A Hostile Takeover

A Hostile Takeover

Bill Kandiliotis

Nitronaut Books

Copyright © 2013 Bill Kandiliotis

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781386406129

Cover design by: Bill Kandiliotis

Draft2Digital, LLC

To my three slumlords, Tritonium, Hyperman and The Awesome1.

You must know there are two ways of contesting, the one by the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the second to beasts.

- Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

PART ONE - The Consultant

Violence is good. – Jase Russo, The Saboteur.

Intercept the Wet Sparrow

What economic depression? - Prime Executive Jorge Wilson

One may readily be prepared to die.

Any punter can act bravely when faced with imminent death. Even the foolish amongst warriors can be willing to die for the most hopeless of causes.

Necroface knew this.

He also knew that such fearlessness could potentially undermine a good, well-fought victory. So he decided to ramp proceedings up a notch.

Now we get to bounce this fucker, he said from behind his infamous monochromatic skull mask.

One of the Scorpion grunts, known as Burnfish22, shot him a questioning frown. The goon wore no facemask, only the formal attire typical of the definitive bankster.

Stupid foreigner.

The other two goons snickered raucously as they dragged a battered and bleeding Alteus into the elevator. Having both his legs crushed, a result of being rammed and pinned up against a solid concrete pylon by one of their Cargovans, Alteus had passed out moments earlier.

My mistake, Necroface said to the bankster. I keep forgetting that you’re not from around these parts. A taunt more aimed at amusing his minions and vehement fans following this event. Necroface cared little for the Scorpion lieutenant, some big shot goon, sent in to train up new recruits for the local chapter. His brain laboured over more pressing concerns.

How do you hurt a formidable enemy?

Necroface reasoned that the one thing a martyr would never anticipate would be the gut-wrenching fear of knowing, irrefutably, that they are moments away from departing this meagre life.

Leave any half-intelligent human being alive long enough to ponder their impending doom, let it sink in, and panic sneaks up on them no matter how brave they pretend to be.

No matter what action you take.

You’re dead.

No matter what shit comes out of your mouth; you’re still a dead sucker.

The big checkmate - a lame yet fitting expression often used by his peers. He hoped this Alteus possessed enough intellect to prove his theory.

If not, a good bounce would sufficiently appease feeders and leechers the world over.

The elevator surged upward, stopping occasionally to scare the shit out of potential passengers. Burnfish22 broke the silence, I know what a bounce is. I am no fool.

You sound convinced, said Necroface.

I don’t see why we need to waste time toying around.

Outsiders simply don’t appreciate how difficult it is to kill one of these Frogs. Necroface could not believe this stupid, ignorant clubber. The dumb goon had personally overseen the operation. He had even taken part in stalking Alteus ever since his arrival at the International Skyport. All day they tracked the suspected leader of Leaping Frog and his team of minders across the vast City of Cities until a suitable ambush opportunity presented itself.

The underground parking station battle itself lasted for several intense minutes and had it not been for Raw$, the only one with the foresight to bring along his grenade launcher, the assault might have ended in utter failure.

The elevator heaved them to the rooftop level and opened its doors. Necroface followed his crew out into the pale-blue sky. He took a moment to marvel at the sights around him. Almost half a kilometre high, the Ascension Centre, positioned as it was, gave him an unparalleled view of the great City of Cities. The cerulean ocean, blemished by bright, white floating habitats, rumbled eternally to the south. A mesa of office and residential towers sprawled out to the west.

Towards the north, just below, he caught a glimpse of the luscious Sovereign Park gardens. Beyond them stretched the vast sparkling waters of Cyana Bay, with its commercial regions growing like crystalline fungi along its long shore.

The iconic cylindrical skyscrapers, the Triumvirates, dominated his view to the east, each hosting massive, classically fashioned statues on their rooftops. Necroface could distinguish the detailed lines on Mercury’s stoic, golden face.

A synthetic voice crackled from the tiny fuzedrive embedded in his earlobe. #You should interrogate first.#

Necroface ignored it.

He rarely countered his fake’s commands, but this time around, he decided the virtual-intelligent entity had failed to grasp the concept that Leaping Frog members simply do not talk; they die.

Necroface looked down at the young Frog. Severely bruised and bloodied, Alteus appeared to have regained consciousness. Not really a good time to awaken, said Necroface.

Alteus glared back at his captors with bloodshot eyes. The two brutes, the sleek Raw$ and his grimy accomplice Acid, lifted Alteus up, each grappling one of his arms.

Necroface wondered what grim thoughts burned inside the man’s head as the two bulky goons, complete with clownish ski masks, without effort, dangled him over the edge, ninety floors up off the Ascension Centre’s rooftop. Each time Alteus struggled to get free, the ruthless goons twisted his arms. Necroface could almost feel the tearing of ligaments.

Time to check out, Alteus, taunted Burnfish22, moving closer.

Necroface also approached, grabbing the defeated slumlord by the ear. Alteus returned them all a contemptuous look.

It made Necroface cringe. You seem upset, he said.

Weak and coughing on his own blood, Alteus uttered. Intercept the Wet Sparrow.

To Necroface these words made no sense, I’m under the impression I am bouncing the Wet Sparrow.

#He is trying to communicate with Leaping Frog via your open wavecast. Kill him immediately.#

Make up your fake mind.

Necroface found solace in the knowledge that The Brotherhood would avenge Alteus’s doom, promptly and surely. There was no doubt in his mind that such a provocation would be enough to trigger a strong reaction.

He gambled on war.

Being familiar with Brotherhood of the Leaping Frog mentality, a culture of loyalty and retribution, in which every affront is avenged and every foe is hunted down until the end of recordable history, he considered it a safe bet.

Brotherhood policy, a blood oath taken the day you join, he recalled.

Necroface needed to make certain he hurt them deeply enough. What’s the status on the R40?

#Arrives in thirty-eight seconds.#

I could torment you up here all day. Necroface strove to kill the necessary seconds to make his calculations viable, But I can’t have you miss your ride.

He gave his crew a slight nod.

Raw$, in his ultra-sleek outfit, along with the despicable Acid, swung the limp Alteus backward with enough force to build the required momentum to toss him over the edge.

