The Lazarus Protocol: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 1)

by Pourteau, Chris

  “What now?” Xi demanded, her lips souring into a pout.

  Marcus took a breath. “Jie wishes to nominate his daughter, Ming, as the next chief executive officer of Qinlao Manufacturing.”

  “Me?” Ming said.

  Xi’s disbelief filled the room with mocking laughter. “Her? She’s just a construction engineer. What does she know about running a company?”

  “As was Jie, if you recall,” Marcus said calmly. “He always believed character was more important than experience when it came to leadership.”

  The old woman snorted as she pressed flat the emerald folds of her robe. “I will not allow the inexperience of a child to destroy this family’s fortunes. Ming didn’t even care enough about her father to come live with him after his divorce.”

  Ming flicked a glance at Sying, who’d stiffened at Xi’s words. She bristled when Xi put a protective arm around her.

  “I will be the next CEO of Qinlao,” Xi proclaimed. “I will hold the leadership of this company in trust for my nephew, Ruben. ”

  “That would go against Jie’s wishes,” Marcus pointed out.

  “My brother is dead,” Xi said flatly. “I am sure the board will support my bid for the leadership. In fact, I’ve already suggested several ways to expand our investment portfolio that will make the company even stronger.”

  “I’ve heard about your investments.” The digitally amplified voice of Wenqian Qinlao sounded out of place in the Victorian décor of Marcus’ office. “Financial derivatives, transportation companies.” She made a sound like a fart with her mouth. “My husband was an engineer. He was a builder. He would be outraged by your plans.”

  “Well, thankfully, Jie’s not here now, is he?” Xi said, any pretense of mourning pushed aside.

  Behind them, Ito sucked in a breath at the flagrant disrespect.

  “Yes, but I am,” Ming heard herself say. “And I accept my father’s wishes.”

  No one spoke. She noticed Marcus fighting a smile. Behind her, Ito cleared his throat the way he used to when she’d impressed him in their sparring so long ago. Xi, for once, was silent.

  Feelings that had been brewing in her ever since Auntie Xi had invaded her life on the Moon coalesced inside Ming. A sense of family honor. A new appreciation for her father, who’d seemed so cold since setting his first wife aside to ensure his dynasty survived. Or maybe, Ming thought, it had been she who’d grown cold.

  Ming gripped her mother’s hand and received a spasm of reassurance in return.

  “That’s not how these things work, Ming-child,” Xi said. Her words swam in acid. “The board needs to vote for any executive appointment and you, my dear, do not have the votes.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Wenqian Qinlao’s mechanical tones seemed all the more potent for their lifelessness.

  Xi’s lip curled as she surveyed her ex-sister in law. “Quite sure.”

  “I think we can settle the matter right now, actually,” Marcus said. “More than two-thirds of the voting shares for the company are held by the people in this room. Even if the board wanted a different candidate, they would not be able to overrule the will of the family.”

  “Fine, Marcus,” Xi said. “If Ming and her mother vote together, their combined votes do not outweigh those of Sying and myself—”

  “I vote my shares for Ming,” Sying said.

  Silence spread into the four corners of the office.

  Xi gasped. “What? Sying, we discussed this—”

  “On one condition,” Sying interrupted.

  Marcus sat back in his chair, watching Ming. Jie Qinlao’s firstborn child felt her face grow hot. If it made her uncomfortable being stared at by her father’s oldest friend, how could she possibly have what it took to be a chief executive?

  From his position next to the door, Ito cleared his throat. “I would like to vote my shares for Ming also.”

  Marcus smiled. “Thank you, Ito, but you don’t own voting shares.”

  Ito nodded. “I still support Ming.”

  Despite the anger blanketing the room, Marcus chuckled softly. That short space of time away from the center of attention was enough for Ming to gather her wits. She calmed her pulse with the force of willpower.

  People believed in her. This was her father’s wish. Ming reached across the table and picked up the codicil to her father’s will.

  It was dated the day of her parent’s divorce.

