by D. P. Oberon
Anne Bishop looked taken aback by Saradi’s vehemence. That is, until Saradi realized she’d balled her hand into a fist and was menacing the counsellor with it. She quickly brought it down.
“Anyway,” Saradi said, “back to the matter at hand. I’m quite certain all that Claas and Novalie require is some perspective.” Saradi glanced at her husband and daughter as she said their names. “Lowers and middlers make up the vast majority of our world’s population — and they’re dying of thirst or hunger or exposure — while my family is completely comfortable. Maybe if they weren’t so well off they would have less time to make mountains of these minuscule issues.”
“Minuscule issues, is that how you describe them?” Anne asked.
“Absolutely,” Saradi said. “Minuscule. It’s my brother that has paid the ultimate price for this empire. When my husband and daughter go to war, then they can come whining to me.” Her mouth felt parched and she desperately needed a drink.
“Sara, did you know there is meaning in suffering?” the counselor asked.
“What?” Saradi squinted at the woman in confusion. “No. This is a complete waste of my—” At that moment, Saradi’s AI registered an incoming ultra-priority call. There were only five people allowed on her ultra-priority line. Her mother, brother, husband, daughter, and her CEO.
Albert Rene’s face appeared in front of her. He wore a pristine suit and sat in his office. The Autobus-Mannschaft logo appeared behind him with the words “We Build Dreams” above it.
“Sara, I’m so sorry for the interruption,” he said in his French accent. “But I really need you to come to work. There is urgent matter we must attend to. I will fill you in upon your return.” He stared at her and blinked.
“What’s this about Albert?” she asked.
“The mining deal. That’s all I can say for now.”
“Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.
“Good. I’ve already sent the aero-jet to your location. Thank you.” His image melted to reveal the Anne Bishop’s eyes staring at her.
Saradi turned to her husband and daughter. “This woman is useless and she’s wasting our time. I’ll see you at home.”
She stormed out of the counselor’s office.
Chapter 12 – Murderer
Saradi didn’t drink on the aero-jet as it took her back to High Paris. When she opened the door of her office, she paused, and straddled the boundary with one foot in and the other out. How many times had she stepped through here without even thinking about it? Thousands of times, for thousands of meetings, decisions, and ad-hoc encounters with the executive staff.
There is a cost you pay each time you enter, a voice inside her said. No there isn’t, she told herself. And even if there is, it’s a bearable cost.
And still, she kept hearing Novalie’s anguished words echo in her head. “I’ve done something bad. But mommy won’t tell me what.” Saradi remembered blaming herself when she’d been a child too. But it had been her mother’s fault, always at work, always too damn busy. You can break the cycle, the voice in her head said.
“Oh shut up.” Saradi strode into her office. The lights switched on and the rotating seed-ship hologram at the entrance of her office flared to life.
“Speaking to yourself, Sara?” said Prethi De’Silva from where she sat in Saradi’s chair.
Saradi stopped. “When did you get here?”
“How are you holding up?” Her attorney stood and walked toward her. She hugged Saradi and held her at arm’s length. “How did the counseling go?” Prethi’s half Sri-Lankan features mixed pleasantly with her Chinese features. Prethi’s Sri-Lankan-Chinese features gave her a similar facial structure to Saradi’s. That, and their skin color was enough for people in high school to have thought they were sisters.
“Not good,” Saradi said, taking one of the seats in front of her desk and propping up her feet on the small, circular table. A decanter of L’Art de Martell seemed to mock her from where it sat on her desk. She ignored it.
“You are obviously prescient. Whatever your CEO wants to discuss it’s obviously not going to be pleasant. Saying all that, the man has a soft spot for you. He sent me an ultra-priority call and the accompanying aero-jet to get here.”
“Albert’s all right,” Saradi said, feeling guilty for all the times she’d despised him.
“Is there anything you want to tell me before we go into the meeting?” Prethi asked.
“No.”