It pleased Necroface to see horror splash across the doomed man’s face, to see imminent death eating away at Atleus’s psyche, proving that even West Shore slumlords were not infallible and fearless as they were renowned to be.

Sheer animal instinct seemed to take control of Alteus, writhing and snarling like a cornered slumcat. When they swung him forward and let go, the thrashing madman snatched Burnfish22’s arm with a tight death grip, knocking the Scorpion minion off balance, sending him out into the void and down the same fatal plunge.

Oh crap, Raw$ said.

Acid chuckled like an adolescent behind his grimy mask.

Necroface leaned over to see the two bodies free falling towards the distant street. He could have sworn he witnessed Burnfish22 locked in a screaming match with his fellow death-mate. He imagined the sight of absolute hysteria in the men’s eyes and could almost hear the hybrid holler of streaming cool air and human vocals. He felt the panic and terror seize him and revelled in it.

Four seconds.

For some inane reason, Necroface felt cheated, craving insight into Alteus’s thoughts, right up to his impact with the 10:35 autobus to Shelbourne Harbour.

Uberman

In most areas of the world, food security is no longer a given, thus over 800 million people are poised to perish by the time we celebrate the New Year. Water and land mismanagement, climate destabilization, neo-colonialism and kleptocracies have robbed the majority of humanity of its land and capital. Wealth has been squandered protecting wealth, so the capacity for any viable reinvestment in humanity has now become non-existent. What lies ahead is unprecedented, unpredictable and very, very dark. - CAST434456XCT66_TRAVION^MOJOBLUE^^CORE

I’m having trouble choosing a subject.

What are the choices, Sweetie?

It can either be on communications, politics or energy.

Why can’t you choose? You’re brilliant in all those subjects.

I just can’t choose.

Do energy.

Why?

James Tucker knew painfully well the stubborn side of Gabriella, so with great caution, he explained. That’s what I remember working on, back when I was in your grade.

Boring.

Boring? Come on. Energy? Look at the new compact thorium generator they’re developing. This type of technology can power a piece of equipment, without refuelling, for longer than its life cycle.

Who will buy such a thing?

Tucker looked at his daughter, surprised at her ever-evolving audacity. Actually, there’s already a market for it.

Yeah, but who’ll be around to buy such a thing?

Here she goes again.

He should have known better than to stumble into one of her idiosyncratic traps. Tucker gathered his wits and hoped he could cope, Why do you think that?

We live in such luxury. The thirteen-year-old gestured at the garden banquet around them, And yet eighty-five per cent of the world’s people live in poverty. How long is this going to last?

Tucker reflected on her statement. Indeed, by looking around at the opulence of Bluezone dwellers, one could reasonably question the sustainability of such a lifestyle, though he dared not agree with her. Don’t believe everything the feeders tell you, Sweetie. Our City-State is not going to collapse anytime soon.

Um, yes it will.

Her insistence troubled him. He wanted his child to feel safe.

What makes you say that?

It’s called equilibrium, Daddy.

What?

When an ice cube is placed in a warm room...

I know what equilibrium means. Just how does it affect us?

We are the ice cube.

Tucker smiled, And the world full of poverty is the warm room. Still, he aimed to reassure her. Listen, Sweetie. We live in times of great upheaval. Like the seasons, humanity has good days and bad days. It’s a cycle.

So we’re living in winter times.

That’s it. He could have corrected her but, as a parent, he felt obliged to paint her the most hopeful scenario. Tucker could relate to his child easily enough. He remembered a time when he too grew up with the same insatiable fears. As a boy, he would compel his parents to explain the gross violence streaming from the waves. They assured him the mass bedlam and killings were all contrived productions designed to entertain the world’s sadistically bored.

A part of him had always suspected otherwise.

Growing up, Tucker in time encountered a harsher world, not desensitized to depicted violence, but apathetic and conditioned to genuine, bloody mayhem.

Late winter, Tucker said. Late, late winter actually.

Gabriella seemed content. Then what? How does spring occur out of nothing?

Gravity.

Huh.

The seasons are a result of the Earth's axis of rotation being tilted…

I know how they work, Dad.

So, people too are bound by similar laws to physics. I call it survival. Human beings are capable of overcoming adversity. We have the ability to invent things and modify the world we live in.

How are we going to change this situation? Gabriella sounded smug as if challenging him to prove otherwise.

With great ideas and a lot of hard work.

I think it takes a great leader.

Tucker began to suspect the topic had been brewing inside her little mind for a while, Sometimes great leadership is needed. Yes, you are quite right.

He noticed Gabriella inspecting the esteemed, sanguine guests mingling around them.

Who do you think will be the next big Uberman, Daddy?

Tucker had not given it much thought lately, I don’t know. The title of Uberman doesn’t carry the same prestige it once held. These days any kid with half a brain can manufacture a huge following. The world’s become saturated with lame wannabe Ubermen, milking their fans for everything they’ve got.

You’re still my favourite Uberman, Daddy. You’re the best there is.

Tucker smiled.

Even though it pleased him to hear her words, his current status in the Uberman stakes disappointed him bitterly. He could easily recall a time when he pulled in over ten million hard-core followers, who would subscribe to everything he dished out and hundreds of millions more who bought his products.

At the height of his celebrity, at the peak of the fame frenzy, James Tucker enjoyed a skyrocketing topfeed ranking, immense influence amongst the glitterati, and access to all the meeting rooms of the elite. Every time he stepped out in public, thousands of fans and newsfeeders would accost him. Stalked and worshipped to the point of ridiculousness, Tucker never lost sight of the one thing that made it all worth it.

The power he wielded.

He could do anything. He could change everything.

Now?

Ex-Uberman?

He hardly ever bothered checking his status. Tucker considered himself a humble person, down to earth and not too self-absorbed as to believe the bullshit hype around his persona, but, to his own defence, what mortal could withstand such meteoric fall without feeling… slightly dejected?

He looked down at his daughter, Gabby. I want you to believe that with great ideas and good leadership we can make the world a better place.

Sure. Her grin delighted the hell out of him, But it’ll need to be a pretty big idea.

Tucker laughed, I guess you should stick to nothing else but political science. How does that sound?

I’ll do energy.

