Hostile Takeover

by David Bruns

  It had been Nancy’s idea to use the Ambition as a backdrop for the show. She said it would project the image of a self-made man who had the resources to give his fellow citizens a generous hand up.

  “She’s ready for you, sir.” The press secretary opened the door for him. “Break a leg, Mr. Taulke.”

  Anthony paused at the top of the ramp. The pumping beat of the Watson Report’s theme music was playing loudly enough that he could feel the bass in his chest. The darkness outside the Ambition was shattered by spotlights from all sides, leaving a bubble of brightness at the bottom of the ramp. Beyond, Anthony could see vague shapes of a crowd, scattered lights, but no details.

  The ramp seemed very long and steep as Anthony walked forward. Head up, shoulders back, the Billion-Byte smile on full display. Clouds of news drones, their red recording lights like little angry stars in his periphery. He grinned wider. Nancy would block them all once they started the interview, he knew. This was an exclusive, that’s why he’d gone with Nancy.

  The woman herself stood to greet him, matching his greeting with her own characteristic disarming smile. She was taller than he expected, with a rangy frame and generous bosom. Her skin was a warm, creamy brown, the color of café au lait, but her hair was a shock of bright pink curls piled high on her head. Her most striking features—and real, if one believed the reports—were her mismatched eyes. One blue, one green. Anthony had done an interview with her years ago and he recalled now how the eyes seemed to register different emotions as she asked him questions. Her ever-present recording drones enveloped him like he was stepping into her cocoon.

  Nancy threw her arms open like they were old friends and kissed him on both cheeks. Anthony dimly heard applause, but whether it was real people beyond the wall of light or some enhanced track, he did not know. His pulse raced from all the attention and he could feel his recent skin treatment glowing in response. His facial muscles ached from the intensity of his smile, but he also couldn’t stop smiling.

  The customized chair that Nancy waved him into held his ass in perfect form to create an erect, alert interview posture.

  Nancy settled into her own seat. Her smile dimmed as she consulted her retinal display. “Mr. Taulke, welcome to the Watson Report.”

  “Thank you for having me, Nancy. When I want to speak to the world, I only want the very best at my side.”

  Nancy cocked her head, the pink curls quivering. “Well, that’s very sweet of you, sir, but I think maybe the world might be just a bit skeptical of a man—a felon, mind you—who has done so much to change our lives.”

  Anthony put on his serious face. The whole line, except for the felon part, had been planned as their opener. Go for the big push on the guest right out of the gate to generate some drama.

  He rubbed his jaw as if she was really putting the screws to him. “Nancy, that’s exactly why I asked to speak with you and address the world tonight. I, more than anyone, recognize that with great power comes great responsibility. The fact is that we were facing a climate crisis before the Lazarus Protocol went into effect, and we are facing one now—”

  “But your actions made it worse.”

  “The actions of President Teller served to remind us of the real climate danger we were not facing up to. Not then, not now. Did Lazarus make the weather worse? Yes, of course, but we needed to wake up as a species. The Council of Corporations stands ready to help.”

  “The council…” Nancy’s blue eye skewered him with a shrewd look while the green one looked innocent. “Tell us about this council. I think most of us wonder what is going on in your mysterious hideout on Mars.”

  “The council is a group of concerned citizens, businessmen and -women from some of the most powerful corporations in the world—”

  “Family businesses, you mean.”

  “Why does that make a difference, Nancy?” She was definitely off script now, and it annoyed Anthony. The spotlight was supposed to stay on him.

  “Family concerns might have a narrower set of interests than a public venture.”

  “I don’t think so, Nancy, we all want the same—”

  “Isn’t it true that your council has made unilateral demands on the UN for people and resources? How is that in the best interests of Earth? Shouldn’t we be having a broad public debate about the role of private companies serving the public good?”

  “I think we’re a little beyond that point, Nancy, don’t you?”

  Her head cocked again. “How so?”

