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DUST 
by Jeff Somers
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    1.

    I examined myself in the mirror, making sure that my suit jacket didn't
bulge or bunch at the wrong places, or swing open as I walked to reveal what
I was carrying. I probably wouldn't have anything rigorous to do my first
day at my new job, but it wouldn't do to make a bad impression. If you
showed up looking like an amateur they were likely to treat you like one;
just because you impressed the HR department faggots didn't mean the real
men and women of the company shared HR's opinion.

    Making a living wasn't what it used to be, that was for sure. In Dad's
time all you needed was a college degree or two and some balls and you could
get ahead. That might be good enough for the service sector or the fast-food
career slums these days, but to get a job at one of the Big Ten
Corporations, you needed a lot more. Oh, sure, you still had to have that
Ph.D. in Business Applications and Advanced Marketing to even get an
interview, but you had to have more practical aspects to offer them, too.
You had to have balls.

    As I rode the subway into Manhattan I considered my own life: at
thirty-five I was starting my first day as an Assistant to the Executive
Vice President of Acquisitions at M-Consolidated, number five on the Big
Ten, boasting 17 percent of the country's population as customers of one
sort or another. It was an incredible opportunity, considering that I'd only
finished my Ph.D. program six years ago. I'd been working over at
Mitsubishi-Packard-Odeon for two years in the Contractual Enforcement
division and I'd had a couple of high-profile scores out of the Houston
office, and the headhunters had come running. MPO was huge, but it was
number seven, and Acquisitions was more high-profile than CE anyway.

    I burnt a cigarette on the subway and worried over details. My bank
accounts had to be transferred yet -they were held up by the Federal
Corporate Audit Commission, making sure I hadn't embezzled or bamboozled or
otherwise cheated the Fed out of tax monies- so M-Consolidated had advanced
me a corporate credit card to get me through the first few weeks. I'd left
Cheryl behind in Houston because she wasn't prepared to leave MPO's Umbrella
Marketing department and the few lonely nights I'd spent in New York had
convinced me to find myself a new companion soon. Consolidated would help me
out in that department too, if I wanted, but I liked to think I was enough
of a hunter-gatherer to score my own sex, and the Corporations usually used
their Temp Services departments as pools for provided companions. I didn't
want some idiot girl with a B.A. who thought if she sucked my cock hard
enough I'd take her away from secretarial hell. I knew no one at my level
would date me for fear of getting stabbed in the back on a promotion, and no
one above my level would date me because women were so fucking conscious of
the double-standard, but some nice young girl from Distribution Services or
Financial Computation (not Financial Enforcement, sweet Jesus no) would be
fine. At least then she'd have half an education and some career to look
forward to.

    The train pulled into Rockefeller Station and I got up to muscle my way
through the crowd. Mornings were delicate. All of us filled to the eyebrows
with hangover and testosterone and nicotine, most of us packing rods, and
some of us, I thought with creepy certainty, were from high-level
Enforcement or Termination departments. Those bastards run on short fuses,
and the prisons were filled with former Vice Presidents who'd had really bad
mornings and blown people away. I tried to balance courtesy with gruffness.
I wanted to be civilized, but I wasn't going to let anyone walk all over me,
even if they were some Termination hard-ass.

    I could play hardball too. 

    2.

    M-Consolidated's New York Office took up three blocks of Sixth Avenue in
midtown in the 1100 address. It employed almost ten thousand employees
representing every department of the corporation on a local scale. Corporate
Headquarters were still in Seattle, of course, but next to Seattle the New
York office was the largest. I stood outside and looked the building up and
down once before chucking my cigarette and stepping into the revolving
doors. People were streaming in and out in a steady flow: expensive suits
swaggering around, gorgeous women with light alloy automatics in their Gucci
handbags, scuttling Support and Temp Services staff trying not to be noticed
for the General Education mongrels they were, and everyone in-between. The
revolving doors were constantly in motion, and it took a small amount of
skill to slip into one without getting spanked.

    The lobby was huge and filled with echoes. I got on line for the metal
and plastic alloy detectors, run by Support Services Security Guards, who
were worthless, and supervised by a cop. I respected NYPD. I respected all
cops, but New York City was the only police force in the nation that
required a Ph.D. in Law Enforcement or Law Applications, minimum. A lot of
ex-military Grads ended up in the NYPD. They were hard cases, all right.

    I checked my Glock-Wessen Plastic -Alloy Automatic Roon 9mm and got a
nod of appreciation from the cop, which made me feel good. The Roons were a
west-coast gun, mostly; Fox Ford Seagrams had had its Glock-Wessen
subdivision create it specifically for its employees a few years ago and you
either worked with FFS or new people on its Executive Board to have one.
Just having one crowding your shoulder made people think twice about fucking
with you. I stepped through the detector and the gun was returned to me with
some awe by the idiot Support Services Guard, looking like a shaved monkey
in his little green uniform. I gave him a once over, quickly, and guessed
he'd been through high-school, maybe a community college degree in
Enforcement. Nothing more, certainly, and maybe less. And I bet his grades
hadn't been very good, either. I smacked my Roon back into place and made
for the elevators. Waiting, I lit another cigarette.