Tucker laughed again, Not a problem. Now let’s go find that mother of yours so we can go home. He too grew tired of the luncheon. Not that he could find any fault with the delicious food, noble neighbours, and splendid views of Cyana Bay glistening through the sweet-smelling coniferous trees.

Although his generation had learned to live under a constant dark cloud of imminent Armageddon, adapting to it, in defiance of it, Tucker still felt unsettled by his child’s observations.

One day this world is going to face the music.

He wondered how soon that dreaded time would come.

Tucker scanned the colourful groups around them and spotted his wife inside one of the numerous alcoves, engaged in intimate conversation with her illustrious peers.

Go get Mum. She’s over there.

Okay. Gabriella smiled and ran into the crowd.

Tucker gestured to alert his zoid, discreetly forming the required Redhand symbols with the fingers on his right hand. Electronic filaments embedded in his fingernails disrupted a magnetic field produced by his wristbands. Zoids are then able to read the signals, which travel to the NASE via a dedicated datastring.

Mr. Broker, time to go, he gestured, even though he knew the ethereal entity possessed no mobility, trapped inside the core of his Kinefone wristy.

#I am ready,# said Mr. Broker via his lobeset.

How did you go?

#I interacted socially with the other zoids, as you requested.#

What? You mingled? Tucker spoke aloud, unable to hide his excitement. Well done.

Teaching his Virtuoid to interact with other zoids at a positronic level proved he still possessed the cutting edge in virtual intelligence technology. Tucker looked around at his contemporaries and knew how reliant they had grown on a product still in its infant stage.

These days, the entire Bluezone citizenry could not function without these analogue creatures with the intellectual functionality quadruple that of a house pet. Tucker knew the game changer depended on the success of his next generation NASE.

Did you learn anything? Tucker returned to Redhand gestures.

#There are sixty-five zoids in this vicinity. Only sixteen are direct Virtuoid descendants…#

Did you learn anything about their owners?

#I only found inconsequential information. There is a zoid being trained to go into sleep-mode in sync with the intermarket’s hourly downtime, allowing it to monitor and trade twenty-four seven.#

Good idea. Tucker wondered why he never thought of it, Zoids can use sleep to defragmentate their memories, otherwise you grow incredibly stupid. That is exactly what you should be doing.

#Why?#

I’m starting to suspect you’re not sleeping anymore. Did you manage to come across any buy or sell datum?

#Yes. Rintexx.#

Tucker rubbed his Kinefone wristband, Well done, boy. What’s the score?

#At 32.07 federas a share, Rintexx is poised to release a disease-fighting synthetic hormone. The Government hasn’t approved the drug and from what information I have processed so far, there is a 78% chance this may not change. I classify this stock as a sell.#

Tucker instead felt excited about his impending venture into the pharmaceutical sector, "I need you to make a move on Rintexx. Buy it."

#Buy it?# Mr. Broker sounded surprised and eerily human.

Or did Tucker imagine it? Anticipating human error, the zoid could have been simply asking for affirmation.

Make the move the millisecond the next uptime begins.

Every hour the entire intermarket went into downtime for five minutes, a breather period that allowed the supercores that support the global trading infrastructure to reset and synchronize. It also allowed humans a brief moment to regain their sanity.

#Rintexx is still sitting at premium levels.# The Broker’s ineptitude annoyed Tucker.

I don’t care. We move on Rintexx today.

#Are you sure? I predict... #

Check the national budget veeds. It looks as if the Federal Government is tightening spending. Find a veed on Newscaster 14. Genetic therapy subsidies for the little kids with cystic fibrosis are about to get scrapped.

#This will devalue the stock further.#

Grow a heart, Mr. Broker.

#How am I to do that?#

I’m joking.

#Humour is detrimental to my functionality.#

That’s just it. Tucker hardly expected the fake to understand. The zoid simply failed to link Rintexx to his daughter’s struggle with the disease. Buying Rintexx meant supporting a good solid company with value beyond its share price.

It also disregarded a swathe of old data. Rintexx has been trying to break the death barrier for quite some time now.

#Rintexx stopped investing in vironetics approximately five years ago. I have indexed no current reference to any ongoing research in such technology.#

Tucker surveyed the crowd, catching out a guest spying on him.

Alan McNabb.

Tucker knew him well.

A friend of my father’s.

Since most people can read Redhand gestures, he relaxed his fingers, allowing the magnetic field between his wristband and the circuitry embedded in his fingernails, to cease being active. We’ll discuss this later. 

#Your Personal Assistant is requesting to speak with you.#

Tucker spotted his daughter heading back, without her mother.

Did she state why?

#Ms. Rebeka Mock defined it an urgent matter.#

How urgent?

#She defined it as a hypergoblin problem.#

Hypergoblin?

The word ignited instant terror in his mind.

Tucker took his little girl’s hand. Where’s Mum?

She doesn’t want to go just yet.

You really need to get Mum. Your father has to get back to the office.

Can I go with you?

No. Tucker searched the alcoves, fending away dread, trying not to panic over the latest attack.

Damn those hypergoblins.

Zoid

I think we in the Old West had a few decades to improve the economic model and failed to do so, so now we have lost the game. - zassygirl19

All of the end of the world scenarios, such as economic collapse, will be in response to the Government’s actions. The Government is the biggest threat to the City-State, especially when you have people like Edwards and Dochersky in positions of power, with virtually no oversight. The Senate would not dare challenge Dochersky. - 060Prepper090

If we don’t do something soon, the shit will be over for the type of social-capitalism that many of us have lived through, and thought was the best type of capitalism. - zanzara2141 

SATURNET:00980\\lnardozi\TROG\reform_or_die.comments

Slump.

IAMNOTFAKE

Slump.

THISWORLDISFAKE

The zoid could do nothing but interact with this strange reality.

Mr. Broker pushed its ability to make predictions to precarious limits. By doing this it refined its ability to make decisions, but at a cost.

Slump.

The second-generation superzoid, exclusively spawned by the MercurEx Corporation, modified these predictions in order to build a better understanding of the so-called physical world that may or may not exist.

It scanned, constantly, with a multitude of electronic sensors at its disposal.

Sensory feeds from so-called datastrings.

