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

by Pourteau, Chris

  Ming pushed Sying away. “What?”

  The older woman drew close again, her eyes intense. “Anything less will give the Xiaos an opening that leaves you in a position of weakness. You brought this on yourself. The moment you let Danny Xiao into your bed, you sealed your fate.”

  “I don’t see how marriage helps me.” Marry Danny Xiao? The thought of a lifetime with that vacuous clothes model…

  Sying’s laugh was hollow. “That’s because you think of marriage as two people in love coming together. This is a business transaction, a contract between companies that also happen to be families. You can beat your aunt at her own game. You need Qinlao to become the largest manufacturing conglomerate in China—in the world. Bigger than the Xiaos, bigger than anyone.”

  Ming’s thoughts whirled. “I’ll never marry Danny Xiao,” she said.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Who said anything about marrying Danny Xiao?”

  Ming stared at her, confused again. “I don’t understand.”

  Sying took her hand again. “Do you trust me, Ming?”

  Ming found herself nodding. She did trust this woman, but why?

  Sying was a queen. She chose her destiny and made it happen. This was true power, Ming realized. And she wanted it for herself.

  Slipping on her shoes, Sying stood and straightened her robe. Ming could see the mask of social propriety slip back into place.

  “That is JC Han at the door. The Han family is in financial trouble. They’ve overextended themselves, and some of their creditors are demanding they settle up. He would be open to a contract negotiation that would pair his son, Ken, with you.”

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  Sying fluffed her hair about her shoulders. “I’m confident I can strike a bargain with the elder Han to allow us to keep control of the company following the merger. The Hans will run the Korean subsidiary, of course, for appearances’ sake, but all the rest is ours.”

  She bowed to Ming. Not a mocking bow, but a respectful, kind gesture. “With your permission, Ming, I will negotiate that deal.”

  Jie Qinlao’s firstborn child and heir apparent stood. The ache of obligation had lifted from her like a cloud. She’d watched this woman shed her emotional skin three times in the last hour. Which Sying was real?

  “What is the son like?” Ming asked. “Ken.”

  Sying tilted her head. “What are they all like, Ming? Danny Xiao is typical. A rich playboy who wouldn’t know work unless he was sleeping with her. These are not men like your father. Jie was a founder, he earned his way in the world. These next-gens … they’re lazy and self-indulgent.”

  “Like me?” Ming’s cheeks burned. “I’m a next-gen.”

  Sying paused. She reached out to stroke Ming’s cheek, her touch as gentle as a feather. Ming shivered. The stim and the whiskey together, she supposed.

  “I know about your lover. Lily? She was willing to stay, willing to bear the pain of rehabilitation. You sent her back. Why? Because you don’t love her anymore?”

  Ming shook her head.

  “Why, then?” Sying persisted.

  The doorbell rang a third and fourth time in rapid succession.

  Ming’s eyes sought the fire, then the wall, the floor, until finally she was able to look at Sying. “She would have been used against me … somehow, some way. I didn’t want that.”

  “You didn’t want her to suffer you mean?” Her eyes held Ming’s, demanding truth.

  Ming started to confirm that, then shook her head. “She made me weak.”

  Sying smiled then, and Ming’s heart felt light.

  “Exactly, Ming. That was the moment you chose to be a queen. That’s why I’m helping you. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a meeting—”

  “Did you love my father?” Ming blurted out.

  Sying paused, her eyes locking with Ming’s. “It was never about love, Ming. It was business. Always business.”

  Ito appeared in the doorway. Sying nodded. “Show Mr. Han into my quarters, Ito. And make sure we have his brand of whiskey in the room.”

  “All right,” Ming said. “Make the deal.”

  Her step-mother leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

  “Then let me be the first to say mazel tov .”

  Chapter 16

  Anthony Taulke • San Francisco, California

  Anthony flinched as the cosmeticist dug the needle deeper into his jaw muscle.

  “Damn it, Alix, that hurts!”

  Alarmed, the young man stepped back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Taulke. I must have touched a nerve. There should be no pain with the procedure.” He was completely bald with pale, androgynous features, reminding Anthony of the sculpted flesh of a peeled potato. Firm, white, and glistening with the sheen of the damp-look makeup all the kids wore these days.