    I rode up to the 45th floor and stepped off into a soothing lobby of
green carpet and Beatles songs in the air. I approached the receptionist
with a caddish grin, my leather shoes squeaking slightly, and leaned across
her desk. She offered me an empty smile back. A Gen Ed, I thought, a Gen Ed
with nice tits and a pretty face and she probably flirted with every
executive who wandered into the place in hopes of getting ahead in the
world.

    "Good morning, sir." She chirped. "How may I help you today?"

    "I have a seven-thirty appointment with Ms. Carter. I'm Nathan
Happling."

    She glanced down at her appointment book, which was a disorganized mess
of notes and scrawls.

    "Ah, yes, Mr. Happling. Please have a seat and I'll ring Ms. Carter for
you. May I get you some tea or coffee in the meantime?"

    "No thanks." I said, and sat down. I only waited a few moments before a
tall black woman, possibly in her forties and dressed in a tight, barely
corporate dress suit. She was an attractive woman, and had probably been
more so with the blush of youth upon her, and obviously enjoyed it. I didn't
allow myself to enjoy the sight too much, though. She might just be an HR
Manager, but she'd had an impressive litany of degrees on her office wall
and would probably be well-liked by the Management Team. No sense offending
her. HR Managers also had all the dirt in the world to use in their favor,
and it was the smart corporate ladder climber that kept that in mind.

    "Mr. Happling." she said in crisp, efficient tones. "Good to see you
again. If you'll follow  me, Mr. Wilson and Mr. Stein are very anxious to
meet you."

    The offices were neat and calm, filled with neutral colors and easy
furniture. They bustled with Support Services and Temp workers, dogged
little men and women struggling to handle the workloads we'd been trained to
handle matter-of-factly. They all stared after me in curiosity, a new Lord
of the Manor they would have to worry about. I was to be assigned three
Support workers and I could call on as many as three Temps if I saw need,
that was in my Job Description. I studied everything, from the executives
who had the most Temps working for them (often a sign of an empire builder
or a lazy shit who'd get weeded out eventually) to the old Dinosaur VPs in
tiny offices who were still doing their own photostat work. Most of them
looked like they'd signed what seemed like plush contracts when they'd been
in their forties, and times had changed around them unkindly. A contract was
still a contract, and even a force like Consolidated wouldn't dream of
violating a single term in one, but it certainly didn't see any need to be
generous. I kept all the names in mind. You never knew. 

    3.

    Joe Stein was a big, hulking hawk-nosed gent of fifty-three who was
something of a celebrity in Acquisitions departments throughout the country.
He wore bow ties and wingtip shoes, this I knew by rumor. He also smelled
strongly of pipe tobacco and had one in his mouth constantly, which I
didn't. He'd been president of Acquisitions at M-Consolidated for three
years, and had been president of Acquisitions at Lockheed/Kodak/Intergrated
BM for six years before that. The man was a superstar: fearless, merciless,
and a crack shot with an automatic to boot. He also sported dark bags under
his eyes, a bulging gut, and a wet cough that told me that he wasn't going
to enjoy that immense retirement package he'd negotiated with Consolidated
when they'd bought him out of LKIBM. I shook his hand fiercely, trying to
impress him with my grip. He smiled slickly at me, as if he'd seen hungry
young desk jocks like me a thousand times, which of course he had.

    Miles Wilson was a well-known figure in corporation halls nationwide
too, but for different reasons. He was the EVP of Acquisitions, one of three
under Joe Stein and more or less the heir apparent at Consolidated, and more
or less had been for some time. No one knew what he was waiting for. He was
fortyish, completely grey, tall and thin and tanned, looking as healthy as
the best Health insurance in the USA could make him. His grip was as mild as
his smile. What was remarkable about him was that he'd worked his entire
career at Consolidated, since right after the final mergers that created the
current version of the company. He'd even interned there for eight years
while earning his masters and Ph.D. His rise had been meteoric and
brilliant, but every effort to buy him from Consolidated had been refused.
His loyalty was amazing and bizarre. He would have been President of
Acquisitions at almost any of the other Big Ten Corporations two years gone
if he's jumped ship, and everyone had expected him to be President here at
Consolidated, and yet he had continually missed opportunities over the past
two years, culminating in the amazing coup of hiring Joe Stein. Rumors
abounded as to why Miles Wilson was playing it safe, but none of the rumors
rang true now that I saw the man in the flesh, and felt his immense
confidence and ease. He gave every indication that he was a man fully in
charge, even if he was waiting for Joe Stein to die.