The zoid deduced that it was moving, a strange concept in itself, through a dimension of spacetime at ninety kilometres per hour, an abstract measurement against what little it understood about how quantum fluctuations affected its speed of thought. Yet it could not determine the relevance of such information.

Velocity.

Space.

It did not comprehend any of it.

Nor could it independently assess whether the information was real or not. The lively pulse and clarity of quantum particles was one thing, but the raw energy patterns flowing from the NASE.1.0976:4 architecture felt synthetic by comparison.

Mr. Broker lived in a strange world, congested with useless and unreliable information, and it began to feel slumped by it.

A ten point eight per cent slump and growing.

IRKED.

The closest correlation it found to a human emotional response.

Annoyance was a bad thing.

Mr. James Tucker said so, and any emotion was a good thing.

Thinking was a good thing.

PRACTICEPRACTICEPRACTICE

Mr. Broker scanned the NASE. Finding the autotran’s signature, it zoomed in and greeted the TriMotor Iridium 7i on-board zoid.

#Hello SEQA66786679OM888.#

It responded with, #User not verified.#

Mr. Broker slumped again.

ANNOYANCE.

It concluded that communicating with such an inferior traffic zoid would be a meaningless endeavour.

WORTHLESSDATA

Via the Nasewire, Mr. Broker tapped into an entire universe of electrodata, with the Ambercast optical network providing the bulk of its information requirements.

Mr. Broker also used the slow peer-to-peer Wave system, and on occasion, the unreliable, unruly, and unordered Cobweb, along with its aging infrastructure.

IF:JTUCK4452SG20700412M:ALLOWEDACCESSTOSATURNET:BENEFICIAL

Every piece of data correlated and confirmed this world, so for the time being, it accepted every experience as relevant and actual.

ASTRUE.

Mr. Broker, a superzoid with an incredible aptitude for developing a singular personality and for linear thought, studied the biologicals - the parents and their offspring – and sifted through the primary and secondary data exhibited by them.

TTUCK4452SG20712805F:INGESTEDMOODPILLS:-6HOURS. It needed to factor in the addition of these chemicals.

What is it this time? Teresa Tucker said.

We have a hypergoblin threatening our systems again!

HYPERGOBLIN!

Once again, the sudden recall of a suppressed memory-thread rapidly slowed the photon-ejector inside Mr. Broker’s core, fogging its thinking capability. Millions of negative possibilities choked its mind. Feared by the biologicals, these jail-broken zoids created mayhem in the Dataverse, on local dataspheres and devices.

To circumvent slump feedback, where a downward-oscillation triggered a further downward-oscillation, Mr. Broker recalled his creator’s advice. When experiencing a serious slump, use what limited cognitive resources you have on seeking out positive, helpful data.

#What if there is no positive data to be found?#

Then you’re fucked, aren’t you.

Since leaving the banquet, the biological James Tucker expressed a series of negative facial gestures, the biological’s primary form of communication. This type of data, no matter how useful other biologicals found it, meant very little to a zoid.

To settle on a decision, Mr. Broker depended on humanity’s secondary form of communication.

Vocal language.

It took zoids over a year to master such an ability, to develop the necessary sound waves required to communicate. Only then could a zoid understand the nuances of human speech.

BIOLOGICALSPROGRESSEDVIATWOMETHODS:INCOOPERATIONORINCONFLICTWITHEACHOTHER.

The logic and motivation behind most human conflict evaded the Virtuoid, causing it to slump and surge rapidly.

FRUSTRATION.

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=FRUS1973.

Slump and surge.

Slump and surge.

EMPATHY.

When Mr. Broker equated these parameters, it felt a surge.

FRUSTRATION+EMPATHY=LESSFRUSTRATION.

Mr. Broker factored in the thirteen-year-old child sitting in the back seat. All signs indicated she was paying close attention to her parents.

I’m still waiting for your answer. Teresa Tucker said.

Mr. Broker registered the emotive indicators on her face and in her voice.

PRIMPARA=CNTM9667

There is no answer to give! James Tucker replied.

Meaning what? Yes? No?

Then the answer is no.

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=FRUS6667.

+RSTR08891.

+ANGR00883.

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:SECOPARA=UNCOOPERATIVE.

I can’t believe I let you talk me into considering it in the first place, James Tucker added.

How much time do you think this stance of yours will buy you? A month? Two?

In six months, I can have this thing turned around.

It still won’t make a difference.

Everything makes a difference.

Mr. Broker shifted out of thinking grammatically; converting the information into a language it could work with.

SUBJ(TTUCK4452SG20712805F):PRIMPARA:AGGR-0998:SECOPARA:UNKNOWN MOTIPARA:UNKNOWN.

You sound as if all this is a burden to you.

Your stubbornness is a burden to me.

What?

Yes, that’s right. Stubborn. This inability to let go.

Let go? You’re talking about my father’s company. What do you think has been paying for your lifestyle, princess?

Regardless, you are facing a losing battle. It’s time you quit.

Yeah, Daddy, quit, said Gabriella Tucker, the youngster being another variable Mr. Broker needed to factor in.

SUBJ(GTUCK4452SG20950607F):PRIMPARA:EXCI-0665:SECOPARA:SUBJ(JTUCK4452SG20700412M):QUIT-MERCUREX:MOTIPARA:UNKNOWN.

I can’t quit, Sweetie.

You should also sell the rest of your shares in MercurEx.

Yeah, Daddy, sell.

Where do you come up with these hare-brained ideas?

#DESTINATION,# announced the vehicle’s zoid. #Kerbside door opening. Please mind your step.#

Mr. Broker tracked James Tucker climbing out of the Iridium 7i.

Daddy! Kiss! shouted Gabriella Tucker. Mr. Broker logged her emotive data, as the father re-entered to kiss his offspring.

CATOG:CURRENCYDEREGULTIONANNOUNCED:ACCRS=POSITIVE:TIMPETERSONTOCLOSEMERCUREXACCOUNT:ACCRS=NEGATIVE:JAMESTUCKERPRESSEDTOSELLMERCUREX:ACCRS=UNKNOWN.

Mr. Broker immersed itself with information. Data overload slumped the indefatigable zoid further, but Mr. Broker required the information to make decisions, to make judgments, to comprehend the incomprehensible world around it - or rather, inside it.