  “It was always you, Ming-child,” her mother whispered at her side. “Always. Now I ask you again: are you in or are you out?”

  Ming turned to Sying. “What is your condition?”

  Her step-mother raised her veil and locked her dark eyes on Ming. Xi started to speak, but Sying stilled her by holding up a milk-white palm.

  “You will teach my son to be more like his father,” she said. Her voice was soft but firm.

  Ming’s insides churned, a tornado of emotion. The loss of her father. The realization that her idyllic life with Lily was over. The heartfelt support of those around her. The firm resolve to thwart her aunt’s lust for power. And the weight of responsibility that came with taking up the standard of Jie Qinlao’s legacy as it settled on her shoulders.

  All those years she had blamed him, hated him, and now…

  “I accept,” Ming said.

  Auntie Xi stood in a whoosh of green silk and strode to the door. “The board will not stand for this,” she said. Ito snapped the door open for her. She paused in front of him. “You’re fired.”

  The bodyguard’s face remained impassive.

  Ming stood, releasing her mother’s limp hand. “Ito, you work for me now.”

  Chapter 10

  Anthony Taulke • San Francisco, California

  Anthony was not a morning person. Never had been. Standing at the kitchen counter, he sipped his morning coffee and watched the sunlight stream through the spans of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Far below, downtown San Francisco buzzed with ant-people. He watched them scurrying about their business from his penthouse perch atop the Taulke building. He missed his house overlooking the Malibu seawall in L.A., where Louisa, his third-partner-almost-wife lived with their two young children. But the daily commute to San Fran had proven too distracting. It was the twins. They caused too much chaos to make a daily trip home worthwhile. When he was focused on business, Anthony had little patience for life’s disruptions.

  How had he let Louisa talk him into having kids, anyway? Except for Tony, he’d avoided the parent trap in his previous relationships, though Louisa had somehow won him over. When Anthony was honest with himself, it was his disappointment with his eldest that had deterred him from having more children. Until the twins came along, anyway. Maybe they were his last-ditch attempts at getting it right.

  Tony … what could he say? Not a chip off the old block. Like his mother in the sense that she’d been a people person, but so unlike her also. Marian was a reserved and caring individual who’d died far too early. Tony’s interests were all directed inward.

  Maybe that was my fault .

  He exhaled a breath, trying to recapture his inner calm. The real truth was that he didn’t like his own son very much. Tony was the kid who always took the path of least resistance. If there was a shortcut, Tony found it. Maybe he felt like if the world had taken his mother, it owed him everything else in balance. Or maybe he was just a spoiled rich kid.

  No, it was more than that. His son used people. Other people were simply a means to Tony’s ends, whatever the consequences. Anthony had made his own share of enemies on his way to the top, but he did it the old-fashioned way: he beat them fair and square through superior intellect and skill. And now he was using his “winnings” to make the world a better place for mankind—okay, Mars a better place for Taulke Industries—but was there really a difference? With the fortunes of Taulke rose the prospects for humanity.

  A calendar notice from his virtual assistant flashed on his retinal display.

&nbs
p; “Eight a.m. meeting in the boardroom.”

  He glanced at the time. 7:42.

  Must be a mistake. Anthony queried the notice for more details .

  “Adriana Rabh . Discuss financial investment.”

  He set his coffee cup down so quickly it sloshed hot and steaming onto his hand. His virtual must have scheduled the meeting and forgotten to tell him. He rarely saw anyone before ten.

  But for Adriana, he’d fly to the Moon at midnight if that’s what it took. And she was coming to him—that could only be good news.

  Anthony trotted into his bedroom, where he selected a conservative blue blazer, a pair of khaki trousers paired with a lightly starched white shirt, and his favorite loafers sans socks. He surveyed his reflection, assessing the eclectic-entrepreneur-turned-innovator look, and added a red pocket square for flair. He patted the slight, loose waddle under his jaw with disdain, then swept his fingers through his curly salt-and-pepper hair.