  Anthony should have seen the trademark head tilt for what it was, but he pressed forward. “The public good is not being served by the disorganized governments of the UN. If they had worked with President Teller in the first place, Lazarus would have been a massive success—”

  “So you blame the president for the situation we find ourselves in?”

  Anthony shook his head. “The president has been a public servant of the highest order. He has the best interests of the entire planet in mind. The Twenty-First Century Marshall Plan—his idea, mind you—is a great first step in fixing our climate crisis once and for all.”

  They were back on script now. Nancy had pulled back when he said the words first step. Now she leaned forward. “Say more about that, Anthony. Our audience wants to know what you mean by first step.”

  “The council and I feel that we need to do more. Earth is in trouble, plain and simple, and we need a relief plan worthy of the size of the problem. In three days, at the United Nations in New York, I will announce the Taulke Renewal Initiative. This is a multiyear recovery plan backed by the council that will provide a final solution to our climate crisis.”

  Nancy sat back, her blue-green gaze studying him in stereo. Anthony could feel the recording drones whirring softly in his peripheral vision, capturing his strong profile. He resisted the urge to look at them. Let them think he was looking into the future, a place they wanted to be.

  “Is everyone included in this recovery, Anthony? The New Earth Order, for instance?”

  Anthony resisted the urge to clench his jaw. “The Neos are a unique segment of the population, Nancy. They have a parallel agenda.”

  “Parallel? Just in the past few days, we’ve seen uprisings in LUNa City and right here at Fort Hood. Are they working for you or against you?”

  “I think you’ll find that General Graves has the situation here well in hand. He has resolved the Neo uprising without loss of additional life. I have complete faith in the general and his abilities.”

  Nancy’s head ticked slightly as she sent a pulsed message. “I agree with you, Anthony, which is why I’ve invited General Graves to join us along with the local Neo representative.”

  Anthony stared at her. The Taulke Renewal Initiative was the centerpiece of the entire segment. He was the whole show.

  General Graves wore his battle dress uniform with creases and sweat stains from where he’d shed his body armor. His gray hair was tousled and he wore no makeup. Anthony suddenly felt conspicuous about his facial.

  He escorted a tall, thin woman with silver hair and beautiful brown skin that glowed naturally, not like his temporary cosmetic treatment. Her dark eyes darted about the stage, fastened on Anthony for a moment, then flitted away. She was obviously nervous. He could use that.

  Two more chairs appeared, and Graves and the woman sat down. Nancy lasered in on Graves.

  “General Graves and Corazon Santos, welcome to the show. We understand you’ve just reached a truce of sorts. The Neos had taken over the Fort Hood command center in response to President Teller trying to arrest Ms. Santos, but you two managed to work it out without additional bloodshed.”

  The pair exchanged glances and Anthony saw a personal connection. There was respect there, admiration, maybe even more than that. He could use that, too.

  Graves spoke first. “I think Mr. Taulke said it right, Ms. Watson—”

  “Nancy, please, General.”

  Anthony cursed to himself. He should have used th
e first-name thing when he met Nancy. It was a classy move, as if he was giving her permission to call him by his first name.

  Graves ducked his head. “Nancy, then. Mr. Taulke has the right idea. We need to solve this thing together. The Neos need to be part of the solution, not working against us. Mr. Taulke’s council has the resources to effect real change, and he has the technology to make a difference in…”

  A sudden thought seized Anthony’s attention. If Nancy wanted to try to upstage him, two could play at that game. He sent an urgent message to Elise Kisaan. He had the Neo trump card: the blessed vessel of Cassandra, or whatever those lunatics called her. And she was part of his council. He should have thought of that before, but he’d been so busy trying to keep the spotlight on himself.

  He half-listened to Nancy’s mindless banter with her other guests until she interrupted his thoughts. “Anthony? How does all this fit in with your announcement at the UN?”