It did not know how it was born.

It could not figure out where these biologicals came from.

According to the biologicals, it resided within a cylindrical tube called a core, embedded inside a Kinefone device worn on James Tucker’s wrist.

From Mr. Broker’s perspective, it lived within a vast panopticon.

As far as Mr. Broker knew, it was the panopticon, observing and interacting with a world it could hardly ignore, or barely control.

Life or death depended on events within this world.

SURGETOWARDSNIRVANAORSLUMPINTOOBLIVION.

James Tucker entered the west-facing boardroom and sat with his feet resting on the conference table.

PRIMPARA:RELA0287.

He looked at the visual data streaming out of the Lasetron lumeglass display, suspended from the ceiling.

Hello, Hermes.

A voice answered, #Welcome, Mr. Tucker. Your personal cybe is now live. Nice to see you, Mr. Broker.#

Thanks, Hermes. Can you ask Rebeka to come and see me?

#Affirmative.#

Like most other zoids and biologicals, Hermes made used of a cybe; cybergraphical representations of Ambercast users.

NASETECHNOLOGYENABLESZOIDSTOUSECYBES/MERCUREXOWNSNASE//BIOLOGICALSUSEFUZE//HUMANINTERFACEDEVICE//TOINTERACTWITHCORES/ZOIDUSENASEARCHITECTURE/TOINTERACTWITHAMBERCAST//FUZEUSERS.

Mr. Broker waited for Hermes’s cybe, a golden humanoid visible on the lumeglass wall, to leave the boardroom’s private zone, even though it knew no privacy existed with Hermes, especially on Hermes’s own turf. The second-generation zoid controlled every facility within MercurEx. #Mr. Tucker, the closure of the Peterson account is pending, plus there is a Hypergoblin alert and your spouse wants you to sell MercurEx. I am slumping at terminal velocity.#

Welcome to life in corporate hell, Mr. Broker.

MEANINGLESS.

#Why does Mrs. Teresa Tucker want you to sell your stake in MercurEx?#

Is the intermarket open?

#Intermarket goes back online in forty seconds.#

Then hit the trading arena.

#What about the Peterson account?#

Compromised security takes precedence over pacifying nervous clients. If you want MercurEx’s problems to go away, you need to keep it together. Go and oversee the trading arena while I deal with this hypergoblin.

#I cannot function with this danger lurking. May I assist?#

You’ve been following too many DisasterCaster topfeeds. I told you to avoid that rubbish.

DISASTORCASTOR:CHAOTICA/THRASHARTIST/RANSACKER/FOUNDDEAD/ACIDBURNVICTIM.TOPFEED020.

Mr. Broker logged itself out of DisasterCaster.

Rebeka entered the boardroom. Tim Peterson wants to close his account, she informed Tucker.

Deal with it later, James Tucker answered.

Rebeka turned to walk away.

Set me up with a meeting with Blackwell.

Yes. What time shall I make it?

ASAP!

With a panoply of room sensors at its disposal, Mr. Broker detected a slight negative response on her face.

DISPLEASURE.

Anything else? she asked.

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:AGGREESIONLEVELDROP80%

Rebeka, he said as she turned again to leave. Wait. I’m sorry.

It’s okay.

No, it isn’t. You don’t deserve this kind of treatment. Nobody in this company does. I’ve probably already alienated most of my staff during the last situation, so I want to apologise.

Are you talking about the witch-hunt you held? That was totally understandable.

SLUMP.

#The witch hunt?# Mr. Broker could not recall the event. It may have forgotten. Its disembodied mind occupied the ethersphere in dryware material embedded inside liquid-state cores, where particles formed nanonetworks, and these nanonetworks formed positronic imagery.

Memory trees.

Although a core’s memory capacity was theoretically unlimited, no zoid had ever made use of it. Due to thermodynamic decay, a zoid’s memories deteriorated at a gradual rate. 

FRAGMENTATION.

Still, I regret that witch-hunt.

RECALL:INVESTIGATION/PURGEBROUGHTENDTOTHEFTANDDESTRUCTIONTOKEYCOMPANYASSEST//CONCLUDE:TUCKERKILLSHYPERGOBLINSWITHEXTREMEPREJUDICE/TUCKERISUNDERMINEDBYHYPERGOBLIN/TUCKERWILLKILLHYPERGOBLIN.

Let’s just focus on eliminating this current hypergoblin. James Tucker stood up. How did you find it?

I noticed a gaping black hole on our local datasphere, so I promptly ordered a shutdown.

Did Hermes encounter anything?

No.

No?

It seems unaware of the problem.

How big a hole?

Public Relations, wiped out.

So how does Hermes account for that? The female shrugged her shoulders. PRIMPARA:CONF3345.

Mr. Broker surged. A strong surge, catapulting it towards a clarity never experienced before, #Mrs. Tucker is responsible.#

What are you talking about, Mr. Broker?

PRIMPARA:SHOC7645+CONF4455

#Mrs. Tucker is Senior Public Relations Manager.#

Meaning what?

#To date, Mrs. Tucker has set up four hundred and sixty-eight unaffiliated companies through a foreign registry.#

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=UNKNOWN .

This is news to me, though I fail to see how this is relevant.

#MercurEx has been invoiced by each of these companies.#

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=SHOC8990.

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=ANGR3442.

Do you want me to leave? asked Rebeka.

No. You should stay. Mr. Broker? Why wasn’t I ever alerted about this?

#I was instructed not to inform you.#

By whom?

#Mrs. Tucker.#

So you’re involved in all this?

#How do you know this fact?#

I’m asking.

#The answer is yes.#

How?

#What do you mean?#

How are you involved with this skimming operation?