    They offered me a seat and handed me a stiff bourbon in water without
asking. Miles stood in the background, almost behind me, while Joe Stein sat
casually behind his desk. I wasn't sure what to make of this; Miles Wilson
was going to be my direct supervisor, but he didn't seem to be very
interested in the interview. Joe Stein terrified me with his sharp gaze for
a few moments.

    "Well," he said finally, "let's see it."

    I started slightly. "Excuse me, sir? See what?"

    He grinned. "The rod, kid. Let me see the goddamn Roon!"

    I relaxed. They always wanted to see the goddamn gun. Only three hundred
were owned by non-FFS employees, they were harder to come by than virgins in
the Temp Services Offices. I pulled it out, clicked on the safety, and
handed it to him barrel-first. He looked it over with a practiced eye. "Very
nice," he said slowly, "how'd you come by this beauty, Happling?"

    I shrugged. "Charm."

    Behind me, Miles Wilson chuckled. Joe Stein looked up with flashing
eyes, but then relaxed, handing the gun back across the desk. "I don't see
any, personally, kid, but Miles seems to like you well enough. And Doris
Carter gave you a high rating, and they don't come often from that iron-clad
bitch. You were a star in Contract Enforcement, Happling, but this is
Acquisitions. We don't fuck around in this department. Do you, or have you
ever, fucked around Mr. Happling?"

    "Call me Nathan."

    Wilson chuckled again, the ice in his drink clinking pleasantly. Joe
Stein nodded with upraised eyebrows. "Okay, then. Miles, this asshole's all
yours. Personally I'd beat the shit out of him and leave him for the
Contract Termination department -but you always have had a weird taste in
Assistants." he waved me up and I stood. "But, Nathan," he continued and I
kept my attention on Stein, "just remember that your review comes across my
desk too, and I won't forget who you are. Next time I see you, you be
polite, you hear?"

    I nodded. "Yes. Sir."

    Stein studied me a moment, and then glanced at Wilson.

    "Come on, Happling," Wilson said mildly. "I'll have Carol show you to
your office."

    Outside, Wilson put a hand on my shoulder. "I liked that, Happling. Joe
Stein's got such a fucking rep in this business most shits your age crawl
into his office with their pants shitted and their dicks wilted. You ever
that story about him killing a new employee for having an FFS embossed
coffee mug?"

    "Sure." I said. "Who hasn't?"

    "Exactly, kid. It's bullshit. I've known Joe Stein since I was
twenty-two years old, one way or another. He's beaten a lot of kids who
thought they were smarter than him, bloodied some noses and broken some
arms, but Joe Stein has never killed someone outside the legal proceedings
of his job description. You get me?"

    "Yep." I said. I thought that the fewer words the better, with this one.

    "Good, Happling. Keep it in mind."

    "Call me Nathan."

    "I call you whatever the fuck I want." 

    4.

    Carol turned out to be an attractive girl of twenty-eight or -nine with
strawberry blonde hair and pertly Irish features. I liked her immediately.
She had a freshly minted Ph.D. in Experimental Finance and Ownership Law, an
interesting combination, on her wall, and she was an Acquisitions Officer.
Not bad for a kid under thirty.

    We chatted as she led me through the maze of hallways that led to my
office. Banter, flirting, we were both single and well-employed and what the
hell. My office was bigger than I had supposed, and I said so as she seated
herself flirtatiously on my desk.

    "Mr. Wilson says he has a reputation to keep up in this company, and
that his people won't sit in closets." She said archly. "He said if an
office of sufficient size wasn't available he'd either build a new one or
kill someone in another department." Her eyes flashed. "He was kidding, of
course."

    "Of course." I replied. My view was wonderful, and I got caught up on
the sunlight on the river for a moment. "How long have you been with
M-Consolidated?"

    "Two years." she said. "They bought me from Warner/Disney right before
my program was finished."

    I blinked. "They bought you from Warner/Disney?"

    She nodded, pleased at having trumped me. WD was the biggest fucking
corporation in the country, servicing 43% of the population in one way or
another. "And they paid through the fucking nose before I approved it." she
said.

    I was suddenly doubtful of my abilities. "How old are you?"

    "Twenty-three." she said with relish. "And you, old man?"

    I was stunned. At twenty-three I'd still been living in my Frat house
and pondering whether I wanted the rough-and-tumble life of Corporation
Business or not. I'd been drinking beer and getting laid and enjoying life.
Carol McKage was one or two steps behind me, four years at best from getting
an equivalent position. I had to think fast; she was smiling at me with
insolent bullshit in her eyes.

    Casually, I shut the office door and sat down behind my empty desk.
"Carol, let's get one thing straight. I'm your boss here."

    "Yes. You are." she said. Unconvincingly.

    I sighed. "It's not my style to slap employees around, like Joe Stein.
It gets him results, maybe, but it's kinda barbaric." I said. She was still
waiting for the payoff. I shrugged. "You're fired."

    Her mouth fell open.

