gave way to thick woven mats, undoubtedly made from authentic wild grasses. The walls were dull yellow plaster, with faint trowel marks frozen in the material. Facing her on the far wall was a framed photograph. Not a modern 3-D live photo, but an old-timey printed photo in fading sepia. It showed a boy and girl, grinning madly for the camera. The boy was missing his front teeth, which would have put him at about seven years old. The girl was older and taller with long dark hair.

  Although she’d never seen the photo before, Ming knew it was of her father and his older sister, Xi.

  Ming peeled back her hood and disengaged the camouflage mode of her suit, making her fully visible to the woman playing the zither.

  The music stopped with a discordant clang.