by O. J. Lowe
He popped his lips in a wet kissing motion, the smirk growing. In tandem with the sudden jerk of air twisting the aero about, Alana felt her stomach churn. She scrabbled for the sick pouch even more frantically, grabbing it up just in time to spill up her lunch into it.
Rocastle brought his hands together and sarcastically applauded. “Bravo, the perfect performance from Ms Fuller, the toast of the house.”
“You know, I will shoot you when we land,” she said through the bitter taste in her mouth. “That’s not a lie.” It wasn’t either. There was a small blaster in her case. Self-defence.
“Course you will, darling,” he smiled. “I’d shoot me too if I were in your shoes. Because they’re hideous. Seriously, with what you get paid, why? Buy a decent pair of heels, love. Can’t jump for the stars in those things.”
Worse than the nausea was the fury. Cold naked fury she wanted to let loose. Why had she been paired with this filth for this task? Of all the other people in the organisation, it had to be him.
“Don’t wear them,” she said, keeping her face composed and her voice level. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The landing lights were coming on. They’d be on Carcaradis Island very soon. At least when they checked into the hotel, she could get away from him. Preferably he’d be as far away from her as could be. Several dozen floors and she’d still need to shower to get the scent of him away from her. He wore too much scent on him and it didn’t smell good. Sweet and sickly like rot. “Don’t need to.”
“Oh sweetie, every woman needs a good pair of heels.”
Won’t bite. Can’t bite.
He must have sensed her discomfort, he showed his teeth, pearly white and pointed, and settled back in his own seat, crossing his legs. She got the feeling he was revelling in the way she felt right now.
“Believe me, I know,” he added. At least he’d stopped sounding so maliciously gleeful for the moment. That pleased her no end as she clutched the arm rests. Her joy was to be compounded as he rested his head back and closed his eyes.
Idly she wondered if he really was wearing makeup over his eyes or if it was just the light. Another question she really didn’t want to probe too deep. Some questions weren’t worth an honest answer. She’d sooner enjoy the novelty of him being silent.
As far as Alana knew, Carcaradis Island hadn’t had its own aeroport until the decision had been made to stage the Quin-C there. No aeroport, no mag-rail system, no super high-quality hotels, certainly no stadiums. Now it had them all. She remembered the day that it had been announced to the five kingdoms that this prestigious competition was going to be held not just for the first time in Vazara but on some crappy little backwater island that wasn’t even close to being ready to hold something like it.
That was ten years ago. And what a change had been made. Countless billions had been invested to create an ideal island getaway paradise, something for the future. After all, Alana’s boss had been one of the investors. One of the pushers of the idea really. She’d been adamant that she wanted the tournament to be held in this very specific place and had moved the heavens and the kingdoms for that to happen.
Why? She hadn’t said. Plenty had asked and although there’d been plenty of different answers, she got the impression that none of them were the truth. There had to be something about it. She might have been working too long in this line of work, she might just be feeling cynical, but she doubted it’d be a savoury one for anyone involved.
She heard the crash, felt the wave of panic rush through her before realising it was just the landing lock securing the aero into place. As soon as it had emerged it faded back down, they were landing here and she could get out of this tin can death trap. She leaned down, slid her shoes back onto her feet. That action brought a tut out of Rocastle, apparently not as asleep as he looked. His mouth spread back into a slit of a grin.
“Heels, darling,” he said. “Professional.”
“Shut up, Ro. If I want to discuss my wardrobe with you…” She swallowed, suddenly furious with herself for having nearly bitten. “That’s something I’m never going to discuss with you.”
“Shame, could give you some tips on making the most of what you got. How’s your love life again? Just cracking with suitors, I imagine.”
She didn’t have an answer to that. Just a glare that he either didn’t see or didn’t acknowledge. Who the fuck did he think he was? Smug pile of…
“Thought so.” He sounded oddly pleased at her reaction, cackling quietly to himself.
She bit down the urge to slap him.