  Might be time for a cosmetic touch-up.

  Another time check: 7:58.

  He jogged down the curving steps from the penthouse to the boardroom level, sweeping past the stunning western vista of the Pacific Ocean. A line of thunderclouds limned with morning sun crept up from the south, trailing hazy rain behind it. He’d designed this entire floor to impress even the most hardened investor with the immense wealth of Taulke Industries.

  On the south side of the building Anthony spied a single, docked aircar, a Cadillac. The luxury craft was jet-black with tinted windows, no insignia, and no security people. If Adriana wanted to keep their meeting secret, it might mean she wanted a very large share in the Mars venture. Anthony smiled. The familiar buzz of a deal in the making was more intoxicating than any stimulant in the world .

  He paused outside the boardroom and shot his cuffs so they extended exactly a half-inch from the blazer’s sleeves, then pushed through the heavy wooden door.

  Helena Telemachus sat slumped in a plush leather seat, a leg draped casually over one arm of the chair. Her eyes appeared vacant as she studied the display on her data glasses. She looked up when he strode in.

  “Surprise!” she said, waving jazz hands. “Remember me?”

  Anthony kept his face still as he took in her short, dark hair and elfin ears. His virtual reminded him Helena preferred to be called H. He extended his hand, doing his best to project that her presence wasn’t at all a surprise. “H, of course.”

  “You’re a minute and a half late,” she said playfully. “Ms. Rabh would not have been pleased. She’s a stickler for promptness.”

  H took his proffered hand and pulled herself to her feet. She was lighter than he expected. Her loose blue jeans and hoodie looked out of place in the boardroom with its walls of oak luminous in the San Francisco sunshine. She flipped the data glasses up into her hair. “I’m afraid Adriana won’t be joining us, though. Three’s a crowd, right?”

  H laughed like the tinkling of a wind chime.

  Anthony jerked his hand away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mars? We agreed you’d take a meeting, remember?”

  Anthony adjusted his jacket. He regretted the red pocket square now. He felt like an idiot. “I’m afraid I have other appointments today. Perhaps we can reschedule,” he said, with no intention of doing so.

  H grinned but didn’t move. “Let’s see, I bet your schedule has you booked to see Ulysses Corp, Sanchex, and Amerigrow this morning?” She waited as he checked his display.

  “How do you know—”

  “Yeah, those are all me. Like how I spelled out U-S-A?” She put her hands on her hips, appearing very pleased with herself.

  “You hacked my personal schedule?” Anthony felt a chill in spite of his rising anger. She’d hacked his virtual assistant without setting off any of the security tripwires he’d personally implemented. That took real resources. And balls.

  “Don’t sweat it, Tony. I’ll have you back before tea.” She pointed to the docked Cadillac. “I’ll drive.”

  “My name is Anthony, by the way. Tony is my son.”

  H smirked. “Yeah, I know. Notice I didn’t invite junior to this meeting?”

  • • •

  “You can take it off now, Anthony,” H said as the aircar touched down. He heard her fingers tapping a control panel.

  Anthony slipped the hood off his head and raked his hair back. The faux leather hood was more than a blindfold; it was a dampening field that blocked all external connections. His retinal display flashed its offline indicator. The last location it registered was the Taulke building and it wasn’t picking up his present position. How was that even possible? He paid premium rates for worldwide coverage.

  “Ready?” Not waiting for an answer, H opened her door and got out.

  Anthony squinted in the bright sunlight. They were at elevation. His lungs had to work harder but seemed to gain less air for the effort. Rugged mountains surrounded them, and a fenced installation grew out of the far landscape. His internal clock told him they’d flown for maybe thirty minutes, so that could be Washington State, or Arizona, maybe Mexico—was there a mountain range in Mexico? He tried once more to engage his virtual.

  Offline flashed again.

  “Don’t bother trying to connect to the ’net. We’ve got the whole area dampened. National security, you know.” H donned a pair of dark glasses as she walked. “Figured out where we are yet? Don’t let me down, Anthony. I’ve got a bet riding on you.”