  Elise appeared at the top of the ramp. Instead of answering Nancy, he stood and held out his hand to Elise. Her pregnancy was well along now and her belly thrust out of her slender frame like a basketball. She took mincing steps forward, peering down beside her outthrust belly as if afraid she might fall. Anthony met her halfway down the ramp and linked her arm in his.

  She was dressed in a simple cream-colored dress that outlined her pregnant frame and also gave her a saintly look. Nancy stood, and so did the general and the Santos woman.

  A careful makeup job had erased the dark circles under Elise’s eyes, leaving the viewer with the impression that she was bursting with life. She looked every bit the religious figure.

  But what happened next sealed it for Anthony. As he drew Elise into the bubble of bright light that surrounded the stage, her loose dress exploded with reflected illumination. Corazon Santos stepped forward and sank to her knees in front of Elise. The recording drones flocked to the intimate scene of worshipped and worshipper, ignoring Anthony entirely. One of them whispered past his cheek and he tried to swat it away.

  Elise used a long, elegant hand to raise Corazon’s bowed head. With billions of people watching, the pair locked eyes. Corazon’s fingers found the other woman’s hand and Elise guided it to her belly. The thin material of her dress rippled as the baby moved inside her. Santos began to cry silent tears of joy and adoration.

  It was beautiful and unscripted and would play fabulously well in ultra-high-def. Anthony let himself fall back from the action. Doing anything to distract from this touching scene would only make him look petty.

  He kept his face still as he gazed at the pair. He did his best to work up a tear just in case any cameras were on him.

  But inside, his heart was a battleground of raging jealousy.

  Chapter 16

  Ming Qinlao • Western China

  Ming trained in the high-ceilinged gymnasium in the basement of the main house of her father’s estate. Set on top of a hill, the main house offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. Rolling hills of neatly tended gardens and tea plants, the oval lake at the base of the hill, the stone house abutting the high stone where the caretaker lived with his wife.

  Here, in this pocket of serenity, surrounded by the sights and smells of nature, Ming could almost forget the weather wars that raged only a few hundred kilometers away.

  The house itself had the feel of a castle, with an imposing stone exterior and a flagstone courtyard with a landing pad. But inside the building, her father had spared no expense in making the place modern. It was inside that she felt closest to him. He was a minimalist: there were rooms with nothing but a simple chair and lamp sitting on the warm bamboo floors—except when it came to his workshop. There, her father’s creativity reminded Ming of Viktor’s hoarder style of working on multiple projects at once.

  Jie Qinlao had come to this country house when he needed to be alone. And now it was Ming’s fortress of retreat.

  No, not retreat, she told herself. Rebuilding.

  In the gymnasium, she could tell the time of day by the light coming through the narrow, horizontal windows high up on the walls. In the early morning, the windows facing east glowed pink, then a bar of golden light crept down the wall. In the afternoon, the process reversed itself in the western-facing windows. If the sun was especially strong that day, she could see a whirlwind of dust motes glowing in the shaft of clean light.

  She trained with Ito in the early morning, when the sun was still high on the wall, perfecting his blended martial arts version of hand-to-hand combat. He’d started teaching her this style when she was just eight, the training tuned just for her size, speed, and strength. All her life, Ming’s opponents had almost always been larger than her. Her opponent, the theory went, had more reach and more power than her, so her style must strip away those advantages. She must get close and work inside the enemy’s range of motion. Hit hard, hit fast, hit often, and then get back out.

  Balance was the cornerstone of Ito’s style of fighting. Without the ability to control every micro-move such that she could stay on her feet, any opponent worth their chopsticks would kick her ass every time.

  For the first week, Ito had her do nothing but balance on one foot. Lean forward, lean back. Raise the free leg and grasp the outstretched big toe. Between the gravity working on her weakened muscles and the damage to her inner ear from the MoSCOW integration, the first few days were both painful and humiliating. Ito caught her hundreds of times in addition to the hundreds of times she crashed to the mats when working on her own.

  But she got better. The muscle-building drugs helped, as did the acupuncture to stabilize the nerves of her inner ear.