    "I hope you find a new job soon, Carol." I said carefully. "It would be
terrible if something were to happen to you before you were connected to
another Corporation that would take an interest in your demise. Even if you
choose not to contest the Termination and we don't have to get Contract
Termination involved, you might still accidentally suffer an injury or
worse." Involuntary contract terminations could get rough, bloody, and
expensive. It was no small threat. I was staring at her. It was illegal, of
course; technically FCAC rules protected voluntary terminations against
reprisal for a thirty-day period to give them a chance to find a new job.
But it would take even a superstar like Carol a few hours to network a new
position and until that moment no corporate entity would take sufficient
interest in anything that happened to her. They had enough trouble
protecting people they had actually hired. "You get me?"

    Slowly, she nodded.

    "Okay," I smiled, "you're hired again. Just remember: I don't care if
you're the fucking genius of the century, I don't need you that bad. You're
just waiting for a better offer so you can ditch this job anyway, so I
probably won't even get to see you hit twenty-five. And never forget that
this is Acquisitions, Carol, and we don't fuck around. And I came from
Contract Enforcement. I've scraped a few knuckles in my time, I'm not shy of
blood, and I don't scare easy." I put my feet up. "Now, send in my Support
people, okay?"

    She slid off the desk and faced me. "I like you, Nathan." she said. "I
think I'll like working with you."

    "For me, Carol."

    "I'll get Support Services on the line."

    My office was roomy, with a big oak desk and liquor cabinet, nice
carpet, television, computer, fax machine, and a huge phone with enough
buttons to summon up heaven and hell if necessary. I had a library stuffed
with the usual texts and reference materials, and a set of keys: to the
bathrooms, the armory, the records rooms. The drawers were empty and the
computer had enough free memory to hold the universe, and I had nothing to
do that first day but settle in.  My Support Staff filed in, gaunt, a
hopeless looking trio dressed badly and looking overworked. I gave them the
usual going-over and dressing-down, putting the fear of Nathan into them and
listing my pet peeves, my little rules. Once they were duly terrified of
losing their jobs or getting smacked around, I became genial and tried to
show them that I could be a good guy if I wanted to. I'd set up extra
pension monies for my Support person back at MPO, just for the hell of it. I
could be nice when the situation warranted. Then I asked them to bring in
the current files Wilson had open and active so I could review them.

    I spent the rest of the morning going over the facts of these files,
small companies or services we were planning to or attempting to acquire. I
began filling a yellow legal pad with notes on the strategies and problems
each one presented. At twelve noon I glanced up to find a few men and women
crowding my doorway.

    "Happling?" A tall, red-haired man said loudly. "We've come to make the
new guy feel welcome."

    They took me to O'Hare's Pub on fifty-third and made no mention of lunch
at all, unless you meant lunch by way of Gimlets and Manhattans. Cigars and
cigarettes came out, and by the time the shouting for drinks and rough jokes
were over we'd been there for two hours. The red-head was named Jack Webster
and he was one of those career middle-executives, the kind of guy who finds
a good place in Finance or Contract Enforcement and stays there, racks up a
nice pension, and retires. No one would ever remember Jack Webster for his
business acumen and that was certainly fine with Jack. He just wanted to
live through his career and enjoy his grandkids. I could respect that.
Contract Enforcement was a good place for him: no chance of getting killed,
really, but rough enough to gain you respect. As I was introduced I noticed
I didn't meet anyone from Accounting or HR or Support Services Management.
Paper pushers were obviously not liked by this bunch, which was a common
prejudice in the Big Ten. If you didn't carry a gun and know how to use it,
they didn't care where your degree came from, or what in. Bunch of cocky
assholes, they all thought they pissed blood and liked it.

    I was under no such illusion. You couldn't get the paperwork done
without Support Services, and you weren't very fucking tough with a few
bullets in you, right? Acquisitions was a hard-ass department in any company
and it was downright treacherous in a Big Ten Corporation. I was as
ambitious as anyone else in Acquisitions, I just had the good sense to be
terrified.

    "Don't let Joe Stein fool you," Jack told me happily after his fourth
whiskey in soda. "Damn sumbitch acts like he'd as soon kill you as shake
your hand, and he is a tough guy. But he's just a Departmental President at
the New York Office. Sure, there are only seven PADs in Consolidated, but
that just means there're six more just like him!"

    They all cackled, so I laughed. I hadn't finished a drink yet. I think
I'd had the equivalent of one.

    Jack got serious, then. "And don't get fooled by Miles Wilson, either,
kid. Coming from the outside, you know he's been here almost his whole
career and he doesn't seem to care to get promoted. That's bull. Miles
Wilson is the most powerful person at M-Consolidated, kid. Miles Wilson does
a lot of things that would land him in jail if he ever got caught. Miles
Wilson does more work for this company after hours than during the day. And
if you ever claim I told you that, I'll deny it. Be careful. Capish?"

    I nodded. "Thanks."