  A drone buzzed overhead as they approached a log cabin overlooking a broad valley. The valley floor was spotted with scrub brush. Beautiful scenery, but nothing cluing him in to their location. Anthony spied a nest of lightning rods and boxes on the cabin’s roof.

  “Arizona?” Why was he trading banalities with this ridiculous girl? The ridiculous girl that hacked your virtual, he reminded himself.

  H heaved a theatrical sigh. “Thanks for playing, Anthony, but no, we’re not in Arizona.” She leaned in. “Hopefully you’ll do better with the boss.” She held the cabin door open for him.

  Anthony blinked in the sudden dimness, afterimages from outside blotting his vision. Slowly, he made out the profile of a dark-skinned man dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans and seated at a rough, wooden table. Without broadcast makeup and a suit, he almost didn’t recognize Howard Teller III, the President of the United States.

  Teller rose, extending his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Taulke. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” There was no mistaking that voice. Deep, smooth as cream, but with a timbre of understood power.

  “Mr. President.” The handshake was textbook firm and reassuring.

  “Coffee?” Teller indicated a thermos on the table and an empty mug. Anthony nodded.

  The president studied Anthony’s face, then stared out the window for an uncomfortably long time. Anthony sipped his black coffee and tried his virtual again for the hell of it.

  “You know what the problem is with politics today, Anthony?”

  “No, sir.”

  When Teller leaned in, Anthony could see the famous gold flecks in the man’s soft brown eyes. “Money.”

  “Money?”

  Teller nodded as he fiddled with his coffee cup. “Money—there’s not enough of it. In politics, I mean. Used to be, you and I would have met long before now. I would have come crawling to you on my hands and knees begging for cash to get elected. We would have a preexisting relationship, one built on trust. But today?” He sat back in his chair, a disgusted look on his face. “It’s all polls and public opinion—and no one has to put their money where their mouth is. There’s no accountability.”

  “I see,” Anthony said, not really seeing at all. He’d always been taught that making all elections publicly funded had been one of the greatest achievements of the mid-twenty first century. And here was the President of the United States calling bullshit on the whole system.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, the old way of doing things was imperfect, to be sure. And there
were people who abused the system, but it had its good points.” Teller smiled. “So, have you figured out where we are yet?” He glanced at H, who’d sequestered herself across the room, once again draped over a comfortable chair. “H and I have a friendly wager going.”

  Anthony shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”

  “Los Alamos, New Mexico. Home of the Manhattan Project.”

  “The Manhattan Project? As in atomic bombs?”

  Teller leaned in. “In the mid-twentieth century, the men and women who worked here created a great weapon in order to save lives, to save the planet from continuing war. And they did it in total secrecy. Millions of dollars—would’ve been billions today—and hundreds, thousands of people all working together for the greater good of mankind.”

  “Really,” Anthony said, his tone skeptical. “You have a funny way of seeing the beginning of the Nuclear Age, Mr. President.” It was only after he said it that Anthony wondered if he’d just offended the most powerful man on the planet.

  “I see it like my predecessor, Harry Truman, saw it,” Teller said, rising and walking to the window. “The Manhattan Project saved American lives by making moot the need to invade the Japanese mainland. But semantics aside, Anthony, the war we’re facing today is worse—much, much worse. Total destruction by our own hand. We’ve turned the planet against us—and we as a world can’t seem to get our shit together to fix it. Floods, storms, gene-hopping viruses—they’re spiraling out of control. Whole populations are picking up and moving. Humanity is running around like Chicken Little, only this time, the sky really is falling .

  “What happened in Mississippi, the deaths of all those people in Arizona, the wildfires in the Northwest. These are just the beginning of the end. People are desperate, scared. And frightened people do stupid things. All over the planet, we’re in a war for our own survival as a species and we don’t even know it.”

  Teller returned to the table and sat down. When he looked at Anthony, his gaze was fierce, determined. He placed his hands flat on the table.