Two of Saradi’s colleagues, Matthias Lenzenhofer and Suzi Chang, stood beside the CEO’s door like sentinels. They ushered Saradi and her attorney into the office. Neither of them looked at or acknowledged Saradi. A chill spread across Saradi’s extremities. She felt her fingers go ice cold. She stumbled and banged her hip against the edge of the floating glass table.
Yulia Pavlenko sat to Albert Rene’s right. The young Russian stared at Saradi. The tendons on her lower jaw twitched.
“Mr. Albert Rene, you called this meeting. We are here. What’s on the agenda?” Prethi said as she took a seat opposite the CEO. Saradi slumped into the seat to her left.
Albert Rene nodded. “I’d like to introduce you to the daughter of the recently deceased Chairwoman Alyona Pavlenko, Yulia Pavlenko.”
Prethi nodded at everyone seated at the table. “I am Prethi De’Silva, counsel for Mrs. Anantadevi-Alfsson.”
Albert coughed. “I’d also like to introduce our head of Corporate Council, Matthias Lenzenhofer,” — he nodded to Matthias — “and our head of Corporate Affairs, Suzi Chang.”
“It’s nice to meet you all,” said Prethi. “May we come to the point?”
Saradi’s CEO continued to talk. “The agenda is fairly simple. First I would like everyone to watch a short holo-vid.” Albert Rene cleared his throat and spoke to the room’s AI. “Play video.”
The room darkened and the full sensory projection made all six people in the room feel as if they had been physically transported into the scene on display.
Chairwoman Alyona Pavlenko’s office looked messy. Sheafs of epaper lay scattered about with their glowing fonts. A white mug held thick, old coffee. A breakfast of stale buns and butter lay untouched.
Alyona stood in the middle of the room with a huge interactive holo-map of Alrosa Mirny’s mine. She programmed a more efficient resource allocation schedule.
The mine was a hive of activity crawling with miners, tractor-mechs, and drill-mechs. A location on the map blinked red and Alyona touched it. It showed an area of the mine that had just collapsed. Miners screamed and the groan of a still-moving tractor-mech filled the air.
“Chairwoman Pavlenko,” said a man whose head appeared near the map. “Section eight has collapsed. Please send immediate assistance.”
Alyona froze. “I will divert the other tractor-mechs to assist with clean-up.” She quickly reallocated resources on the large map. “I’ll call the hospital, too.”
An hour later the man’s face appeared again. “Seventy-eight dead, sixteen critically wounded,” the man said. “Chairwoman we can’t keep pushing like this.”
Alyona tilted her face and covered it with her hands. She nodded. “Yes, yes, you are correct Ilyasova.” She asked him, “How about you? Are you okay?”
“Broken leg; it should be fine, Chairwoman.”
“I think we shall stop for the day.”
“Are you sure? Didn’t we promise Autobus-Mannschaft one hundred thousand tons?”
Alyona nodded. “Yes, we did. But not at the cost of all these lives.”
Moments later Alyona lay crumpled on the floor against the ironridge cabinet with a handgun in her hand. Saradi’s holo-vid form stared at her, standing tall, her arms crossed, her chest jutted forward. Saradi wore a haughty expression on her face.
“Get on your knees and blow your brains open, Alyona. That’s what your incompetence deserves.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Sara. They’ll come here now and you won’t stand a chan
ce at getting a single rock,” said Alyona.
“Put the gun to your head, you useless pizda!” Saradi leaned over so that she hung over Alyona’s face like a descending sword. “Do it, pull the trigger. Kill your useless self.”
Click. Bang. A spaghetti of brain matter fountained into the air. The six people assembled in the room flinched as the hologram projected the explosion of brain matter at them.
The room lightened and all the occupants appeared to tear themselves out of a nightmare. Their faces pale. Their arms and legs trembling.
Except for one.
“You fucking crazy bitch murderer!” Yulia Pavlenko screamed. “That was my Mama!” The young woman launched herself across the glass table at Saradi and they tumbled to the ground.
Yulia punched.
Something lifted inside of Saradi and she yelled, grabbed Yulia’s lapels, pushed herself up and flung her across the entire room. Yulia crumpled against the wall behind Albert Rene’s desk and fell the floor.