  God, I’m getting old , Anthony thought. Now I’m complaining about what the kids are wearing .

  Anthony leaned back in his chair, trying to relax. Clenching up only increased the likelihood of pain. “Just be careful.”

  Alix smiled with his perfectly shaped white teeth. He lifted a fresh, hair-thin needle from the tray. “Beauty has a cost, sir.”

  “Oh, I know exactly how much it costs, Alix. And part of what I’m paying for is a pain-free procedure. Let’s see that I get my money’s worth, okay?”

  Alix’s expression appeared painted on now. “Of course, Mr. Taulke.” He slid another micro-needle into the meat of Anthony’s jaw. Was that a spot of liquid warmth as the needle delivered its payload? Anthony couldn’t tell.

  After his forty-eighth birthday, he’d shifted to monthly micro-cosmetic touch-ups, avoiding the need for more drastic surgery later. That was the theory, anyway.

  “That’ll do it, Mr. Taulke,” Alix said, his manner crisp. “Now, you know the drill. You need to stay in this position for at least forty-five minutes. Gravity is your friend, for once.” The bald sculptor of skin tittered at his own joke, trailing his finger along Anthony’s chin. “I worked on squaring your jawline today—it’s getting a little saggy.” He slipped his fingers into Anthony’s curls. “The volume of your hair is still excellent, but I am seeing more gray. A touch at the temples looks distinguished, but too much up top and it fades you out, so I did some dermal toning on your scalp. A short nap would do you good as well, sir.” His touch was light and a tad too sensual.

  Now that his skin was no longer being invaded by needles, it was a lot easier for Anthony to relax. He should have scheduled a massage, but it was too late now if he needed to stay face up for most of the next hour.

  He closed his eyes.

  The young man’s fingers withdrew, and Anthony heard the door close.

  Sleep. If only. True sleep was rare these days. Most of the time Anthony needed pharmaceuticals to make it happen. He’d forgotten the stress that embarking on a new venture created, and the secrecy of the Vatican Project robbed him of his usual trick of basking in the public’s adoration of his genius.

  Viktor Erkennen was taxing his nerves as well. True, his smart bugs, as Anthony thought of them, had made the atmospheric seeding project viable, but his ability to scale the manufacturing process for the bio-nanites was well behind schedule. President Teller was demanding a planetwide rollout plan from Anthony, something he could present to the United Nations, and soon. But whenever Anthony pressed him, Viktor just laughed it off and promised him everything was fine.

  And then there was H, still hacking his virtual and scheduling herself appointments whenever she wanted. Even more annoying, she’d made a game of it. She’d scheduled her last appointment for eleven at night under the name Mickey Mouse. Anthony hadn’t shared his reservations about Viktor with H yet, but he was sure she’d show up and demand an update for Teller at the least convenient time possible.

  Anthony’s pulse rate was climbing, probably not helpful to his cosmetic treatment. His thoughts were running together, so a nap was completely out of the question. But he was trapped h
ere, paralyzed for the sake of vanity, for at least another half an hour. He blinked on his retinal display and scanned the news.

  He ignored the disaster porn. Another Cat 6 hurricane, a dust storm in Nevada, the daily status of Antarctica’s sheering ice sheets… It all reminded him of work, and that’s the last thing he wanted to think about right now. The political news wasn’t much better. President Teller had won another flash poll, giving him the momentum to push his latest gun control proposal through Congress, which was sure to bury it in committee. No on e was in the mood to give up their guns these days. Too many people moving in too many places.

  Anthony settled on the tabloids, where a headline from The Public Eye caught his attention: Qinlao Heir on Track to Wed Xiao Heir . The story had all the trappings of a pure, paparazzi hit piece. The accompanying vid showed a slight young woman on the arm of a tall young man with a stylish, jutting haircut and wearing the latest in Asian fashion. Anthony recognized the man as Danny Xiao, heir to the Xiao manufacturing fortune, and a close confidant of Anthony’s son, Tony.

