Arc 2: Cloak

The corridor drew on forever. Its sterile, white floors and ceilings bordered on blinding. Walls were a matte black, interrupted by the glossy gray outline of a triangle tessellation. The only disruption to the pattern were the gray, electrochromic doors with large, clean numbers and labels leading to other sections and the black-tinted glass that looked onwards into the two, long conference rooms.

A few people were there. Maybe two or three others, dressed in gray coats and oversized, augmented goggles. Two walked together towards me, coffee in paw.

My eyes were glued to the tablet in my paws, however, wedged between my bicep and left paw pad. I scrolled down through the text being displayed as I made my way over to the farther of the two conference rooms. Unlike most of the doors, the one to the conference was able to slide to the right seamlessly once I stepped in front of it.

I was on the early side. After checking the time displayed at the top of my tablet, I found myself to have six minutes to spare. No one else was in the conference room before me, so I headed over to the head of the far side of the table. It was a glossy black, but that was really due to its embedded screen being inactive at the moment.

After reaching down under the lip of the table and pressing the sole mechanical button, the screen turned on. The side of the display at the head of the table showed a tab of digital room controls including lights, climate control, dimmer slides for the large windows, and showed devices connected to the local network. Basically the table and two of the walls—the one behind me and half of the one to my left were covered in pixels, connected via a curve instead of a corner that fit in the other three vertices of the room.

I set my tablet between the control tab and the main screen. A built-in magnetic dock secured my device at an angle, and a keyboard was illuminated on the display.

As soon as I placed my device on the dock, it connected to the display table and surrounding screens on the wall. A login screen popped up on the tablet, though, to make sure that I was authenticating the connection before I could share data.

I begrudgingly typed my password into the keyboard on the table, for the keyboard on my tablet did not popup. It got increasingly irritating after doing it tens of times this week already, and probably close to a thousand across my tenue. Unfortunately, it also had two-factor identification involving a facial and retinal scan. The two front-facing cameras on the tablet did the work easily enough, however, and it put me right back to the app I had open previously.

I shifted my eyes back up almost reflexively to see if anyone else had entered yet. After being satisfied after a couple of seconds, adding to the fact that I mentally hit myself for doing something so meaningless, I hit the home button equivalent on the table, taking me to the home screen. The tablet’s screen was presented in front of me, to the left and right side of the keyboard, on the table, though those windows were temporarily blank.

I turned my attention towards the Present app icon before I dragged it down over to the right paw corner and let it go. Synchronously, the app opened on the right side of the keyboard. As with all Infinity apps, it opened up to the Expanse which held all of my presentations, documents, spreadsheets, images, emails, and so on.

I clicked on the Phase Two folder, then the one titled Week Fifteen, and then I clicked on the Present file titled Week Fifteen Conference Presentation. As mundane a title as there was out there. The presentation opened up and went on to fill that section of the table while the sound of the door opening played.

“Oh, hey, Pascal,” came the accompanying voice. “No one else is here yet, I guess.”

With my head staying level, I looked up with my eyes. The chestnut Canisean held a napkin with breakfast clamped between it in his left paw while his right held his phone. That was until he set it down on the table. It picked up its signature, as it should, and displayed correlating documents on its screen in front of the seat he placed it at.

“Morning to you too, Bernard. I see you got breakfast without me. And don’t worry,” I replied slightly teasingly. “They will be here on time if they know what is good for them.”

I refocused my attention to setting up before the crowd arrived. I set the presentation into Speaker mode, prompting it to display itself on the wall behind me while the table showed me notes, the next slide, a timer, and other information not being publicly shown. It also displayed briefing icons for files I tied to the slide. When the slide came up, I could press on it, and it would automatically bring up the file for everyone at their seat.

“I could get you one next if you would like,” he said, trying to pass the time while we both got ready. Ever the altruist.

I didn’t bring my eyes up, shifting gear to getting the other windows setup. “All right, but write it down. Same as yours, but no smoked salmon or eggs, and add on olive oil and cayenne. I can get coffee on my own.”

As I said that, I brought up Veritas’ business window, showing compact headlines for news with a color background corresponding to the severity of the news. I also put on a muted screen on the wall showing VBN’s Opening Bell, but after that was where the news stopped.

“So basically just an avocado tartine?” Bernard replied.

I dedicated half of my attention to responding. “Uh, yeah, sure, more or less.”

“Whatever works for you,” was all he said, and we dropped it there. More people began filing in.

“Morning, Pascal. Bernard,” came one of them.

The three, soon four of them, exchanged pleasantries while I focused on putting up several pertinent documents, spreadsheets, graphs, and a to-do list up on the wall. It was laid out more ergonomically on my side of the table.

Once we had eleven in the room aside from myself, I sealed the door, turned the EC glass to privacy mode, and began.

“All right, let’s try to keep this short,” I said. The first meeting we had as a group, I was unsure and anxious, leading me to speak really quickly. As time went on, I had slowed my speaking pace to normal, but my enthusiasm drained with it. “Vasili, base organ functions.”

Recognizing my voice and the keywords, the presentation moved to the next slide. It was displaying real-time physiological data throughout the subject’s body, primarily the cardiovascular, pulmonary, digestive, and lymphatic. Heart rate, oxygen percentage, metabolic rate...the science was extremely interesting on paper, but it blurred together, meeting after meeting.

“Average resting heart rate hovers around, and sometimes dips under, forty BPM. Blood pressure of one-forty over eighty. Ninety-nine percent oxygen saturation—neuro can expand on that later—and the subject’s rate of digestion holds a high average. It should be noted that there appears to be extreme control over it, if I might point out, with a rapid change according to the situation. During calisthenics, heart rate increases to about sixty, as is shown by the chart up there—” He said, pointing up to the wall.

“So CRISPR has been adequate in increasing his organ’s efficiency?” I asked.

“His?” returned one of the scientists in the back. Kazemir.

“Its. Whatever,” I retorted, flicking my paw in the air. “Vasili, continue.”

“Well, right then,” Vasili said, getting back on track. “More than adequately, I would say. Our projections were placing it closer to fifty—seventy five during exertion—and we still have not done much in terms of stamina or endurance training. If properly pushed, we can reasonably get fifty during severe physical activity.”

“Close to thirty resting,” I asked in response. He nodded.

“Great. Darnaire, musculoskeletal.” The slides shifted in a similar way as to before.

“Accelerated growth is continuing on schedule. Muscle density is roughly thirty percent over normal, but there doesn’t seem to be much stress on the subject. No pain appears to be cropping up that is attributed to muscle or skeletal growth as shown by neuro’s readings.”

“Should I be worried about Hyperplasia or Hypertrophy then?”

“No. We and endocrine have talked about introducing controls to make sure it is stable and predictable. Once we had that thoroughly plotted out, we were going to come to you to clear it, Pascal,” he responded. They had all grown a lot through this whole process, though they had been here longer than I. Still, I remember in my early days when they would have their voices pitch up or their tails noticeably wagged.