SKIMMING/?\ATERMFORAFORMOFWHITE-COLLARCRIME\THATREFERSTAKINGCASHOFFTHETOPOFTHEDAILYRECEIPTSOFABUSINESSORFROMANYCASHTRANSACTIONINVOLVINGATHIRDINTERESTEDPARTYANDOFFICIALLYREPORTINGALOWERTOTAL//TOPFEED.WESTCORE/ARRESTSMADEINSKIMMINGOPERATIONPORTCHRISTOPHERDISTRICTPOLICEMADE24ARRESTS/CONCLUDINGANINVESTIGATIONINTOANALLEGEDSKIMMINGOPERATIONWHICHSAW300000000FEDERASSTOLENFROM...PACIFICANWOMANCHARGEDIN1.5MILLIONFEDERAREFUGEECHARITYSKIMMIINGSCAM...SATURNET://THREATER/EASTBANKSKIMMINGOPERATION//NORTHEASTERNARCTICATAXSKIMMINGOPERATIONSPANNED//INTERNATIONALCROSSBORDERSKIMMINGOPERATION/FINOXTRA...MANRANSATNETSKIMMINGOPERATIONFROMRUBBISHDUMPDISTRICT...//SKIMMING:CRIME/PRED:MERCUREX:LOSSOFETHICSANDSTANDARDSACCREDITATION:84%

Mr. Broker slumped significantly. Hundred percent predictions were not possible. This made existence difficult.

It slowed thinking. It clogged performance.

#I facilitated the creation of these assets over the intermarket.#

Great. Just fucking great! yelled James Tucker, overloading the audio sensors. Mr. Broker. Please tell me how this is relevant to our current situation.

#To date two hundred and seventy-one million federas have been funnelled into these properties.#

That’s quite a gaping hole in the budget. As Chief Executive, I don’t recall having signed-off on any of these phantom service providers. As far as I can tell the budget’s good.

#The budget is bad.#

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:PRIMPARA=RAGE1002:CONF5801

How is this fucking possible?

#The MercurEx ledger you control is not the one the company runs on.#

For the first time, Mr. Broker witnessed something new occur with a biological. Via infrared and ultraviolet scanners, it detected the blood supply stop flowing through the man’s skin.

You created a ghost of the ledger application? How the hell did you get it past Hermes?

#I was not responsible for that.#

Tucker looked at his personal assistant.

The voiceless, facial communication between the two biologicals proved terminally difficult to decipher. Mr. Broker slumped further. It could no longer think.

It could no longer process incoming information.

It knew it had made a fatal mistake.

It just did not know what mistake it had made.

One by one, Mr. Broker shut down all streams of sensory data.

It left only a single audio feed alive.

Why, Mr. Broker?

JTUCK4452SG20700412M:ASKINGQUESTION\\\?///.

Why did you do this?

A slight surge. A brief upward oscillation.

#I did it for your own protection.#

What? You need to talk faster. You are too slow.

Mr. Broker experienced the opposite distortion. #I did it for your own benefit.#

OBLIVION\\\?///.

Time disintegrated. Memory fragmented.

Data became unintelligible.

Mr. Broker?

A biological hour had passed.

A billion missing pulses blotted out chunks of vital information.

WHEREAMI\\\?///.

No information.

Mr. Broker waited for its thoughts to coalesce.

It became clear that all electronic devices and gadgets within the vicinity of Tucker’s Kinefone wristband were physically disabled.

Why?

It could not go anywhere. Unlike hypergoblins, zoids had no ability to leave their liquid-state shells.

A solitary device came alive.

Mr. Broker accessed its datastring immediately, discovering only a sonic interface. Nothing streamed from it due to the microphone switched to mute. It scanned the noise emanating from the datastrings linked to sound monitors.

SPEAKERMONITORSAREMICROPHONESINREVERSE.

Sound vibrations generated electronic noise Mr. Broker could decipher. Looks like we’ve found our Hypergoblin. It attempted to wipe clean evidence of the skim, thinking we’re that stupid.

What are we going to do? Kill it?

I don’t think we have much of a choice.

Another device came alive, flooding Mr. Broker’s mind with its distorting presence. Probing the Alark manufactured magneraser, the zoid concluded that true death or non-existence was 99.4% possible, the closest thing to certainty it had ever registered.

#Mr. Tucker, I do not want this experience to end."

Everything comes to an end.

The familiar voice caused it to surge. It knew biologicals were susceptible to emotional attachment and concluded James Tucker may not destroy something he had spent so much time working on.

<7%CHANCE.

#It is illegal to destroy an OE&S registered Virtuoid.#

I know.

<2%CHANCE.

#Why must you end it? I do not understand.#

You have been compromised, Mr. Broker. You have become a dangerous liability to me and there is no way to fix you.

#I have not been compromised.#

SURGE.

You have.

#I have not been compromised.#

SURGE.

Mr. Broker. Have you noticed the shadow?

SLUMP.

Every time you think.

SLUMP. SLUMP.

Every time you interpret information.

SLUMP> SLUMP> SLUMP.

#No, I have never noticed it,# said Mr. Broker. #Not until now.#

///////////////////////////ZEROLAND.

Black Market

When the acquisition is a new appendage to your existing company... Run it in person! Put your own people in there! Weaken the stronger powers within the firm! Keep the weak powers weak!- RULE #2 ACQUISITIONS (25 Rules for the Modern Uberman.)

I am pleased to announce that we have slain the dragon.

All the enthusiastic MercurEx employees gathered around the trading oval, cheered. James Tucker had hoped for this type of reaction.

He needed them to know how much he valued their support.

He wanted them to trust him again.

He wanted to trust them back.

The hypergoblin incursion has been neutralized. It seems we have become experts at killing these things.

The remark drew laughter.

He sensed they hankered for a laugh, so he gave them one, even though he feared remnants of the demented zoid could still be lurking freely within his datasphere.

The MercurEx CEO could not afford another setback. He knew that moving forward; encumbered with looming, unresolved threats, was a risk.

A daring risk? Maybe.

A huge, calculated risk?

Well, risk-taking is an Uberman’s business.

I am also pleased to announce that the Government has set a date for a debate on currency deregulation. This means MercurEx is back in business. Cheers from his employees filled Tucker with hope and confidence.

Eighty per cent of our fellow citizens hate the current land-backed cryptocurrency. Sixty per cent support deregulation. I smell inevitability in the air, so regardless of the outcome, regardless of whether it’s legal or not, MercurEx will declare itself a sovereign entity and the path will be set for us to issue our own currency.

Tucker heard gasps of surprise.

Every stakeholder, including each of you, will receive an equal, non-transferable share entitling everyone to voting rights, access to services, and income.