Saradi headed toward her. She wasn’t finished.
“Sara, stop!” Prethi’s voice rang out. “Sit.”
Securi-bots moved quickly to stand over Yulia Pavlenko. Two more restrained Saradi, clamping their arms around her shoulder and hips.
“Let me go,” Saradi shouted. “She attacked me.”
“Let her go,” Prethi said.
Two securi-bots lifted Yulia from the floor. She appeared somewhat shaken but a glimmer of hate etched itself across her face. Saradi felt the bruised side of her cheek that started to swell. Bitch punched me.
“Please, both of you sit down,” Albert said. A nurse-bot entered the room and began to sew the gash on Yulia’s head.
Once their injuries had been attended to, Matthias Lenzenhofer issued the demands on behalf of Autobus-Mannschaft.
“This is what we want.” Saradi had known Matthias for years, but she didn’t recognize the man who spoke. His voice was devoid of all compassion, and she felt herself shrink at his words. “Saradi specifically ordered, no, goaded our corporate partner into suicide. Saradi is culpable in a court of law. In compensation for the loss of Yulia’s mother, we demand the liquidation of Saradi’s personal assets: her house and her antique alcohol collection. We demand her resignation, and a note absolving the management of Autobus-Mannschaft from any involvement with Alrosa Mirny.”
“Saradi was completing a project under the direction of Autobus-Mannschaft,” said Prethi. “Why does she have to liquidate?”
The attorneys entered the battlefield, leaving the others to observe.
He said, “Our research indicates Saradi has zero cash reserves and a debt-filled lifestyle. Hence, we require the liquidation. Autobus-Mannschaft is an ethical company, and we will not be pay compensatory measures to Yulia. We are not at fault here and will not accept implicit guilt. Recompense must come from Saradi.”
“Saradi is still owed an annual bonus,” Prethi said.
“She relinquished it,” he answered.
And on it went.
Two hours later Prethi De’Silva walked into Saradi’s office. Saradi lay flat on her back on her conference table.
Saradi’s scalp itched terribly. She kept scratching at it.
“I didn’t mean it,” Saradi said. “Alyona was mentally unstable.”
“I did my best for you. They are willing to trade in your stock options for a cash bonus.”
“Is that all?” Saradi sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the table. “That won’t be enough.”
“Apparently, you used the aero-jet for private purposes? And you also booked an expensive ski chalet for private purposes. Look, it’s a lot better than incarceration, which is what you would’ve got if I’d not been there. They’ve agreed to an out-of-court settlement. So, no criminal charges will be brought against you. I threatened to drag their name into the mud.” She paused.
“What about the house? Am I really going to lose that?” Saradi asked.
Prethi closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them a single tear rolled down her left cheek.
“You’re going to have to liquidate your primary residential property and its contents, including your antique liquor collection. Every single cent of that will go to Yulia Pavlenko. You also must agree not to join Autobus-Mannschaft’s competitor, ParaFlyte Aviatronics.”
Saradi reached for the decanter of L’Art de Martell, unstoppered it and gulped the liquid. Her house? That was her pride and joy.
“And what percentage do you take?” Saradi asked.
“They also agreed to keep your health insurance. It covers Novalie and Claas. You’ll have to pay for it, but at least it will be discounted.”
“I’ve a feeling I might need that healthcare,” Saradi said, and she didn’t know how prophetic her words were.
“Sara, that’s not all. The hacktivist group Autonomous got a copy of the video. So, when you’re in public, just lie low for now.”
“That video is on the neuralnet?” Saradi said. “My daughter could even see it?”
“Sara,” Prethi said very quietly. “You might want to learn to control that.” She reached for the now empty decanter and laid it on the table. “As for my percentage, consider this work pro bono. Why would I take money from my high-school friend who’s bankrupt?”
Saradi felt like she didn’t even control her own body as Prethi put an arm around her.
“Come on, I’ll take you home. No more fancy rides on that aero-jet,” Prethi said.