“Good, that is what I would do. Just send the numbers over to my end, Darnaire.” I looked down at his department’s briefing to check the numbers I was looking for. “Last physical was two days correct?” He gave me a grunt. “Closing in on one-point-nine-five meters and ninety kilos?”

“Yeah, we are on target for two-point-one and one hundred respectively. Projected bone density is solid too,” he replied, keeping on top of his figures.

“Good,” I said. “Good. Kazemir, get us up to date.”

The meeting went on for another hour or so. Each group continued to present its findings. Some had minor issues, but we were able to draft some procedures that would hopefully remedy them. Out of that hour, though, neuro took up a little over thirty. It was such a big part of this project that it was split into even smaller groups. Erudition, cerebral growth, neural synaptics, and on.

The main points, which I even had to distill, were high neural plasticity, a five-fold increase in connections within the subject’s brain, and an astronomically high intelligence over predictions. Just barely closing in on a year, and tests are showing an IQ beyond two hundred. The rate of change was decreasing, as it should, but still improving a noticeable amount week over week.

I closed the meeting. Enough time was already spent going over everything new, so in closing I made sure everyone knew what to do with the coming week. Some of that was left up for them and their respective teams to decide, but everyone understood that there was to be some sort of progress or growth.

After waiting for everyone to get back to their schedules, I emptied out of the room as well. The glass went back to a state of transparency, the lights went off, and the screens inside went dark. All while I walked down the labyrinth of hallways.

More people were milling about in the corridors now than before as the workday began to gain momentum. Several of them put on pleasant faces after they noticed me, perhaps seeking for that minor edge that they may gain. More respect, more work, more credit. All the more reason to not pay them much attention. It was more out of fear on their part than respect.

I stepped into a stairwell that was seamlessly integrated into the hallway. The walls folded and curved into it while the individual steps, straight where one would put weight on them, curved at right angles into the sides of the walls. A mix of curves and geometric blocks. It switched back in direction on a mid level platform purchased between the first and second level before I was deposited out on the second floor.

The mezzanine overlooked an expansive lower level that mostly consisted of lower and mid level researchers, technicians, scientists, engineers—you name it. Calling them even low or mid tier would be an insult, for (almost) without exception, they were rather adept within their own fields. Big fish in a big pond, though, and as such, there were those above them. Senior staff.

The space down below wasn’t formatted in rigid cubicles like so many offices here, but it also wasn’t done in one of those “open office layouts” that many companies proudly flaunted, hiding their true, cost and space saving nature in exchange for lower productivity. Unlike those offices’ executives, this facility was spared no expense with the office area being given high ceilings, large work spaces, and an organic—some might even say chaotic—layout that actually had a method to the madness. It was divided into sections based on fields, and while no areas were the same, one was still able to recognize the patterns to ascertain the location of their desired objective out of the hundreds of possible work stations.

Group heads occupied true offices with glass walls and doors. These were located on the outskirts of their respective groups, acting as the border or frame to the box.

Those who held higher positions, however, such as division managers and the project manager occupied the few offices on the mezzanine level. Gives them the ability to oversee everything. They were given larger offices of their own even when compared to the offices directly beneath them. Walled off by yet more reflective glass. Fortunately, it was electrochromic. Outside of the offices, though, was a walkway that went around the entire space. It was a mix of going behind or right up to the entrances of the spaces. It was also given a glass barrier that rose to one’s torso, topped with a, of all colors, gold railing. The panes themselves were covered in gaudy, ostentatious gold patterns arrayed at right angles and sharp lines.

I walked over to the office that bore my name. Muscle memory and habit made it take little effort to trace my path towards it. The door, as always, opened after reading my face before I even stopped to enter, making my escape into the place feel less distinct from where I just came from.

The office was far larger than the conference room that I had come from. Unfortunately, it was not spared a midas’ touch.

The ceiling reached upwards by somewhere around four meters. Suspended from it were gold-trimmed, cuboid light fixtures which were separated from the general space by sheets of glass—also suspended. The walls were mahogany accented with yet more metallic gold trim in patterns very similar to the railings outside. Just on a larger scale. Sharp, straight, blunt. They even made them thick enough to put multiple lines in when there should have just been one, not three. None would be preferable.

The only wall that was not completely covered in the hideous paneling was the left side. A large two-by-eight or such sheet of it too. It too was not spared the gaudy vomit due to the wall framing it.

I walked along the length of the room and set my tablet on the top of my desk before retracing my steps over to a workstation on the right—my left—of the door. It was the only place in the office that actually felt like mine. More contemporary and minimalist than the transitional, art deco nonsense that plagued everywhere else. The wide, U-shaped desk had its right and back side pressed into the corner with the left one separating the space from the rest of the room.

My desktop display, positioned on the back bar, awakened and went from transparent to opaque as soon as I got close enough. It was one of the few pieces of technology that had what most thought was two-step authentication. Not because the board thought that everything else was more important, but because the facial recognition was already extremely secure with redundancies and contingencies. Mine was able to have it due to it belonging to the Project Director.

It scanned my face before prompting a password, but I also had to go through the process of darting my eyes across the screen in a certain pattern to unlock it. I went with the one for work.

It was already synced up with everything. Any files that had been edited, added, or removed across the entire team were updated to fit on here. Only difference was deleted files became archived ones.

I loaded up some files over the course of the next hour or so. Vasili opened up a chat and transferred over some of the new data he and his team had collected, but otherwise it was a very similar process to every day. Go through updates, correct any inconsistencies and, if needed, order another round of testing, review proposals, and sometimes que up models to be queued up via the printer on my right. A GR78k-CBI.

It eventually started to construct one of the organic models. The manufacturer marketed it to be capable of extremely rapid construction of organics, but even then, it said it was going to take two to three hours to get the eyes done.

Using that as an excuse, I went over to the area across from my workstation. Some new age seating, a coffee table, and tea cart located around or on top of an unduly furry. I was just about to sit down before realizing I had my goggles and gloves still on. Walked fifteen steps back, took them off, and then remembered my tablet. Went and got that too.

Facing my workstation, I sat down on the only loveseat in the arrangement before swinging my legs over the armrest closest to the wall that framed the doorway. I brought up my tablet and docked it with its keyboard base, went into the online video app, and streamed one to the enormous television secured on the wall in front of me with several more queued up due to my using a playlist.

I went through dozens of videos, taking notes on my laptop as fast as my ears would permit. What should change, what should be avoided, what should be reinforced. I noted the shifting geopolitical conflicts in different areas. Who was working well, who wasn’t. Some of the videos were hosted on a news channel, unfortunately letting their biased hosts talk over the speeches and interviews, but there were more raw footage examples overall. I was interrupted by some questions or status updates by various members of the project, but most of them were easily remedied.

I occasionally shifted apps. Checking up on the printer’s status via its app. Showed a view inside it using a camera mounted within, and various statistics were placed to the right such as percentage of the current print and what not. Also made sure to check up on the subject’s room every half hour, monitoring what he was doing.

That was put on pause once the eyeballs were finished printing, leading me to stop the playlist, get up, and move them into a container for future testing.