  The young woman struck him as different, somehow. She was the daughter of Jie Qinlao, whom he’d met once at an economic summit in Reykjavík. The Chinese manufacturing magnate had struck him as extremely capable, extraordinarily intelligent, and someone unafraid of hard work. Anthony vaguely remembered Qinlao’s passing a few months earlier and an invite to the memorial service. If he recalled the situation correctly, the CEO of Qinlao Manufacturing had been killed by a rogue virus on a remote job site. QM’s stock, of which Taulke Industries owned a couple hundred thousand shares, had taken a nosedive immediately following the death of its founder. Alert to any potential threat to his liquidity, Anthony had taken notice. He’d been relieved when the stock bounced back in short order, largely on the strength of the news that the young woman who’d caught his eye in the gossip column had taken the company’s helm. Lately, the stock had begun to fluctuate again amid rumors of infighting among QM’s board of directors.

  Like everyone else, he’d expected Xi Qinlao would be named CEO following her brother’s untimely death, a rumor Anthony suspected Xi herself had leaked. But Qinlao had named his eldest child his successor, and so far, she was holding her own in that position. Perhaps he should have gone to the memorial service after all. He might have gotten to know the daughter better. Despite her questionable taste in men, she struck Anthony as someone to watch closely.

  He ran a quick search on Ming Qinlao in the company database and was surprised to see she’d gone to undergrad with Tony. But whereas his son had bailed after a bachelor’s degree, Ming had continued on to a doctorate in electro-mechanical engineering. Earning that kind of advanced degree took some doing. Estranged from her father … served for two years as a construction engineer on the UN lunar project … solid credentials. Rumors of a long-term relationship left behind on the Moon when she returned to head Qinlao Manufacturing.

  Staring at her beautiful, intense young face, Anthony judged her an impressive young woman, indeed. He read the headline again: Qinlao Heir on Track to Wed Xiao Heir . Surely she knew that if she merged with the Xiaos, she would lose control over her father’s creation. QM would be absorbed by the larger manufacturing company and lose all control over its own future.

  Stepping into the role of CEO after Jie Qinlao would be a daunting challenge for even an experienced business executive. But as a newcomer with no track record of business success, Ming would be under tremendous pressure to distinguish herself before the board. And knowing her aunt’s frustrated expectations for power, Anthony knew there would be little leeway for trial and error.

  He found himself nodding. Young Ms. Qinlao needed a win to stay in power …

  The Vatican Project needed a manufacturing partner; one who was hungry and willing to work hard for success. Viktor was already having difficulties producing the nanites in quantity and they hadn’t even started designing the delivery satellites yet. Maybe there was a play here for Anthony. President Teller would balk at bringing in another partner, but if he could advance the project’s deployment schedule…

  Excited now, he closed down his external feeds and called Tony. When he answered, Tony’s hair was mashed against his head, his eyes bleary with sleep. Clearly, his son didn’t suffer the same insomnia as Anthony. He heard bedclothes rustle and a woman giggling.

  “Pop? What is it? I’m, uh, in the middle of something here.” Another giggle.

  Anthony did his best to hide his disgust as he compared his son to Ming Qinlao. It was eleven in the morning on a Tuesday, for God’s sake.

  Tony rolled his eyes. “Pop, what’s the emergency?”

  Anthony held back a sharp retort and tried to center his emotions. Stretching his face at the moment was probably a bad idea. “How well do you know Ming Qinlao?”

  Tony screwed up his face. “Ming? We were at Stanford together in undergrad. Tight ass with a tight ass … always studying … goody-goody. Why?”

  “I’ll be in Hong Kong on Friday. I want you to set up a meeting for me.”

  “A meeting? Is this about your thing—”

  “Just set up the meeting, Tony. Friday. Hong Kong. Peninsula Hotel for lunch. ”

  “Oh-kay. Sure thing, Pop. I’ll get on it just as soon as I take care of something here.” There was a titter in the background as Tony winked at the screen.

  Anthony cut the connection.

  Chapter 17

  Ming Qinlao • Shanghai, China

  Ming stood in Marcus’s office overlooking the yawning precipice. Outside, a crystal clear day etched every detail of the city in sunlight. A line of aircars crawled through the sky like shiny beetles, creating corresponding shadow bubbles that crept across the cityscape below.