She had a meeting with Ronald Ritellia in a few hours, her immediate purpose for being here. It wasn’t everyone who got the chance to have an executive evening with the head of the International Calling Competitive Committee. If he was thirty years younger, it might have been a nice night for it. As it stood, she knew him to be reputedly obnoxious and so corrupt he could have been a criminal in another life. Maybe he had been. Nobody was truly ever so clean that they shone without having something wiped away in the first place. Everyone had their secrets. She had them. Ritellia for sure had them. She didn’t want to know what deep dark mysteries plagued Rocastle’s past. That was a whole selection of secrets best left unknown.
In true fashion, she’d checked into the best hotel but in a middling suite. Not the best, not the worst. That was always the way they’d been taught to operate. That was the line that they had to toe for her. Her way or the wrong way. Her way had made Alana Fuller a lot of money. If anything, it had been proven that some ways weren’t worth arguing over. You get told to check into a less fancy suite, you damn well do it. The boss was an eccentric, that was for sure. Most billionaires were. They could afford to be.
Her first day on the island. How long it would be before she left depended on today. The boss wanted her here. ‘Just in case’. No word as to what that case might be beyond the meeting with Ritellia. If she failed here, left a bad impression, she had no doubt she’d be withdrawn. The place looked so good as well after the building work, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted that to happen. It felt like this was where the action would be down the line. She didn’t want to leave quite just yet.
She undressed quickly, glad to get out of her travel worn clothes and showered, felt the hot water rush over her naked skin, soothingly relaxing. She leaned forward, let her hands lay flat against the wall and closed her eyes, felt liquid slide over her normally bushy brown-blond hair and down her back. In here, she felt… well, content. Away from the stresses of the life she led, away from the worries and most of all, away from Rocastle. Being around him left her feeling dirty. Very dirty. The guy was like a giant slimy worm. He made you want to retch. She shuddered, thought of that greasy mane of hair that hid that rodent-like face and dug her nails into her palm. The sting of pain brought pleasure to disgust. She imagined her palms were his eyes. Her hisses were his screams.
Satisfaction never felt so good. She’d never realised before that dislike could be so instantaneous.
In true narcissistic fashion, a ICCC temporary headquarters had been one of the first buildings erected. She was surprised that they hadn’t spent most of the budget on it. Even so, it was a grand old structure, majestically imposing over most of the plaza. It cast a shadow on three of the four corners. She walked quickly across the square, clearing her throat. Right now, it was empty. Most of the competitors and their guests hadn’t arrived yet. She had that much to be thankful for. Too many people made her uncomfortable. Too many variables. Too many possible outcomes walking through the crowd. She could be accosted, killed, robbed, all of which she didn’t need.
She mopped her face with a silk handkerchief, clearing it of sweat. It was too hot. Always the problem holding the tournament in a tropical clime. Next time, they’d have to arrange for it to be taken to Canterage. Cold mists all the way there. Already she was arriving at the conclusion that wearing a blazer had been a mistake. Style over practicality, a mistake she should have avoided.
She quickened her pace, cut the length of the plaza. Once she got inside, she’d be okay. It’d be air conditioned. It had to be. No way were all the people who worked there going to sit roasting all day long. Well, the little people might, but the people she was going to see, they wouldn’t be. The advantages of dealing with the people at the top.
Entering the building, she let out an audible sigh of relief as the cold air hit her like a punch, she took a moment to stop and savour it. It was the most beautiful sensation she’d ever experienced after the sweltering heat of outdoors. Paradise had nothing on it. She let herself linger a few seconds longer than necessary, letting it wash over her. It’d be horrific when she had to go back outside, but still, the moment was there to be enjoyed. It was with a new swagger in her walk she strode to the desk, a confidently pleased smile on her face.
The secretary was a native Vazaran, dark skinned and slender with black and blue braided hair. Behind her glasses, her eyes were strangely large and a deep shade of brown. If there was anything remarkable about her, Fuller wasn’t about to try and discover it right now. She had her purpose, the secretary did as well. And thus, the world kept on turning.