My body was feeling rather compressed, so I decided that it would be best for me to stretch my legs a bit more. After remembering to take my safetyware off this time, I headed out of my room, down a flight of stairs, and into the offices. My main focus was with the less senior staff and researchers, meaning I stayed mostly clear of the surrounding office boxes.

Only a few people—slightly over a dozen—came up to me to ask work related questions. Mainly about expectations, though five of them were technical in nature. They could have asked anyone immediately above them, but I tried to make a point of interacting directly with them, even if it was far below my position. Helped to build up trust, respect, and a personal sense of responsibility. That was the hope, at least.

By the time I was done, it was about 17—. It was half past five o’clock. Back to my office to close the day out.

I retired to the loveseat a second time. Upon entering the room, the numerous displays and electronics yet again turned on seamlessly. Pressing a button in the app on my laptop resumed the videos on the television yet again.

She was doing an interview on the one I was viewing at the moment. On Veritas no less. The interviewer was throwing hardball questions, far more difficult and challenging than the ones she normally asked. Lorelai Petrovna. She knew how to work her interviewees into a corner, manipulate their answers to mean something that they didn’t, and force them to embarrass either themselves or their organization.

She was very good at what she did, a big reason why her show was positioned during prime time. Problem was that the person she was interviewing was punching back, and a bit harder than she was.

When asked about policy decisions, she broke out statistical analysis—when pressed for justification, she cited precedents of governing bodies around the world, gave examples of solaeren rights violations, and gave reconstruction plans along with specific allocations in terms of funding—when pummeled with incidents, accidents, and failures, she admitted to faults, pointed out exactly how they had already planned around them for the future, and retorted with specific grievances of her own that had yet to answer or respond to. She was unrelenting, and Lorelai was scrambling about her paws at the end of it.

I only turned my attention away when I heard a notification sound for the door. Remaining locked and fully secure, it turned transparent—at least on this side. Triangular tessellations showed what was on the other side of the door.

Bernard was standing on the other side. The man was standing at attention, his tail subtly wagging.

The digital office assistant or whatever chimed in as I straightened myself up. “Authentication of entry required,” it said. A very feminine and robotic tone.

“Grant access,” I said. The door slid into the wall, though it unveiled a scene that hardly differed from what it had just presented.

With the door flush with the wall, Bernard walked a meter into my office, donning a suit instead of the labwear everyone, including he and myself, dresses in. Seeing me, his face switched into a smile. I got up and straightened myself out. The video paused with my attention diverting.

“What in the world are you up to, Pascal?” he interrogated. Used a light tone to inject some levity. “I mean, why is Itsuko up on the big screen? Don’t say you are turning into a silverblood on me,” he added, chuckling lightly at the end.

I retorted with a lopsided smile. “Just taking notes on what I see. That’s all.”

With a conversation started, he walked further into the room while speaking. “What for?”

I glanced down at my notes briefly while a responded before turning my gaze back up to meet his. “Strengths, weaknesses, geopolitical relationships; trying to see what we are doing well, what we aren’t, and what we need to keep hammering them on.”

He nodded. “Giving any love to parliament?”

“Parliament and execs of the multinationals.” Seventy-Thirty split “Fifty-fifty split between the two. I think it’s more important, though, to look at the Aelmerians than ourselves. Everything we do is more or less a response or proactive attack against them. It doesn’t matter if we do five percent or three hundred percent better than them—so long as we nudge them out, we come out on top. It’s competition against them. Once we win that, it becomes a competition to better ourselves, but we need to get there first before we can think of any action outside of how it will affect the Aelmerians.”

“And you think you can affect that kind of change down here?” he riposted, wearing a smug look.

I chuckled back to keep things light. “At the very least, I enjoy the analysis it forces me to do. Her interview with Lorelai is pure obfuscation. She’s playing 4D chess, and all of the Federation is playing the long game. We want to understand how they think, understand how to best react to their advances. Even better would be to be able to predict their actions and cut them off at the heels. Worst case, I am able to keep myself going at a hundred kilometers and hour. Best case, someone listens to these once I finalize them. I’m expecting a middle ground, honestly. At least with that we can inform ourselves on how to best more forward with our project.”

“Don’t worry, I get it.” He was looking around my office as much as he looked back at me. “The next guy might not, though.”

“Noted.”

I knew why he came here. There is no surprise there. It also wasn’t hard to tell what he wanted to say, but was hesitant to say it due to the power dynamics at play. I tried to butt in before it got awkward.

“I’ll get ready soon.” He gave me a ‘I don’t give a shit, dude’ kind of look. I corrected myself. “Alright, I’ll get ready now. My bad. I did get a bit distracted.”

I turned around and headed to behind my desk on the right-paw wall while continuing on the conversation.

Have to do something to distract me from feeling so unprotected.

“Remind me again who we are going with tonight? Just want to make sure I have the names down.” My head was facing away from him, but it continued on normally.

While he responded, I pressed a wall panel that wasn’t being obstructed by books, a shelf, countertop, or discarded prototype. Countering my push, it slid out automatically. A variety of clothing was contained with in the wall panel, ranging from suits that were hanging by a pole that ran half the horizontal of the entire array to shoes tucked into a diagonally placed shelf positioned below a mirror. Half a dozen belts and ties were hanging from two devices.

“I’m just going to expect you know you, me, and Ariane are coming tonight—”

“I do.”

“Right then. Well, you have Artyem and Luciana Mikhail, Blaine and Margot Langston, and Aligorin and Clara Chopin.” He ended it with an amused huff.

I responded with a questioning one. Anything to take away from the fact that I was taking off my shirt in front of him.

“I just find it odd that I am telling my boss who is going to be at dinner.”

“Well, I am not a very traditional boss, now am I? Besides, I never was very good at names. It is Langston that is finance, right?”

I took off a shirt from its hanger. It was an upscale place, so I was going for an outfit that was equally upscale, though I was never one for suits, let alone neckties. The shirt was far too fucking gaudy for my tastes, but it would fit the place tonight. A metallic gold button down with an organic, floral-like pattern throughout. Heavily metallic.

Might as well play the part.

“Yeah, private equity guy. Managing director of technology at Stazuk Capital, I think.” I could tell by his footsteps that he was over around my workstation.

Swallowing my pride, I dropped my pants. Doubted chemically resistant plastic would get the looks that I was hoping for. I chose a medium-gray pair of pants to replace and slid them on quickly. They went up to mid way on my metatarsals.

“I don’t think I could ever go into private equity,” I responded while I looped a belt through. Black leather, polished onyx and gold buckle. “Far too irrational and eccentric for my tastes. Now debt...debt’s something I could do.”

That brought about the truest, genuine laugh I had heard from him in a long time. “Oh my heavens! Pascal, you!? You wouldn’t last a day in finance.”

No kidding. All of those arrogant, pretentious egomaniacs would leave me dead sooner or later. At least the hours are about the same.

“Heh, you’re probably right. And you met them how again?”