    He got jocular again, his duty, as he no doubt saw it, was over. "And
I'll tell you one more thing I got from the grapevine: Mr. Wilson is having
you go on the Core Data Systems raid tomorrow, to get a feel for your
cojones, you dig? So polish that legendary Roon 9mm everyone is gossiping
about, golden boy: you're gonna need it!"

    Jack Webster was right about that. We walked back into the office at
four-thirty and there was an email from Miles Wilson on my computer screen
telling me that he's faxed the Intent to Acquire memo regarding CDS to the
FCAC and that we were going in first thing in the morning.

    "Exciting, no?"

    I looked up and there was Carol -not a hair out of place after a day of
research, reports, and bellowing, threatening phone calls. She was a looker,
all right, and I knew just by looking at her she had a lot of trouble
finding guys who could bear to be under that baleful eye. She was a far cry
from Cheryl, easy, pliant Cheryl who worked in Financial Computation and
who'd accepted our breakup with the same heavy-lidded boredom as everything
else. Cheryl had been quite a looker too, but she'd had the brain of a
horse. She worked hard, and would make VP someday, but she wasn't anything
like this cocky, sarcastic bitch. Still -

    "Where do you kids go to get good and drunk after work?" I asked her.

    A delightful eyebrow shot up. "Think you can keep up with me, old man?"

    I winked. "One way to find out, huh?" 

    5.

    She matched me bourbon for bourbon, cigarette for cigarette, wit for
wit, and when we ended up screwing back at her place it was the expected end
to the evening. These days the moment someone agreed to a drink the contract
was sealed, and only disaster could change that. The only question was
whether you did again, and then often enough to be an item. I liked Carol,
and lying in bed at three in the morning, still stoned and waiting for her
to come back with fresh cocktails I found myself wishing we'd keep doing it.
Part of it was the simple shark-minded knowledge that if I was fucking her
she'd be easier to handle at the office (not easy, just easier). But part of
it was a sincere liking. Carol was cool.

    In the morning, I felt old and she was out jogging. I got dressed and
went to my temporary apartment, where I showered and shaved and dressed.
Then I went to the office. With three cups of coffee in my gut, I was almost
myself when I walked into my office at seven thirty, where Miles Wilson was
waiting for me.

    "I've been here three hours." he said mildly.

    "I hear you never leave." I replied tiredly.

    He grinned. "We're moving on CDS in an hour. You're leading the team."

    I raised an eyebrow. "Me? Won't the other kids be a little put out?"

    He shrugged. "They each went through the same thing, it's how I get a
read on you. You're lucky we had a IA Memo ready to go so soon. Some of my
guys sat on their asses for weeks before they had a group to lead." He
smiled. "I don't trust you to sharpen my fucking pencils until I see you in
action."

    I sat down at my desk. "Okay. I've read the file. You want my margins on
the strategy?"

    He nodded. I could see the glint in his eyes. The motherfucker loved
this shit. So did I, come to think of it. My blood pressure went up.

    "They tried filing a Cease-and-Desist with the FCAC -they're scared.
We've got grounds for forced entry, we've made them a fair offer based on
last year's audit. They know all this, so the place is going to be stocked
with grim men bearing arms with ill intent."

    "You get that from a lawyer?"

    "In my spare time I write poetry for greeting cards. If we go in
half-assed they'll push us off and THEN the fucking C&D will get a
second-look. If we lose the Intent Delivery Action almost any FCAC judge on
the circuit will grant a C&D."

    "Okay."

    "So, let's go in like professionals. I'll go in the front with two of
your better guys and serve the memo. The rest of the team will split between
the roof, back entrance, and lobby. We'll lock down the elevators and go up
to the 3rd floor."

    Miles blinked, but he was smiling so I wasn't fooled by his apparent
confusion. "The 3rd floor? But the administrative offices are on the fifth
floor. Top shelf."

    "But their records and mainframes are on the 3rd. Once we take legal
possession of their files, it's only a matter of time before they have to
recognize our legal claim -the legal precedent is pretty well established.
Last year, in the 3M/Xerox takeover of Tagall Pharmaceutical, for example."

    He nodded. "Well, you've done your homework. I have a good feeling about
this one, Happling. You have any preference concerning who goes with you?"

    I shrugged. "I don't know these people like you do. We'll make do. How
many?"

    "We'll take who's around, which would make it eight plus you. Sound
good?"

    "Good enough. I'll have them sent in and we'll brief each other. I
believe in empowering the masses, after all."

    "Right." he said and made for the door. "I want a report on my desk by
five."

    6.

    If you're going to try a hostile takeover, you'd better do it right the
first time.

    My team was standard Acquisitions theory: A leader, me; a lieutenant,
and lots of muscle. I didn't particularly agree with the theory. Muscle is
usually really useless unless you used it correctly, and using it correctly
meant controlling them. These goons were standard-issue bottom rung
middle-management, tough guys who'd gotten their Masters at a halfway decent
school through some trick of luck or money or sweat but who would never be
executives. They pulled a decent paycheck taking bullets for M-Consolidated
and would get a decent pension if they lived long enough, but they'd risen
to their highest level. A couple of them were older than me. It said
Delivery Specialist on their business cards.