“Good morning,” she said. “My name is Fuller, I’m here to see President Ritellia.”
Manicured fingers danced across the keyboard in front of her. Her eyes barely rose from the screen. Fuller folded her arms serenely.
“He’s waiting for you,” the secretary said, finally looking up. She gave Fuller a smile, showing an array of dazzling white teeth. Too white. They looked false. Wouldn’t surprise her. Life was harsh in some areas of Vazara. Food quality was poor, violence was rife. It wasn’t a surprise to see those that had come out of it wearing false teeth. It was a sign of pride. “You’re free to go straight on up, Ms Fuller.”
She returned the smile, slightly smug in knowing that her teeth were all her own. “Thank you.”
She’d met Ronald Ritellia before but never solely on a one to one basis. He’d been guest of honour at one of the Reims events a few years ago. She hadn’t been quite so senior then. It felt like a lifetime ago. Everyone in the department had been excited that such a public figure was appearing, he’d said a few words, made a few sound bites for the media, greeted some of the workers (she’d been one of the lucky few) and generally been a success, his charisma back then plain for all to see. Of course, he’d been paid a lot to do it. Even rumours of his friendship with her boss hadn’t been enough for him to forgo a fee for the night’s work.
There wasn’t much chance of forgetting that night. Though the drinks had been flowing, she hadn’t imbibed too freely. The room had been heaving and Ritellia had been sweating up on stage, just as he was now, despite the coolness of the room. If anything, it was colder in here than it was outside. He looked like he’d be sticky if she touched him. A fortunate thing she had no desire to.
Ritellia was a short man in his sixties with an ever-expanding waistline that looked to be compensating for his receding hairline. What little hair remained on his head was fuzzy and the colour of dirty steel. Even despite his wealth, he wore the perennially scruffy look of a man for whom no suit would fit well. Still he had a certain charisma; she saw that as he rose to his feet with a smile to greet her.
“Ms Fuller,” he said affably. Not for nothing had he made a career as a politician. Too many people underestimated him. “Good morning to you.” He held out a hand.
“President Ritellia, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand. She was right, he was sticky. She could smell marzipan. “You look in good health.”
His smile grew as he sat down and gestured for her to join him. Without hesitation, she did. “You’re a poor liar, my dear, but I appreciate it all the same. This job is not good for me. Good job I love it, eh?”
Fuller’s expression didn’t change. Inside she smirked. Yeah, you love the power and the status it gives you, you fat piece of slobby shit. Gods forbid you should improve the sport beyond filling your pockets and your stomach. “It’s important to have job satisfaction, President Ritellia.”
“Call me Ronald, my dear Ms Fuller. May I call you Alana?”
No, you may not, she wanted to say. Only my friends call me Alana. Well, my friends and Rocastle. I can’t stop him doing it short of smashing his teeth in and ripping his tongue out. Even then that creepy bastard would probably find a way.
“Of course, Ronald,” she said, keeping her smile firmly plastered in place. If nothing else, climbing the corporate ladder at Reims had helped hone that skill. Never let them see past a smile.
“Well, Alana, I think I’ve seen you before. I have an excellent memory for faces. You’ve blossomed since then, I must congratulate you.”
“See, my job IS good for me,” she replied. It brought a snap of laughter from him. “You were inspiring that night.”
“Not just that, but many, many others,” Ritellia smiled. It didn’t quite touch his ears, she found herself wondering who’d be the first to let their façade crack, him or her. “I don’t like to brag, but inspiration is one of the things that I do. That we do here.”
“You must be excited for what’s coming next,” she said. “You’ll always be remembered as the one to bring the Quin-C to Vazara for the first time. You’ll go down in history for it. If it’s a success, I wouldn’t be surprised if they name a day after you.”
“They’ve done it for less,” Ritellia said. If anything, his smile did appear genuine in a greedy sort of way as he considered it. “Ronald Ritellia Day. It has a nice ring to it.”