I looked back at me as the same time I did, mentally prepared for him to respond in such a way. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Hey, if I can’t even remember their names, we might as well have a crash course,” I said.

“Our wives were sorority sisters in university. Ariane and I start dating, Blaine and Margot start, leading to many a double date,” he concluded.

“That was while you two were in grad, right?” He nodded. “Class act?”

“He is. You might find him to be a bit of a,” he paused for a slight bit, searching for the right word so to not get me too riled up, “Peacock. But he appreciates resolve and acumen, so you two might hit it off.”

“Bernard, half the people we know are peacocks,” I said. “Heavens, I wouldn’t be in such a position if I wasn’t. Don’t worry.” My paws went for a complementary tie. Threadlike gold stripes on black.

“Uh huh.”

“Mikhail?”

“Independent portfolio manager. He’s probably the smartest out of the guys. Less skilled at conversation, usually keeping to himself, but he knows when to hop in. Wife’s actually a real estate agent. Gave me a solid deal on our place in Delafoisse Park.”

I was trying to take down what everyone did mentally. Ego’s never in short supply, and everyone’s favorite topic is always themselves.

“Chopin’s on his way to make partner at Delaunay & Dupont. More so on the legalese side of things than on criminal defense. Wife’s a model for Glamor.”

“Alright. Kids?”

“Langston’s have a single child whom Margot looks after, Artyem and Luciana have three—two twins—overseen by an au pair, Clara wouldn’t be caught dead as a...rotund. Oldest is the Mikhail’s first at six.”

The note about Clara piqued my interest. Most women saw themselves destined to be mothers, so it was rare for couples to not have kids. Adoption was always a possibility, but most would prefer their own flesh and blood. Her being a model made it a more realistic outcome, though.

“So let me guess: none of them are below thirty,” I said.

“Clara is—twenty-seven—but Aligorin is nearing forty. Mikhail’s are both thirty-six, and the Langston’s ages are Ariane’s and mine.”

I tried at a witty remark about being “Ever the youngest.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt it matters when you’re heading up a black project. You’re a hell of a lot better than Tissen. Still don’t know what happened to him.”

Got taken out to lunch. The board didn’t like his work, but he knew too much. Couldn’t risk him hurting their investment. Lucky for me, not so much if I meet the same fate.

“I’m really not trying to compare myself,” I said. “Just mean it will be odd at the dinner table.” I started putting on a jacket. A small, geometric pattern blanketed it, but it was subtle. Well crafted too.

“The plan was for Ariane to ride over herself, right?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

A bit of time passed in silence as I motioned towards and put on my leather shoes. Slipped them on my paws while I tied the rest onto halfway up my metatarsals before reaffirming my pant’s position over them.

I turned around about ready to go before forgetting my cufflinks and watch, remembering that if you don’t have them of fine quality, socialites will have a field day pointing out your shortcomings.

I made sure to grab my phone on the way out with Bernard and I making our way outside.

As we continued to walk down from the manager’s perch to the lower mezzanine, I opened up an app and called my car. Should meet us when we exit into the parking lot.

Most people were still at their workstations or desks, not so dissimilar to the tech industry in the southwest. It was nearing in on nineteen-hundred. Wouldn’t be surprised if I came in tomorrow morning and saw that half of the engineers, doctors, and technicians hadn’t moved from their post. I’m not totally alien to the habit with many a night spent wearing three day old clothes and my teeth stained with espresso.

We eventually worked our way towards one of the main exits. Bernard walked up to one of the display panels situated between doors and pressed the option to call it, prompting an elevator to open up on our right. We hopped in, and using the display panel inside, I directed us to the parking garage. The elevator quickly closed its doors and began moving up with one of the walls within the elevator being used to broadcast VBN.

“...of comfort that nothing but heaven can compare to,” the luxury car commercial went before plainly stating its pretentious name. “Seraph.

“With the Chairman’s and Nova Security’s CEO’s announcement for expanding pre existing contracts with the private security company, the company’s shares closed today up six percent from their close yesterday,” the news anchor went on to say. “This week, the company has closed at yet again another record high, propelled forward both by today’s announcement and news earlier in the week discussing Qi Sheng’s proposed entrance into the multinational’s long list of clients. This also comes on the heels of the second week of riots in the Taurian capital, responding to the removal of port contractors due to a strike which crippled the country’s biggest port and is predicted to cost the nation and the companies involved with it around a seven hundred billion solars—”

The elevator reached our desired level and opened up into a reception area of sorts. Several employees were heading out for the night while a couple were still coming in, mostly for the night shift.

Bernard followed me as we passed by the main counter from the back. Two secretaries were working, their ears plugged into wireless headsets while their paws were busy typing away at keyboards. Two of the four women I had seen all day out of the hundreds of people concerning themselves with the project to some varying degree. One caught sight of us and waved. I returned the favor. Turning my head back to the right, I caught one of dozens of surveillance cameras positioned above the exit. Closing the distance between me and the door, it recognized me as it has hundreds of times and the glass doors slid to the side. Right before I stepped through them, my car silently pulled around.

“Evening, Director Bouchard!” a familiar voice called out from my side. Officer Devos, one of the dozens of security personnel assigned to oversee the protection of this facility and the company’s interests. He bore a fairly standard wardrobe amongst moderately ranking, non-military or riot gear contractors employed by Nova Security. Lightly armored, gray pants, combat boots, an off-white, breathable jacket, a darker, matte gray body armor using hard outer plating, and a gray cap that let his triangular ears poke through easily enough. A headset was fitted around one, carrying an adjustable mic along his muzzle. “Deputy Director Lievens,” he added, directed at Bernard.

Pistol, 9mm Kodiak automatic with a laser sight and polished slide. Holstered on his right hip. A Wolverine carbine was strapped around his back with a foregrip. Fired 5.56mm shells.

He was positioned right next to the door on the outside in such a way that I turned myself to walk backwards. I replied with a smile and mock salute, saying “Evening to you as well, Stefan.” I remembered him talking about his wife going into labor, so I tried to bring that up as a quick conversation. People love talking about themselves, especially their children. “How’s your wife and kid?”

“They are doing superbly!” he said as his face grew a grin that stretched from cheek to cheek. “Already back home, though little Aniese has almost aligned Lexi’s sleep schedule with mine due to all the crying.”

“It only gets easier!” I said before wishing him the best of luck and turning back around perfectly in time to duck into my car. Its doors had already opened due to our vicinity. I situated myself in the “driver’s” seat while Bernard made his way around the front to the passenger’s.

The car laid out four displays around my seat. A dashboard, utility controls on its left, a homescreen to its right, and a larger, thirty-five centimeter display below the homescreen positioned at an angle. The larger, or main, screen was showing a map with the route from our current location to the restaurant—information that it automatically gleaned from my phone’s calendar. The homescreen was on the radio tab, showing my favorites channels and an easy way to access my playlists. Both were entirely in black and white, though that was more due to the manufacturer’s style choice than the technology’s capability.