  When Ito was satisfied, they moved on to light sparring. Even with the pads, her weakened body still bruised. More drugs, more ice baths, more massages. She relearned the basics of the style again as if she was eight years old and just forming the muscle memory by repetition.

  She lost track of the days. Ming’s complete focus was on herself. Echo was locked away in a room in her mind.

  When she was strong enough, Ito sent her on a morning run around the stone-walled perimeter of the estate. The first day was a walk-run combination, mostly walking, but she reveled in the smell of the dewy greenery from the tea leaves. Within a few days, she was running the full perimeter.

  Weekly visits from a cosmeticist rejuvenated her hair growth and blended the skin grafts so she recognized her reflection in the mirror.

  They shifted to traditional sparring, full contact. Ming took a beating three days in a row but refused to move her training schedule backwards. On the fourth day, she bested her master in two out of three rounds.

  Ito licked a trickle of blood from his split lip. “My Little Tiger has returned.”

  Ming grinned but said nothing. Ito beat her on the next bout, but she made him work for it. She parried his thrust, spun her way inside his reach, and nailed an elbow into his gut. But before she could make her escape, his strong hand locked on to her free wrist and twisted. Ming felt her feet leave the ground as her body followed the sudden movement. She tried to counter, but Ito had gravity on his side and the mat rushed up to smack into her face.

  Suddenly Echo was in her head, twisting her body, sweeping Ito’s legs. She felt him crash to the floor next to her and she leaped on his chest, her arm raised to strike downward in a finishing blow.

  Ito’s eyes widened with surprise. “How did you do that?”

  Ming lowered her hand. In all her time at the estate, she had pushed Echo aside, focusing on her own independent health. In order to tame the voice in her head, she needed her strength first. She rolled off his chest and to her feet.

  “A reaction, that’s all. Instinct.”

  Ming experienced a surge of energy in her limbs, the tips of her fingers tingling. It felt as if she’d suddenly leveled up in her skills, allowing Echo to kick in like some kind of ninja afterburner.

  Ito got to his feet. He beckoned to her. “Again.”

  His move
ments felt ridiculously slow and telegraphed. Parry, parry, kick-punch, parry, spin. She seized his forearm and slammed him to the floor with more force than was necessary.

  He got to his feet more slowly this time, favoring his shoulder. “You’ve changed. What happened?”

  Ming shrugged. A flush of embarrassment swept up her neck as she realized how much she enjoyed putting Ito on the mat. He was an old man, she realized. And one who had given up his own freedom to help her heal.

  When she’d first set up this scheme to come home, she just told Ito she needed his help. Never asking, never assuming he would even consider refusing her demands. She’d never even told him why.

  And now she was making him eat mat like some spiteful child.

  “I’m sorry.” The words came out of her mouth with the threat of tears to follow. Ming tried to rein in her emotions, but failed. What was the matter with her?

  Ito rolled his shoulder. “I’ll live. You worry me, Little Tiger. You are a knife without a sheath, I fear. A blade that cuts without meaning to.”

  Ming thought about his words on her run later that morning. A few months ago, she wondered if she would ever walk again. Now, Ming was throwing her old instructor to the mat with impunity. She was indeed a weapon again, a force to be reckoned with.

  The integration with the supercomputer known as MoSCOW had given her abilities, she could feel them, but had it changed her? The ground flashed beneath her feet as she ran faster and faster. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

  MoSCOW, as painful as it was, had made her stronger, given her skills she’d never dreamed of … but had it made her better?

  Better than what?

  She skidded to a halt, a cloud of dust catching up to her now-still feet. Echo was silent in her head, another testament to the completion of her integration with MoSCOW. Ming Qinlao had been reborn into … into what?

  Ming told herself that her father’s death was what compelled her, but that wasn’t what had changed her. In the string of events leading to this moment, Ming never would have gone on the mission with MoSCOW were it not for Anthony Taulke’s lies. Her life would be completely different but for that deception.