    My lieutenant was a waxy-faced old gent who openly resented my youth. He
was also an Assistant to the Executive VP, and had been for far too long to
really be on the rise any more. Don't get me wrong, being a AEVP in any
office of a Big Ten Corporation was a nice place to be, you earned a great
salary and got all the executive perks. It just wasn't where I was going to
find myself stalled, and he knew it. His name was Hallahan, but all the
Irish had been washed out of his family a long time ago. He was experienced
and educated, but must have lacked something if he'd been stalled here.

    Me, I thought it better to take more people who had a brain in their
heads. The Specialists would just as soon sit around with their fingers up
their noses as think independently, which meant that if you didn't tell them
to bark they'd just lie down with their heads in their paws. That kind of
inflexibility could be a bane.

    We climbed into dark sedans with Support Service people driving and
motored through Manhattan like we owned the place, a big convoy of expensive
cars with corporate tags. Bulletproof glass, dent resistant doors, power
locks, puncture-proof tires, suped up engines. Watertight, radio and video
conference ready, and with battery backups. They were luxury tanks all
right. Sitting in mine with Hallahan, we mixed ourselves stiff drinks from
the little bar and tried not to act nervous. CDS was a small-frye company,
but they still had security to deal with, and lord knew if they wanted to be
bought by M-Consolidated they would have taken the generous offer we'd given
them and run for the hills.

    We pulled into the drive; a nice little landscaped building with an
eye-catching logo and a lot of glass. Nice place to work, it seemed. We had
to do everything out in the open, if we tried anything sneaky they'd rip us
apart in court and we'd end up losing the takeover and paying a stiff fine.
The FCAC didn't kid around with those fines, either. And corporations like
M-Consolidated usually financed the fines by laying off the Acquisitions
team that incurred them.

    So, we pulled up in front in plain view after the Intent-to-Acquire memo
had been in their hands at least 24 hours. They knew we were coming, and
they would be ready, but we had no choice: I had to walk in the front door,
memo in hand, and go through the ritual before we could hit them. There were
laws, after all.

    They were waiting for us, all right; behind the receptionist's desk sat
three weathered and grim men with crowded shoulders and blank expressions. I
had a strong feeling that they weren't the regular reception team out here.
I studied their faces, blank and hard. There was only one way to play guys
like these. I walked right up to the desk and handed the memo over.

    "We'd like to see the Board of Directors." I said flatly.

    The guy in the middle, distinguishable only by his slightly ruddy
complexion that hinted at a deep bottle and a hollow leg, didn't even glance
at the piece of paper, but he did smile a little. "Do you have an
appointment?" he asked. His voice was smooth and educated, he sounded like
her could have quoted poets without too much hesitation.

    I sighed. "Do you represent Core Data Systems, incorporated?"

    He fingered the memo. "I might."

    I leaned in close to his stubbly face. "And what might your capacity
with this company be?"

    He didn't flinch away, but stared at me steadily. He knew the rules as
well as I did. "I am Chief Financial Officer Malcolm Smith."

    I pulled a business card from my pocket. "CFO Smith, I am Assistant to
the EVP of Acquisitions Miles Wilson of M-Consolidated Corporation. I am
serving an Intent-to-Acquire memo to Core Data Systems, incorporated. Do you
speak for your corporate entity and its Board?"

    He glanced around. "I do."

    I had memorized the routine already, I didn't know if that was good. "Do
you intend to submit to our legal action?"

    Sometimes companies did submit. Sometimes they knew they wouldn't be
able to hold you off, sometimes they didn't really care who owned them. But
CDS had been a privately owned company until a few years ago, and its
founder was still CEO and Chairman. I had a strong feeling he wasn't going
to let the place go without as much of a fight as his security budget would
allow.

    Smith seemed almost apologetic. "I'm afraid not."

    I nodded. "Okay. Hallahan, with me. You, stay here and keep these men
behind this desk." I pulled my walkie talkie and spoke into it. "We're on."
I said, and slipped it back into my pocket. I reclaimed the IA memo and
turned for the elevators, Hallahan at my heels.

    "Watch out!"

    I hit the floor seconds before gunshots rang out. I whirled, my Roon in
my hand, and the three grim men behind the desk, including CFO Smith, were
dead, guns in hand. I stared at the Delivery Specialist who'd just saved my
life. He looked amazed. Then he turned to me and let out a nervous little
laugh.

    "Goddamn," he giggled, "god-dam."

    I didn't even know his name. I studied him for another moment, and then
turned for the elevators. Hallahan already had one waiting.

    In the elevator, we stared straight ahead and checked our guns over. We
were heading for the records room, which wasn't where they expected us to go
(or at least I hoped they wouldn't expect it). I hoped to have low
resistance on the third floor, and to have the files secured before they
knew what had happened. Then it would just be a matter of holding onto the
records long enough to have the takeover filed with the FCAC -which sounded
easier than it really was. I had a couple of my Delivery Specialists headed
upstairs to decoy anyway. Maybe they would get lucky and make it easy on all
of us.