Bernard positioned himself in the cream bucket seat, leading to both of our doors closing behind us. I fastened my seatbelt, bringing both sides together at the hex adapter. We were off as soon as Bernard finished working on his. It was a smooth acceleration, and the car began to make its way out of the concrete and metal garage, driving up a spiral ramp.

Several metal shutters opened up for the car before we were outside. The lighting instantly went from being fairly well lit to extremely dark, though the surrounding area was sporadically lit by flood lights. Everywhere had a faint light cast over it, though, showing the small mounds of gray snow piled up on the sides of the road. The car’s windshield switched to a mix of natural light and an augmented, LIDAR view just so that Bernard and I could see the space easier.

The underground parking garage had opened up in an unloading area around the back of the main building.

The car drove to the right, following the contours of the building before setting us down the building’s access, offshoot road from the main boulevard. The frigid temperatures had forced the trees that line the access road—a boulevard in of itself—to turn baren. Eventually, we got to the gate. One of those more modern ones that was monochromatic, geometric, and flat with horizontal, metal slits. The car slowed down slightly when approaching it, but the gate opened up when we got near, and the car accelerated through it. We turned onto the main road, heading towards downtown. The Primanus Labs sign shooting by, a confirmation of our departure.

I was turning down my seat heater when Bernard broke the silence.

“Let me preface this by saying that I am in no way challenging your stances,” he said defensively.

He paused, waiting for my attention. I stayed in my hunched-over position, paw on the touchscreen while I turned my head.

We both started talking at the same time. “Go ahead,” he remarked.

“I—alright. I know what you’re going to say. Keep the conversation out of religion and economics.”

“And politics,” he added.

I gave him a look. Not aggressive, but more forceful than I would have liked in hindsight.

“Pascal. I know you have some rare and unique stances on some—well, a fair amount of things.” I tried to butt in, getting ready to open my mouth, but decided against it, letting him speak all he thought was necessary. “I know you mean well, I really do, and half the time I understand where you are coming from, but this crowd might not be the place for it. I would already err against it simply due to the atmosphere and location, but I would recommend you not antagonize them any further.”

I waited. We both did. His watching to make sure what he said sinked in, my slight pause to best formulate a retort.

“I don’t see the point in letting people continue on with false sentiments and assumptions,” I said, sitting back up and turning my whole upper body to face him.

“And they are going to think the exact same of you.”

“Bernard, last time we did something like this, half of your friends supported the court’s upholding of that law mandating schools to teach the Big Bang alongside Creationism as equals. To me, it is a moral imperative to have people see the difference between scientific fact and religious anecdote.”

“And the vast majority of this country would cast you down, with them declaring a moral imperative to evangelize and teach their truth.” Before I was able to respond, he raised his paw to add “I said their truth, not the truth. I won’t get into that now.”

After thinking and giving a slight pause, I asked “Should I be on the lookout for anybody then?” I asked.

“Pascal, I—” he paused mid sentence, rethinking his approach. “They won’t be a problem. I’ll make sure of that. Just don’t make my job harder, alright? I want this to be an enjoyable evening.”

His recontextualization made me feel like he was omitting commentary on someone. Blaine or Aligorin, I’m guessing. Artyem sounds less like a person to interject subjective stances, and all of the ladies aside from Luciana are probably just going to nod and drink their cabernet or champagne.

“Ok,” I said, making my tone appear more genial and passive. “I want this to be nice as well. I am guessing I don’t need to remind you about our rules of engagement.”

He nodded, bringing a smile as he likely turned his thoughts towards everything turning out well. “Seeing as I enforce it upon the lackeys even more than you do, I doubt it. No talking about work, and if it comes up…” he said, opening it up for me to finish it off.

“‘I prefer to keep my personal and professional lives separate,’ I know.”

“Good. Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, already turning his attention to the large, center screen. One touch and the media player was pulled up. Two more and some electric jazz was radiating throughout the entire car. Once finished fiddling with the volume, Bernard reclined back as his right arm waved up and down with the beat.

“Viridian Fire, right?” I asked.

He closed his eyes and responded back with a non-verbal hum. Euphoric bliss would be the best description of the noise.

“They’re good,” I said. “Better than most other artists on the scene, though I can’t say I see myself at one of their concerts.” He opened his eyes and looked at me before going back to his trance.

I won’t tear you from your peace. Just understand that you don’t have the worst taste in music that I know. Still shit, though.

Leaving the satellite alone, I turned my attention to the passing landscapes. The car was following a winding path as the road was fitted to the contours of one of the many hills perched above the bay. There were a couple of areas off to the right of the road that had small, secluded parks that had hedges surrounded a pergola and fire pit. I saw one being used by a host of young adults, but most people would be hunkered down in their homes.

The houses acted as layers, working their way up the hill’s fairly steep slope. They all faced out to the bay on our left with columns holding them and their complementary, indoor and climate controlled pools above the barren, frozen ground below. They were all luxurious, and while the commute would have been extremely convenient for me, everything else was a major deterrent. The multi-million solar price tag only compounded them in my eyes.

Our surroundings changed with the landscape as we transitioned from suburbs to uptown to midtown. Buildings went from having two or three storeys to ten, fifty, and now exceeding a hundred. Metal and glass, while still used widely everywhere, became even more prolific as wood was delegated to ornate ground floors. Roads straightened out, following sharp edges instead of hugging nature.

A kilometer or so down the stretches of road, I could see the multicolored neon glow of advertisements, though with distance they were indiscernible. The posh and more affluent neighborhoods of Saint-Michel were spared those eyesores, though being able to say that reminded me of my place. They originally drew tourists due to an almost cult obsession and uniqueness, but the past several years have all but seen that uniqueness disappear with any part of town that was not solely inhabited by millionaires fall victim to the plague that it was. A flood of overstimulation and consumerism.

Traffic had been pretty stop-and-go for the past kilometer or two. I was almost oblivious with my attention being torn between staring out the windows and checking my emails. I checked on Bernard intermittently, and he seemed to be about the same. The station had changed tracks, and he seemed to be listening to it, just not with the same amount of pep.

I looked over into the lane to the left of us. A car, metallic white, from four years ago. The woman in the front seat had her hair tied back into a ponytail, paws firmly grasping the wheel in front of her. She seemed tense, having to keep her eyes trained on the car in front of her to move up a meter or less at random intervals before abruptly jerking forward and coming to a third stop within forty seconds. Her hair had a slight, oily tint. Probably driving back home after a stressful week, though anymore details, and I would have just been fabricating my own story for her life.

The wind outside of the car was starting to pick up, drafting snow that had collected on the ground into the air as if it was falling upwards.

I glanced over at the center display, half parts curiosity, half parts impatience. I could at least keep my attention honed in if I was doing something busying. We were a fourth of a kilometer from the restaurant, though it calculated that we were still three minutes out. The line between us and the restaurant was a bright red. We would still be about ten or fifteen minutes early, though, so that was good.

Crossing an imaginary boundary shifted the surrounding buildings designs towards a more neoclassical style with marble and stone columns. A part of the city that sprung up fifty or sixty years ago before the more affluent members of society headed out of the city center.