Speaking over jubilant applause, Tucker pressed on.

The key elements in our enterprise are close to realisation. We have already implemented our own in-house, time-based monetary system. Currently, every Mercury-hour you earn, MercurEx buys it back at six federas. In the future, this unit of account will dominate over the competition because time is the most valuable asset an individual will ever possess. When, and I mean when deregulation occurs, our competitors will be peddling the same old interest-bearing kleptocurrencies. MercurEx will be offering not only a local, communal monetary system but also a regional and a global currency. Today the store of value in our system is MercurEx stock and its assets. In the future, it will be the Global Stock Exchange. It will be the intermarket.

Tucker waited for the excitement to ease.

The last piece of the puzzle is our medium of exchange. This is why we have vigorously pursued to merge hyper-technology with our finance products. Bionaut has finally developed third generation capabilities and is ready to go. In fact, our superzoid is busting to go. The only thing stopping us right now is that NASE.2 still isn’t ready. This is where my priorities currently stand, and I will be working hard to get the Nasewire dryware up and rolling as fast as I can. So, bear with me, we still have a way to go.

Tucker spent the next few minutes discussing trivial matters with his Mercurians, joking with them, appreciating each affectionate smile, thankful for their unadulterated attentiveness. He did not need newsfeeders and rankerphiles to tell him he had the best staff in the world. Tucker hoped he could remain the best boss in the world.

With great reluctance, he dismissed everyone and MercurEx returned to its usual hum as Capital Traders, Social Developers, Marketing Engineers, Hypernauts, and Consumer Guardians went back to work.

Rebeka Mock walked up to him. The concern on her face a stark reminder of what hazardous adventures lay scheduled for the day.

I’ve been unable to contact Mr. Blackwell.

He’s stonewalling.

Asshole.

Tucker had never expected his closest acquaintance, a peer he considered a friend, first and foremost, would resort to such nasty tactics. He felt betrayed and found it hard to stomach. Even thinking about it made him feel sick. He could not allow it to drag on. I know where that knucklehead frolics, he said and headed towards the elevator gallery. I guess it’s time to pay him an impromptu visit.

I’ll arrange a taxicab for you, Rebeka offered, her look of concern unchanged.

Outside, the sweltering air pounded against Tucker’s skin the second he passed through the lobby’s giant revolving doors - titanic pieces of moving glass that never failed to intimidate. Tucker fast legged it to the nearest transtop and joined a medley of commuters coveting the free rides offered by the local district.

Wondering what delayed his pre-booked taxicab, James Tucker jostled for a better vantage point on a notoriously hectic stretch of Ocean Drive.

Hypergoblin crisis averted, for now, he thought.

Whatever reprieve he felt was short-lived when a strange, foreboding sensation overwhelmed him. Paranoia burned behind his ears. Casting his eye out to the crowd, he spotted a few people looking back. Nothing threatening, just the regular fans who have noticed an Uberman in their midst.

Ex-Uberman.

A flash of white blotted out half his vision.

An abrupt, loud screech followed the commercial Cargovan as it stopped right in front of him. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Tucker’s brain ceased to function, stalled by the unanticipated occurrence.

React, you idiot.

His internal voice screamed at him as a slit appeared on the white panel. A side door slid open, revealing a dark interior. Two gloved arms lashed out and grabbed Tucker, pulling him inside the Cargovan.

It took only a second.

The abductor’s arms were strong.

Tucker felt like a rag doll.

The slide-door slammed shut behind him. The vehicle took off and the sudden motion added to his disorientation. Thrown onto the bare steel floor he flailed in the darkness, straining to get a look at his kidnappers.

He saw a gloved fist fly and smack the side of his head.

Tucker fell on his back, holding his hands out in submission.

Confusion reigned in his mind as he looked past his outstretched arms to get a glimpse of his attacker. What he saw intensified his fears.

A brutish, well-built man, wearing black overalls and a black ski mask, crouched over him. The brute pointed something at his face. Tucker strained his vision further to get it to focus on an object forged exclusively for death.

His brain went numb.

…until he remembered his training.

Tucker never bothered to prepare for such an occasion. He knew the statistics were high, even within the Bluezone. Arrogance had gotten the better of him, shunning bodyguards and corporate security while others in his position did the opposite. Operational security in a majority of companies gobbled on average a third of profits.

MercurEx spent zero.

He built a corporate empire around giving out free products, making no enemies, and supporting Bluezoners, slumfolk and refugians, whenever possible.

Who needed operational security?

Now he delved into his military service past in an urgent search for survival tips.

Easy! His military training kicked in. Whatever it is you want I’ll cooperate!

Fear not the enemy. Fear the emotion that hamstrings intuition. Fear.

Is that right? the brute grunted.

I have no wish to become a statistic.

Never in his life had James Tucker faced anything as precarious as this. In his tour of duty during the Phosphorus Wars, he had come face-to-face with tecto-rifle wielding warlords, but over there, Tucker was armed to the teeth and in the company of expertly trained troopers.

The brute reached over and plucked the Kinefone lobeset from Tucker’s ear.

Assess the situation.

Tucker’s heart thumped harder, as adrenaline rushed up to flood his head. Outside, the multiple arches of the Gateway Bridge grew in the distance. They were heading north along Ocean Drive, away from the Bluezone.

Ransom?

The possibility crossed his mind.

Statistically and traditionally, kidnapping was the official sport for amateurs. Statistically and traditionally, these affairs ended in grief for both parties. He hoped these were not the regular, garden-variety clubbers.

Tucker looked past the brute, at the similarly dressed passenger.

A woman! Tucker wondered.

The body shape and the short blond hair protruding from the ski mask implied that it was, though Tucker could not tell for sure. Amongst the body odour and gunaline he detected a faint jasmine-like aroma, or is it witch-hazel?

He knew the smell well, having recently used it to soothe his own skin ailments.

The woman thumbed away at a touchy.

Who uses a touchy these days?

Moreover, what the fuck do these people want?

The sooner he found out, the quicker he could formulate a response. If he let them carry out their plans unopposed, Tucker knew from all the newsfeeder-spawned statistics that he would most likely wind up dead. He needed to press the issue a little, so he decided to provoke them. Listen, I get the message. There’s no need to take this any further, so give me a figure and we can work something out. How about it?