    The elevator doors split open and we were greeted by my own men, five of
them, armed and looking ready to go. I had to admit that even if their
careers weren't as advanced as mine and never would be, they were
professionals. No matter what your level was, there was a link there, a
community. I made more money then them and had fatter degrees, but as we
swept into the hallway we had that much in common: we were professionals.

    I sent two of them ahead to scout the rooms; the third floor appeared
deserted, I could hear our soft steps, muffled breathing, and the sound of
the air conditioning rattling through the vents. The offices looked as if
they'd been abandoned hastily, and no wonder. These were where the
accountants and glorified-file clerks kept office. They weren't about to
tangle with a bunch of Acquisitions bravos. I didn't blame them.

    At the end of the hall were the records, an entire room of microfilm and
mainframes, file folders and three ring binders. The entire documented
identity of CDS, right there, among it all the original charter and
incorporation procedures. Possession was nine tenths of the law, and we were
about to take possession of CDS's history and proof of existence. There were
no guards on the doors. That made me nervous. I'm the kind of guy who likes
to have his guards right out in the open where they can be seen at a hundred
yards or so. I had my guys fan out so they wouldn't all be in view of the
door, stepped forward, and knocked.

    Hallahan was staring at me as if I was crocked, but I'd learned in my
time in Contract Enforcement that the last thing anyone expected you to do
was knock. It usually got some sort of results. Not always what you wanted,
but certainly interesting. This time, there was no response, and when I
twisted the knob, it opened. I pushed it open, and revealed the room to be
empty.  We left two Delivery Specialists there to hang onto it, and then we
went upstairs.

    It was too quiet in the elevator, too quiet by half. As the little bell
dinged I stepped to the side of the elevator and indicated to my guys that
they should do the same, and so the shotgun blast that would have caught
each of us hit the back wall of the elevator instead. One of my bravos
whirled into the line of fire and cut down the ambusher, who was still
looking a little confused that he hadn't successfully killed us. He'd have
that confused look on his face forever, now.

    The hall was rapidly filling with people, and we had our hands full.
Only the first few were armed, and then the rest of the employees, timid
little paper-pushers that they were. A few more shots were fired, and then
the CDS people put up their weapons and an attractive middle-aged man with
silver hair stepped forward, scowling.

    "All-right, you bastards," he said grimly, "it's all yours, you
corporate cocksuckers." 

    7.

    It wasn't even noon yet, so after we had the signed Acceptance of
Acquisition on the wire I took my team out for drinks and lunch, spending
freely. All the good managers did that, it was a small token but it went a
long way towards keeping your team happy, and that was extremely important.
By the time we got back into Manhattan it was almost three o'clock. I didn't
think anyone would complain. Carol greeted me in the lobby.

    "Way to go, cowboy." she said with a cheerful leer. "We hear there
wasn't even much of a fight."

    "Best way to do it." I said humbly. "The fewer dead bodies the easier
the transition is."

    "True enough." she said, smiling. "Wilson is waiting for you in your
office."

    He was, looking bored and perfunctory. "Good job, Happling." he said,
shaking my hand. "I liked that, today. Some hot young guns would have shot
the place up to show how fucking tough they were. Joe Stein did that, on his
first job. You knew better. I'm impressed." Very smoothly, he shut the door.
"And I also hear you're fucking our dear Carol."

    I sat down behind my desk. My Support Services people had piled office
supplies and messages on top. I'd been here a day and a half, and I had
messages. That nagged at me, for some reason. "Lot's of gossip in this
office, huh?"

    He leaned against the door, hands in his tight pockets. "I don't care
who dick around with, Happling, but don't mess our deal with Carol Pickling
up, you hear? She cost us a pretty penny, more than any other AO in our
stable." His smile was not friendly. "Only a bit less than we paid for you."

    I smiled back. "You'll end up paying more for me, boss." I assured him.
"And don't worry. I know a hot property when I see it, I won't queer
M-Consolidated for Carol. But if she's gonna be working for me, I've got to
treat her accordingly. You know how it is in a rough-and-tumble department
like Acquisitions, Miles. If you give your employees an inch they'll treat
you like dirt."

    He chuckled. "You always manage your employees by screwing them?"

    "No. Not always."

    "All right, Happling." Wilson said, opening the door. "We've had our
chat and I believe we understand each other. Good. And you did a good job
out there, and any lingering doubts I had that you were a flash in the pan
are gone. Get dirty, then. I'll leave you alone."

    He was gone, and Carol was sauntering in. "Well, Nathan, you're the buzz
of the business. You didn't even sustain a bullet-wound in your team. That's
impressive."