The stores went from chic and modern to classy boutiques that would cost hundreds just to try the dressing rooms. Perhaps a bit hyperbolic, but a serious trip into one of them would cost the same as half of my car, so if anything I’m being generous. Lacquered wood panelling, gold shelving, and leather seating. I remember going into one for a watch repair three months ago. Took an hour. It could have taken five minutes, but by their reasoning it didn’t need to. Sit down, read the newest edition of The Laureate, drink a latte, have a personal masseuse; they pamper you. The product isn’t why one goes there, but the service and experience. Still not worth ten grand.

Bernard perked up, putting his phone away into his jacket breast pocket and turning his gaze out the window.

The restaurant’s profile came into view. The foundation of a more traditional skyscraper compared to some of the buildings that could have doubled more as a modern art exhibit, it had its exterior layered in polished granite blocks that held a certain orange tint due to the lighting. Purposefully crafted ivy highlighted windows and pillars without taking away from them, and metal guarding no higher than my ankle surrounded a row of ferns that hugged the wall. Still alive and green to my amusement.

The car pulled into an indented area in front of the entrance. Bernard and I pressed the button on our respective doors, only to have a gust of wind blow through the car from my side. The contrast was irritable and surprising, at least for me. Dozens of glittery white flakes were littered over Bernard’s black coat and fur, and he let out a cross between a groan and shiver.

I didn’t have to worry all that much about being taken out by traffic, what with it moving in the single digits, so once I centered myself, I made my way around the hood of the car and onto the sidewalk. My door closed behind me as I stepped away.

There were a fair amount of people walking to and fro. Not as many as one would see during the summer or midday, but enough to keep your gaze up in order to swerve around the slowpokes. Around half of them were on their phones. Unfortunately, though as expected, it was hard if not impossible to see a Felonian in the swirling sea of Caniseans. A fairly even distribution of men and women, however.

The men were dressed rather homogeneously. Dark overcoat, slacks, and loafers. A couple wore flat caps, though a ways away from a majority. The women had similarly homogeneous styles, though the expression and execution differed wildly. Thick, puffy, fur coats draped the shoulders of many a socialite, ranging from chocolate to fuschia. There was a split between leggings or bare legs, about fifty-fifty, though every single one, without fail, had boots that went up to their knees. Most also wore hats, from cloches to pillboxes. Still mostly fur, and deliberately coordinated with the rest of the wearer’s outfit. Some of the clothing even acted dynamically with the entire piece shifting colors. Sometimes in a pattern, sometimes as a solid palate.

Quite a few held cigarette holders betwixt their left fingers.

We contorted our way through the crowd. It was noticeably warmer underneath the restaurant’s metal and glass portico. It stretched, what I would guess to be around five or six meters, from the building to the the street without support columns, with many heaters suspended from it, radiating a warm, orange glow.

There was a valet podium to the left of the entrance, hugging the side of the building. I went over to the wood and gold stand while Bernard waited for me to the side of the entrance so to not block anyone.

A Canis male, tall, broad shoulders, and fur colored slightly darker than birch, stood behind it.

“Good evening, sir.” A thicker accent than most, though his words were still crisp. “Would you like for me to valet your car?”

I brought up my phone and switched to the right app while I responded. “Actually, I’m just going to auto it.” It wasn’t a hard decision. Wouldn’t make sense for me to send it out to the network in such traffic and without a solid deadline of when I will be done.

He smiled all the same, gesticulating towards the NFC reader. It was superfluously ostentatious. White with gold trim. It and my phone worked as they should, and my car would work its way over to the valet parking lot. At least when it had the space to turn into the main road.

We exchanged curt nods before I turned back to Bernard. He opened one of the doors—it was glass and gold and three meters tall—for me, and we entered the more comfortable foyer.

One exit behind me, two on the left, one in the kitchen in the very back, and one on the right. I could only see two.

There wasn’t a lot of difference in the temperature inside, though it was a lot less windy. A long, marble reception desk stood in front of us, flanked on either side with openings into the restaurant proper. There were only three colors used throughout, that being chocolate brown, gold, and alabaster.

A seating area was to our right. Some privacy was given due to wooden screens, though it was more for aesthetics. Low, comfy chairs and coffee tables littered with appetizers and drinks on coasters.

The left held a bar. There was more energy and youth compared to the more laid-back seating, and everyone seemed to be enjoying beer, champagne, or martinis. Plenty of laughter to match.

Bernard walked up to the desk in front of us. There were two fairly young women standing behind computer screens while the surface of the desk had several potted plants. They were both of average height. Small features, though, with white and cream fur respectively.

He smiled and began talking to one, probably confirming the reservation or asking if anyone had arrived yet. A woman from the bar began to make her way over, however, carrying a champagne glass in one paw. She was taller than average, though very lithe. Her dress ever so slightly hovered above the ground. White with an air-blasted gold pattern while leaving little to the imagination.

Bernard turned to face her as she approached. He hugged her before they exchanged kisses on each cheek. Then they turned to me.

“Doctor Bouchard, a pleasure,” the woman said as she put out the paw not occupied with her drink. Forced me to kiss it as is customary. “Bernard has told me so many things about you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle. All good, I would hope.”

She smiled at that. Her teeth were almost too white. “But of course.” She turned to Bernard. “Ali is on the phone right now, but he should be done soon. Would you two care to join me at the bar?” Her tone came off as very endearing and submissive, though it seemed to me as though she was aware of that.

“Lead the way,” Bernard said.

She had a little alcove carved out for us. Naturally, she took to a chaise. There were several á la carte options laid out. Some seasoned olives, charred shishitoes, fried avocado slices, and a serving of lobster sliders. The woman, whom I presume to be Clara, seemed content with ignoring them, paying attention solely to her champagne.

I had a couple of nibbles seeing as the food was already ordered. The portions quite miniscule. Tasty, but not overly filling which I presume to be the intention.

Bernard and Clara chatted for a fair bit, largely catching up on stuff I wouldn’t know. Aligorin came out from around a corner after a while. Chestnut fur, glasses, and slightly rotund. A little over a hundred kilos. The three-piece he was wearing didn’t show it, though. Chalk it up to custom tailoring.

Bernard got up, extending his arm out as Aligorin approached and greeted him casually. Aligorin gripped Bernard’s paw, but pulled him in. “Good to see you, old sport,” he said. His accent and older age evident in his voice. A firm pat on Bernard’s back concluded their reunion.

He turned his whole body to face me. “And I take it you’re Monsieur Lievens’ plus one. The Doctor.”

I extended my paw out of courtesy. “Pascal is perfectly suitable for tonight, Mister Chopin.”

He took ahold of my paw and yanked it closer to him, shaking it firmly. “The same goes for you, my boy. Ali will do.”

I nodded and went along with his more dominating ethos. I’ve had to cross paths with more than a few individuals of his...caliber. One gets used to dealing with their type. The three of us joined Mrs. Chopin and sat down. Aligorin promptly called over a garçon to order three beers for the three of us guys. He seemed ruffled when my teetotalling disposition came to light, but three lobster sliders down his gillet and he was onto other topics of discussion.