“A worthy celebration,” she said. He smiled, genuine this time perhaps, then it faded as abruptly as it had appeared.
“As much as I do enjoy the company of pretty young things such as yourself…” How delightfully condescending, you corrupt slovenly bastard. Although, she wasn’t that young anymore, it wasn’t entirely unwelcoming to hear. “… I am pushed for time. All this time to prepare and still things left undone by imbeciles. Pray do tell me of your boss, how is she? Well? Ill? Too sick to make the trip herself, I wonder. What other reason might she foist an underling upon me.”
She ignored the stab of annoyance that poked at her like a knife. Rising to his sudden insult wouldn’t do any favours to anyone. It required a cool head. And THAT she could do.
“As much as she wishes she could be here; my boss is also extremely busy. She takes a very hands-on approach to running the company. That’s why I was delegated here. Make no mistake, I speak with her voice on these matters.” And if she were here, she’d already have you bent around her wrist. Alana Fuller let a hard edge slip into her voice. “First of all, I was instructed to thank you once again for seeing that the tournament ended up here on Carcaradis Island.”
Ritellia grunted. “I still don’t understand why you felt the need to have it here so strongly. There’s plenty of places on mainland Vazara infinitely more suitable. And not all of them are gang ridden hellsholes either. A lot of people think that.”
“I speak with her voice, not with her mind. I do not know myself. I wish I did,” Fuller said. She meant it as well. “All I can tell you is…” She halted theatrically, her own grin growing again. Chuckle on that, Ron. “Nah, you’ll not be interested.”
“I highly doubt it’s solely down to her desire for an island getaway in the Vazaran tropics away from the filthy masses,” he said. “I’ve seen some of what Reims’ investment has wrought here. A considerable sum. More than you or I will ever see individually. Maybe my business knowledge just isn’t what it used to be. There’s something going on here. If I was a more inquisitive man, or perhaps an investigative one, I might be inclined to consider it.”
Was that a threat? She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you think you may or may not know, I do believe it is just that. An exclusive resort. Nothing more, nothing less. I told you, you wouldn’t be interested.”
The look of disgusted disappointment on his face was palpable, just as was his way of trying to bluff
his way out of it. “Either way, I don’t care.”
Liar!
She resisted the urge to call him on it and leaned forward in her seat. “The second item on the agenda. ICCC elections. They’re a year away.”
Ritellia rolled his eyes. “Perhaps I have no comment to make on this. I’m sick of answering questions about whether I’m going to run again.”
“Maybe that’s because you’ve not given an answer,” Fuller said. “Tell me, who would likely challenge you for the job should you run for president again? In your own thoughts.”
She knew the process. The ICCC did split itself into five individual factions across the five kingdoms, each with their own head, all of them subservient to a committee above them, which in turn was overlooked by the very man who sat in front of them. Not dissimilar to the way Unisco ran things if she was right in that.
In theory, any of the committee could run for president, as could any of the higher-ranking officials in the individual departments. It was rare that they toppled any of the committee members standing against them though. Even rarer you sometimes got outside challengers running a campaign for the top job, ranging from retired callers looking to make a difference to publicity hounds wanting to appear in the news. None of them had ever succeeded down that route and yet still they tried. It was almost an admirable way to fail spectacularly.
Ritellia looked pensive as he thought over it. In her experience, it was never easy thinking about the day you were replaced. In her own experience, when it happened, she hoped it would be because she’d moved onto better things. “Kwan-Sun from Burykia, I hear he’s making noises about entering next year’s race. It’s been a long time since there was a president from that kingdom.”
“And good reason too,” Fuller said. “Wasn’t the last one a bloody lunatic?” It sounded childish even as she said it, realising she shouldn’t have. Just because a kingdom had produced one idiot politician unsuitable for the job didn’t mean all of them would be. She didn’t like Burykia. It was too unstable to predict long term events there in the industries Reims conducted themselves in.