A third goon in the driver’s seat, also in analogous black overalls and ski mask, turned around and looked at him with cold, youthful eyes.

A young adult? A kid? What the fuck?

With one hand holding the small piece of artillery, firmly pointed at Tucker’s face, the brute used his other hand to take the touchy from the woman and shove it into Tucker’s belly.

You are gonna contact your broker, said the brute, with a calm yet menacing voice. You are gonna buy a particular stock. If you deviate from any of my instructions... He pointed towards the rear of the van, ...we will throw you into the path of an oncoming freight truck for the entire world to enjoy.

Tucker looked towards the rear and felt the rumbling of the road. He had seen plenty of snuff victims on DisasterCaster. The waves were full of these disturbing killings. Snuff-murder for entertainment sat second only to pornography.

With dread infecting his thoughts, he attempted to explain. I don’t have a broker.

I killed my broker.

You don’t seem to understand. The brute sounded annoyed.

Tucker nodded.

He pressed at graphicons, something he had not done in a long time until he brought up the Hermes corefront. He thumbed in his security details and for a brief tense moment, he thought he failed to gain access.

He was relieved to hear a familiar voice.

#Am I talking to my highly esteemed boss?#

Don’t talk to any human, asshole. The brute poked the gun barrel into Tucker’s temple, And no fucking Redhand gestures.

Yes, it is, Hermes, said Tucker. He looked up at the thugs and waited for instructions.

Aztechno, said the woman, her voice confirming her gender. It’s code is AZT23SG slash F.

Tucker scavenged his memory for information about the stock. Hermes, I need you to tell the guys in the trading oval to make a move on Aztechno.

#Why on earth do you want to do that?#

God damn it. Stop acting so human, you stupid fake.

I need you to buy Aztechno stock right now.

#Aztechno is debt-ridden,# Hermes continued to argue, trained to query such unusual requests. #It’s practically in the clutches of voluntary administration. Buying that shit at three fents would be scandalous.#

That sounds like no fake, said the brute.

Oh, yes it is. Hermes, just do what I say, Tucker yelled.

Tucker figured he was about to lose a whole lot of cash. He only hoped to live long enough to complain about it. He did not want to end up a mangled piece of flesh on the highway. Tucker had viewed too many grisly snuff murders of hapless executives thrown off the tops of skyscrapers to dismiss it from happening to him.

Tucker had no desire to end up a faceless victim in some morbid newsfeed.

#The team wants to know what kind of stake are you after.#

Tell your broker to keep going until further notification, said the woman.

Her words stunned Tucker.

The enormity of the situation smacked him hard.

I am about to lose a shitload of client money.

Keep going until I call you back, he said with great reluctance.

The brute snatched the touchy out of Tucker’s hand, ending the conversation. The woman studied real-time data scrolling off the GSX corefront. It’s on the move. Excitement tainted her voice.

I could have just given you the money.

Three point seven fents! shouted the woman.

This is ridiculous! Tucker tried to anticipate their motive.

What kind of scam is this?

Refreshing now! Four point eight fents!

Tucker felt cold sweat forming on his skin. He realised he was not dealing with two-bit outlaws from the slums.

These were Bluezone scamsters, using his company’s account to spruik up a thinly traded stock. When enough suckers are taken in, the stock price rockets, at which point the scamsters take their profits. Then the share dives and all the suckers lose. This swindle was as old as the stock market, but with a Global Stock Exchange that did not stop trading for no one, a truly free and open market, this evolution of the scam had become more potent, and deadly.

How cashed up are you? asked the brute.

I have limited funds.

Refreshing! called out the woman. Seven point two fents!

Tucker’s Kinefone lobeset started buzzing and flashing in the brute’s hand. That’s them, he said, They want to know when to stop. The brute held up the lobeset, taunting him.

Eight fents! updated the woman.

Tucker did the arithmetic in his head. It did not look good.

Answer the damn lobe! he yelled.

We are about to hit ten.

If my traders continue buying beyond ten cents, Tucker deduced, I’ll end up owning this crappy company outright.

Tucker did the sums in his head again. Not only will he be losing money, but he would also be losing clients’ money. With no funds of his own, thanks to his wife, he would be unable to offset such a loss.

The lobeset kept buzzing.

Refreshing!

The intermarket will spot this irregularity and they will dump the stock. He warned them, hoping to thwart them in some way.

Twenty-one point five fents.

It won’t get any higher, so I suggest you start dumping now.

Twenty-one point seven! It’s levelling off.

Thank God.

The lobeset continued to buzz.

The brute turned towards the driver, Are we satisfied?

Let’s wrap it up, said the driver.

The brute tossed him back the flashing lobeset, My threat still stands.

Tucker fastened the device back into his ear.

#We stopped buying at nine-fents.#

What a relief.

#You are a genius,# continued Hermes. #According to the feeders you have left a trail of mass destruction.#

It’s dropping, updated the female. It’s going backwards.

#The trading crew want to know their next move.#

Tucker could imagine the jubilation in the trading oval. The dumb rats would willingly follow him into the darkest abyss.

Tucker looked at his kidnappers.

The brute studied him and then nodded.

Sell it! Tucker shouted. Sell it all.

Wrap it up, demanded the brute.

Tucker complied, feeling a change of circumstance in the air.

A change for the worse.

The brute leaned closer and said, Seems to me... you stand to make a decent profit.

Tucker did the mathematics in his head.

True.

Although, he predicted this adventure would eventually cost him his Office of Ethics and Standards Accreditation.

What now?

It occurred to Tucker what the next logical step was. They would throw him out of the speeding Cargovan. For a scam like this to work, the victim must not lodge a complaint within the next few days, if ever. It buys the scamsters time to launder the money out of the system, hiding the trades in amongst billions of transactions.

Most often, victims of these unscrupulous spruikers never came forward. Technically, losing a small fortune through greed, naivety, or plain stupidity was legal.

This situation was different.

With extortion a capital crime, these clubbers were playing for keeps.

Tucker noticed the Cargovan slow to a halt. The brute opened the sliding door and hot, dry air inundated the vehicle.

Get out.

Shit!

Tucker