Soon, our little domain had spread out from being an alcove in the bar area to several tables, seats, and dozens of glasses being carted back and forth by the serving staff thanks to the arrival of the Mikhails followed by Ariane and the Langstons. My suggestion to move to the more spacious seating area fell upon deaf, and very likely inebriated, ears.

Thankfully, once the party was made whole, we were eventually escorted to a private dining area. An offshoot of the more public, open, and tired dining room.

A circular table, nine seats surrounding it, with a white tablecloth draped atop it. Gilded vases and candles decorated the surface, growing towards the center in nine rows building in height, sandwiching each of our places. Gold and white plates with floral patterns, gold and clear glasses, and stylized, golden utensils placed about with immaculate precision. I counted four knives, four forks, and two spoons.

The worst part about the gaudy display was that no one thought of it as over the top. They all expected it to be clad in twenty-four karats as if they were paying for a slot in heaven. There’s a reason they’re called gold blooded.

We exchanged business cards right before we sat down. By that, I mean all of the men along with Mrs. Mikhail gave me theirs. I gave them all my own as is expected, though completely blank except for my name. They all had theirs outlined or stenciled or hardstock in premium materials. A hold over from the good days. They at least seemed intrigued by my card’s digital properties to ignore it’s nondescript nature.

“So, you’re coworkers?” Artyem said before taking a bite out of the fourth course, a wagyu porterhouse. Bernard was on my right, but Luciana flanked my left. Artyem was to her left.

“Yeah, I would think that’s a fair name for it.”

Blaine cut in from the right. “Oh? As equals, eh? I would have expected Bernard to be a superior to a pup like you.”

“Blaine, it’s really—” Bernard said in an unsuccessful attempt to cut him off delicately.

“I mean, when this guy,” he said, pointing to Bernard across Ariane, sipping her white wine tightly. “Called me up, vouching for a white-collar biologist—”

Geneticist, you prick.

“—Without a social life, it had to be out pity for one of his lackeys,” he finished.

The table went silent. Mostly. Ali seemed to be holding back a chuckle out of amusement.

“Bah, no matter. What do I know?” he said nonchalantly, trying to show some fake sense of humility to appease anyone who was not satisfied with his childish, snide remark. I rather enjoyed it. Made me feel vindicated.

Bernard set his fork down. “Blaine, come on.” He was acting endearingly oddly enough, deescalating. “He’s a genuinely good guy, and I think we can all attest to how increasingly rare that is nowadays. And I didn’t ask him out to join us for his sake; I did it for yours, so please, let’s all enjoy the night.”

“Well then,” Ali said, turning in my direction. “Looks like you’ve made a rather solid impression on our good friend here, kid. That, or you’ve become old Bernard’s pet improvement project. Let’s just hope it’s more successful than his last one,” casting his gaze on Blaine, prompting an eye roll.

“Wow,” Bernard said jovially. “Low blow, Ali. At least I’m not having a mid-life crisis.”

Clara wrapped her paws around Ali’s left arm and kissed his cheek. “I think it’s just living life to the fullest,” she said softly but adamant. “One has to make the most out of their time here, and you can’t say Ali is not fun.”

“Seven hypercars says different, Clara,” Bernard retorted. “Just admit it, Ali: you’re feeling old and trying to compensate.”

The table had transitioned into a dick-measuring competition. Not all that rare, really. I usually found myself at the end of one or two by the end of the day.

“Oh please!” Ali began, a cross between a shout and all-out laugh. “Every man dreams of having a car that can go from zero to a hundred in two seconds once they become successful.”

In the midst of Mister Chopin taking a pause between sentences, one of the waiters began to refill everyone’s glasses for a fourth time, starting with Aligorin’s.

That was before he shoved him away, spilling a rich cabernet sauvignon down the garçon’s vest and dress shirt.

“Fucking hell! We are conversing, you fils de pute.”

The waiter bowed his head sharply in deference. “My sincerest apologies, sir. Forgive me.” All he got was a snarl and a flick of the paw to get out. We never saw the waiter come to our table for the rest of the night, and I didn’t have a good enough view of the rest of the dining room from our private alcove to see if he still lingered.

“Damned blue-collars,” Ali said under his breath. Few seemed phased, and Clara patted his paw affectionately. “Whatever. As I was saying, everyone dreams of having a Avirault. Having several just means I have good taste.”

He was acting like a blasted egomaniac, and worse was that the alcohol wasn’t making him act unnaturally. The only thing men like Blaine and Ali understood was firmness.

“One-point-seven,” I said. Ali cooked his eyebrow while sipping the half-filled wine glass the server touched off.

“What?” Blaine asked.

“Two seconds is not the fastest out there,” I said, talking to everyone, though in my mind responding to the two of them. “Mine does zero to one hundred in one-point-seven seconds. Does that mean I have better taste in cars?”

“Pascal, what the fuck are you implying?” Ali asked indignantly.

“Wait, you have an Éclair?” Artyem Mikhail said, speaking up for one of the first times this evening. “They only began producing those a couple months ago. How did you get one so early?”

“Isn’t that the electric car company based here?” Blaine asked.

I nod.

Ali grunts, unamused. “Tech start-ups should stick to just that: tech. Even if an electric car has better acceleration, it still doesn’t have the same class and history as these brands that have been around for almost a century.”

“With all fairness, Ali,” Bernard piped, “It has a damn good amount of torque. Electrics are the way of the future, and if I may so, I had a great ride quality coming over here.”

“Oh really?” I retorted. “Well, I am sure it helps when you are blasting some of your e-jazz up to eleven along the way.”

That surprisingly brought some chuckles around the table. Bernard just rolled his eyes, but Ariane gave him a peck on the cheek, so he walked away from the deal happily enough. “I take it you aren’t a fan?” Blaine asked me.

“Afraid not,” I said, letting out a brief chuckle of my own.

“Well then, what are kids listening to today?” came Ali. Still trying to knock me down a peg with my age.

“I’m not exactly the one to ask when it comes to that,” I said. “Frankly, I’ll listen to anything but that terrible KDM,” I lied.

“You mean EDM?” Luciana said.

“No, I think it’s what some of those Aelmerians do,” Artyem told his wife.

“It’s for Kinetic Discharge Music,” I clarified. “Basically, those idiots point their guns to the sky, firing in a certain pattern, and find the racket it produces serenading. Why they would enjoy hearing damage eludes me.”

The table seemed to enjoy that. Our sixth course came out and was served by the wait staff.

“You know,” Blaine began. “I finally converted one of the guys under me to charter. Flew his wife and daughters last week down to Belvedere instead of slaving away in first class.”

“Ha, I might leave you and get my own private. If the blue collars at Rassault Motors keep pushing to unionize, I might even be able to grab an Obsidian-600XR in cash! God, Rassault is writing us a blank check to make sure the Royal Treasury shuts them down promptly.”

“You might as well get it now,” Artyem said. “The Treasury will never let something as stupid as RM unionizing go through.”