Chapter 13 – A Coffin
Saradi entered her house with dread scratching its claws inside her heart. Feet heavy, shoulders sagging, hunched back. The only positive outcome had been her stock options. They’d at least left her with enough money to buy Claas the implants required for his depression.
“Claas?” Saradi called. “Nova?”
The house. Gone. She stood there in the wide hallway that led from the antechamber down the middle of the house. This was her dream house. When she was young she’d yearned to live among the domes and spires of High Melbourne.
The quiet of the house unsettled her. Claas’s words haunted her thoughts. We either go to counseling as an entire family or I apply for divorce and custody of Nova.
She had walked out of that counseling session. Had he really taken Novalie away? She walked into the kitchen and frowned at the vibro-knife that lay on the floor, its dim blade crusted with dried blood. A piece of white rope and taters of spline lay around the knife.
She picked up the knife and placed it on the bench top. She couldn’t resist asking the kitchen for a glass. If there was ever a time she needed a drink, it was now. She sipped the freeze stored vodka — it never froze, but rather acquired the most luscious viscous texture.
Saradi sipped on the glass and headed toward the living room. For some reason the drink tasted coppery on her tongue. She glanced at it and put it down on the floating crystal table in the center of the room. Her nose wrinkled. Did she smell urine?
She had come to relax in her living room after every night of work. Sitting there on her favorite air-seat, having a drink — or two — and unwinding to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
“Claas? I’ve got the money for your implants,” she called, looking out into the two French doors that provided a view out onto the balcony. He liked to view the garden from there.
No one stood on the balcony.
She lowered herself onto her favorite air-seat when she saw a shadow in the darkness and her mind froze. Patterns of jagged light criss-crossed her vision like shattered kites.
Saradi stood and tottered toward the shadow. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the hard marble floor. A thousand chimes reverberated in the otherwise silent room.
The shadow resolved itself into a man hanging from the gallows. Saradi’s voice untethered itself and she screamed, “No!”
Claas hung from a rafter at the edge of the lounge with a rope noosed tightly around his neck. His face had gone purple,
and his lips pale. A trickle of piss and blood splattered to the floor from his white socks. He wore his running shorts and singlet. He’d probably just come back from the gym.
Saradi ran, and jumped and ripped the rope from the ceiling.
Claas’s body tumbled into her arms as her knees splayed against the floor. Her hands pried at his jaws, trying to make his mouth move. Blond stubble prickled her palms. Her eyes swam in a pool of tears. She had to rub at them to see.
“Get the hospital emergency!” Saradi screamed at her internal AI — Claas had to have disabled the house’s AI; it was programmed to respond in situations like this. Her AI routed the ultra-priority call.
“Claas, wake up honey. Claas,” she said. She kept tapping the sides of his cheeks.
Dead, her AI typed into her visual field. Dead, it said. No, she shook her head. The doorbell rang, Saradi stood and ran towards the door. It must be the ambulance. Her AI flashed all sorts of alarms at her.
She ran past the kitchen and stopped at the antechamber. The door swivelled open and her mother’s face stared back at her.
“What’s wrong with the house’s AI?” Wattana asked. “I had to enter the code. Luckily Nova knew it.”
Novalie burst from Wattana’s side erupting like a rocket. “Where’s papa?”
“In the living room,” Saradi replied automatically. “Wait! Nova! Come back!” Saradi’s hands reached for the girl, but Novalie being small and slight darted right past her.
Novalie ran past Saradi calling out, “Happy Birthday papa!” She held a present in both her little hands.
Novalie stopped stock still in the living room and stared at her father. In the background Saradi heard the whirring sound of the ambulance.
Novalie looked like she’d just gotten out of the shower. Her dark curly hair plastered against her skull. This small and slight creature had come from her womb, Saradi thought. So unlike the girl’s father, who lay before her. Novalie wore pajamas with a purple T-shirt and yellow pants. Temporary tattoos of a unicorn and a pegasus glowed on her arms. Novalie wore a shimmering ring on her left middle finger — Tulissa had given it to her — and it changed color. Novalie wrung her hands and the ring clattered to the ground where it rolled and stopped against the congealed blood and piss. Right next to Claas’s body.