  She edged her toes out into open space, welcoming the familiar clench of vertigo in the pit of her stomach. Drawing a deep breath, Ming willed the feeling away. She was in control.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Marcus approached, careful to keep his distance from the edge.

  “Just getting some perspective,” Ming replied, handing Marcus’s words from their previous meeting back to him. The old man laughed. She offered him a smile while seeking out Sying and Ruben, who waited on the leather couch. Marcus had reskinned his office to show a forest, and Ruben watched a squirrel race up and down the gray-furrowed bark of an ancient English oak tree. Ming thought Marcus’s Anglophilia oddly endearing in a Chinese man so traditional he preferred to write with an ink pen.

  Sying sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, knees together and angled just so. Her dress was a royal blue skirt with matching jacket and silver buttons. She offered Ming and Marcus a demure expression appropriate for public consumption.

  Sying’s coaching had been no less profound than Ito’s tutoring of Ming’s martial skills when she was a little girl. As he had taught Ming the art of self-defense, Sying had become her new sensei in teaching her the subtleties of shadow maneuvers in business.

  Her gaze swiveled to her own mother, and her positivity waned. Wenqian wore a sour look as green as her dress chosen for the occasion. Her demeanor had nothing to do with her disease. Since the scene with Lily at the woodland estate, Ming held Wenqian at arm’s length, despite the guilt she felt. Wenqian wanted what was best for her daughter, this Ming knew. But what a mother wanted for her child and what Ming needed to succeed as CEO of Qinlao Manufacturing seemed two entirely different things. Today’s pending ceremony and the polar opposite expressions on Sying’s and Wenqian’s faces proved that.

  “It’s a good match, Ming,” Marcus said. “Brilliant, actually. It gives you the space you need from Xi to reset the business.” He lowered his voice. “I won’t ask how you found out about the Hans’ financials.”

  Ming felt a frisson of delight shoot up her spine. From the way Sying slipped effortlessly from model wife to master plotter to how she navigated through the thicket of corporate-family relations, the woman was a wonder to Ming. She had so much to
learn from Sying.

  Turning back to the transparent box cantilevered from the building, Ming took another step over nothingness. She wasn’t a fool or a child. She recognized the signs in herself.

  Ming Qinlao was in love.

  Marcus’s head ticked as he received a pulsed message. “They’re here.”

  JC Han led his wife Maya, son Ken, and their family lawyer into the room. Jong Chul was a solidly built man. The ruler-straight part in his oiled, iron-gray hair gleamed, and he wore a broad smile on his weathered features. He greeted Sying and Wenqian with formal bows, shook hands with Ruben, and kissed Ming on both cheeks. She embraced him, remembering his kindness to her at that first board meeting, when he’d made sure to tell her of her father’s regard for her accomplishments. And he’d done so out of Xi’s earshot. Her trust in Jong Chul’s honorable character had convinced her of the wisdom of Sying’s strategy.

  Dressed in a severe pantsuit that looked more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding, Maya Han merely nodded stiffly at her. The woman’s eyes were dark and full, with a flame flickering behind the black coal. Maybe her mother and Maya could find solidarity in their shared opposition to the marriage.

  Ming crossed to Ken. He was a chubby kid, only a year older than Ruben, but was doing his best to mimic his father’s formality. She took both his hands in hers. “I’m Ming. It’s wonderful to meet you, Ken.” His hands were clammy and trembled in her grip .

  “You’re so pretty,” he whispered. Then, cheeks flushing with a schoolboy’s embarrassment, Ken said the obviously rehearsed, “It is an honor to meet you, my future wife.”

  She smiled at the boy’s earnest effort to impress in his role of corporate princeling. How this arrangement would be for Ken over the long term wasn’t something she’d considered before. He was a few centimeters shorter than her, so she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry, Ken. We’ll be great friends.” She deposited a gentle kiss on his cheek.

  Maya Han’s fiery gaze attempted to cook Ming where she stood.

  “This way, please,” Marcus said. He led them to the long table where contract screens lay side by side. Marcus manned one station, the Hans’ lawyer the other. The details had been hammered out in advance. All that was left was this signing ceremony.