Bernard gripped my right paw before I could speak. He thought I would blow up in their faces. Now, of course, I wouldn’t, but I still couldn’t agree. They were right, at least, that the workers would never be able to unionize.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Blaine went on to say. “The Treasury has made some fucking idiotic decisions—the interest rate hike last month comes to mind. They won’t, however, do something as idiotic as allowing Communism to infiltrate this country.”

“Here here,” Artyem said, raising the glass of his that was filled with red wine. Bernard let go of my paw, and the whole table raised their glasses and toasted to that idea. I joined in, hiding my harbored resignation. Even the silent women taking a backseat to the conversation at the table did so as well. Ariane, Margot, Clara, and Luciana.

Blaine continued on. “You know, I read in The Imperial that the Federation was actually laundering funds in support of the union agitators.”

“The Federation isn’t laundering funds,” I retorted. “Itsuko’s press secretary came out, saying that they would be open to providing the legal fees or representatives of their own in order to lobby for unionization. That report about the money laundering has been debunked by numerous sites, primarily the Global Associated Press.” After I let it slip, I could tell my tone was a bit firmer than I would have liked it to be.

Stares around the table funneled towards me. Bernard slammed his boot down on mine. I barely covered my ass before Aligorin let a communist slur slip. “Of course, they should stay the hell away from our nation’s economy and politics. Any interference of theirs should be addressed with sanctions, but I don’t think throwing around conspiracy theories will help that. It just deligitamizes our stance opens us up to attacks and rebuttals.”

“You do realize the GAP is funded by the Aelmere Federation, right?” Luciana piped up surprisingly.

“Of course, but we do as well. Every country that uses the WIN has to pay into it, proportional to their bandwidth usage of course.”

“Every millimeter of leverage the Federation gets is a millimeter too much,” Artyem said. “It doesn’t matter if it is legal counsel or financing or political bribes. They are a foreign power interfering in the sovereignty of their political rival. At the very least they should be sanctioned. I am surprised that Nova hasn’t applied more pressure on them.”

“They have their paws busy enough with safeguarding us from those SRG extremists,” Bernard pivotted. “Every other week it feels like there is yet another terror attack. I hate to say it, but I’ve become so desensitized to them by now, and I am willing to bet that I am not alone in such a sentiment.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “The Winter Palace, the stock exchange, Infinity’s headquarters; the list goes on, and those are just the major ones this calendar year in Caskya. They average an attack someone around the globe every five days. Nova Security has a metric ton on their plate, and that’s on top of private VIPs, commercial services, and domestic policing.”

“At least they are professional,” Ariane said.

“I’m more thankful that they respect people’s privacy unlike the Federation,” Blaine said.

“How so?”

“You can’t be serious,” Blaine scolded. “When the board at Stazuk signed a contract with them, they formulated their own layout for patrols and security measures. They put in place some techno-thing to secure our WIN connection, but that was the extent of it. With the Aelmere Federation, they would have looked through our mail, private messages, tapped our phone calls, and learned everything they could about our families. I mean, no way in hell am I going to give anyone, let alone the government, that much control and leverage over my life!”

“Well, first off, the Federation has to ensure the protection of over two billion people without exception. The idea that they can simply set up patrols to watch over everyone’s safety is just as idiotic as it is impractical.”

“Last time I checked, Pascal,” Ali cut in. “Nova Security has enough contracts with the government that their jurisdiction might as well be every Caskyan, so I think it might be you—”

“The Domestic Counterterrorism for Private Enterprise Act, section seven, subsection thirteen, line one-seventy-three to one-seventy-eight.”

“What?” Artyem said.

“Section seven, subsection thirteen, line one-seventy-three to one-seventy-eight of the Domestic Counterterrorism for Private Enterprise Act states that Nova Security takes over, or may work in conjunction with the Federal Intelligence Agency, on all matters of civilian surveillance if it poses a threat to national security, at their discretion. In layman’s terms, they have complete authority to spy on any Caskyan, including online information.” Bernard stepped on my foot again. I thought it better to drive the point home. “Now, of course, you would know this, Ali, because your firm wrote and lobbied Parliament to pass the Act. Your firm also wrote a special clause, line one-seventy-six through one-seventy-eight, that corporate partners with Nova Security that deemed employees low risk individuals were exempt from private surveillance. Such exemption was, of course, also at the discretion of Nova Security and their partners—Stazuk Capital now being one of them.”

“Yes, but—” Ali began.

“And second, the Federation’s—”

“Hold on,” Ali cut me off, reaffirming his position. “Are you criticizing my firm’s work?”

“Well, no, that wasn’t my intention. It’s actually quite shrewdly written, though I’d be lying if I said I agreed with it.”

“So now you have a doctorate in law, is it? Passed the national exam?” He seemed defensive.

“Oh heavens, no,” I said. “You would likely be the far superior student of law between the two of us. I just like to know what laws Parliament is enacting. It’s our duty as members of a democracy, is it not? To be a well informed electorate. Even if you and I disagree on every issue, that is something that I believe we should all be proud of. It’s what separates us from those Aelmerian drones, after all,” I lied yet again. The pressure on my foot lessened.

“Now, as I was saying; the second point is that the Federation’s surveillance actions are in direct response to the single worst loss of civilian life outside of a theatre of war.”

“You’re talking about the Taipys Metro Attacks eighteen months ago, aren’t you?” Ariane said.

I nodded. “When over two million people die—the equivalent being every single person within fifteen miles of us being torn to shreds—you’re damn right I think you are more than justified in sacrificing some civil liberties in order to uphold their rights and personal security.”

“A positive view on liberty, in other words,” Ali correctly stated. I think he was getting a better grasp of who I was. Hopefully in a good way.

“You do understand that the Metro Attacks were the complete fault of the Federation, though, right?” Blaine said, getting more riled up as he spoke. “A nation built on ensuring other nation’s security, and yet they can’t even protect their own.”

“Last time I checked, Nova has a worse track record than the Federation—bastards they may be. Sure, the Federation has more successful attacks, but they also have to deal with triple the number of attempted terror attacks, and they are much more successful at thwarting them. So with that logic, you would be saying that Nova Security would be responsible for the hundreds of thousands of people who have died by attacks that they have failed to prevent.”

“There is a difference between a government and a corporation,” he defended. You’re right. One puts shareholders over the lives of their citizens and customers. “And even then, they thought it stupid enough to send tens of thousands of soldiers into the bombed-out stations, only to have them slaughtered as well.”

I think I just stared at him for a while. Perhaps a few seconds, perhaps half a minute; I am not really sure. Time just stopped for a second as I was filled with rage. I was surprised I didn’t launch myself at him, knife in paw. It wouldn’t be hard to drive it into his trachea.

“Are you suggesting that whoever was in charge should have just left all of those people still inside to die?”

“It would have meant there would be twenty thousand—” Twenty-six thousand, four hundred and seventy-three, actually. “—more people alive today. It was a stupid ass decision, and all of those lives are on the idiot who sent them to their demise,” he concluded.

“No shit.”