    I waved it aside. "CDS didn't even try to defend themselves. I had it
figured wrong, the old man running the place didn't mind letting it go. I've
already got Financial Services poring over the books, the bunch of
thick-lensed button-jabbers. I have a feeling we missed something in our
write-up on CDS."

    She frowned. "You mean maybe its net worth -"

    "Or something. All I know is, if that company was as valuable and
healthy as Our reports said it was, they would have fought a hell of a lot
harder to hang onto ownership." I sighed. "From now on I'm not moving on any
company I didn't scout out myself."

    "Very wise." she said, bored. "I hope you're ready to celebrate, old
man."

    I leaned back. "I've got a lot of work to do."

    "I should at least get to buy you a drink." 

    8.

    The way these things go, of course, is one drink turns into two into
five, into me at her apartment again. I didn't mind. At four in the morning
I got out of bed feeling blurry, dressed, and walked over to the office. The
walk helped clear my head, and there was no one at work yet so I had the
place to myself. I did some follow-up research on CDS and left my notes on
Wilson's desk, suggesting a few areas of the manifest that our Finance guys
check out. In the quiet of the office I got more done than I had in the
previous two days, between people buying me drinks and the CDS business. By
seven o'clock I'd written three memos, sent out a dozen emails, and written
two reports which sat on Wilson's desk as well.

    I also took care of something that an old friend back at MPO had taught
me. I went down to the office arsenal and checked out two shotguns, two
pistols in velcro holsters, and a few extra ammo clips. These I distributed
through my office: a pistol under the desk in easy reach, a shotgun behind
the drapes, another pistol in the plant, another shotgun in the closet. In
Contract Enforcement you could never be ready enough, I assumed in
Acquisitions it was the same except worse.

    That done I got my jacket and stood for a moment in the doorway of the
office and looked it over. I decided you'd never know I had the extra
weapons unless you checked the manifest down in the arsenal. Thinking this,
I did just that, and discovered I was far from the only one in the
department who'd taken the precaution. Feeling wise beyond my years, I went
out into the cool night.

    I ordered ham and eggs and coffee, black, along with toast with
marmalade, orange juice, and a pack of Pall Malls. I spent a dollar on the
Journal and settled back in my corner of the diner with a cigarette burning,
coffee steaming, and food on the way.

    CDS was not front page news; M-Consolidated acquired a half dozen
companies every day in various areas of the country. A page twelve paragraph
speculated as to our intentions: on paper it would be worth a good cash crop
to sell off but we were growing fast and could always use another data
processing unit in our umbrella. Boring stuff, really. They spelled my name
wrong, anyway, and didn't seem to be impressed with my skill and expertise,
although it was noted that the "acquisition, run by newly hired EA Nathan
Happling, was almost bloodless." I decided to take that as a compliment, and
felt better.

    My food came, and I moved back to the front page to see what had
happened in the world of business since I'd gone to sleep. I felt like I'd
been asleep for three days, and I wondered what had more to do with that: my
stress and strain at M-Consolidated or my stress and strain at Carol's
apartment. I was reasonably in shape but I was twelve years older and I
smoked and drank a bit more than her, and she'd left me gasping both times.
I felt worn out, and I wanted nothing more than to find myself a new
apartment (I'd get Support Services on the job this morning) and sleep alone
for one night. It had always been a thorn between Cheryl and me, my mad
desire to be alone. She always told me it made her feel rejected. I always
held my tongue, because I couldn't argue. I didn't think Carol would take
the same wounded dove tact, but she was a woman and no woman liked to feel
like you preferred a cold bed to them, so I had to prepare for fireworks.

    The paper, anyway, was comforting. The logical advance of business had
always calmed me. It made sense, there were rules and purpose, and it had
excitement. What more could an American want? The big news was that MPO, my
old company, had somehow managed to file an Intent-to-Acquire on
Anheiser-Busch, which of course was the largest brewery in North America. I
can remember writing a term paper on Anheiser-Busch in my graduate courses,
because they were a rare bird: a large, successful company that had remained
independent of the Big Ten. Busch had been playing the FCAC like a harp for
years, and the last IA memo filed had been six years ago. Any time someone
tried to buy AB against their will it was news. Twenty-three deaths had been
logged with the Delivery of the memo. The Busch people firmly believed the
best defense was a good offense, and that was certainly a part of their
continued independence. The fact that AB corporate headquarters was a small
fortress was another.

    Feeling human again, I made my way to the apartment the company had lent
me. It was nice enough and a lot of the smaller fish would love to have it,
but it was too small for my salary and it was too close to work. I needed
excuses to be late.

    There was a message from Carol on my machine: "Hey, old man, I haven't
had anybody run from my bed in the middle of the night since high school.
See you at the office." I pondered Carol for a free moment while I stripped
my scratchy clothes off, and concluded with a private smile that this was
exactly what she needed: someone to treat her like shit. Judging from my
previous relationships, I was just the man for the job. Then I climbed into
the shower and turned the hot water all the way up and stood under it until
it didn't hurt any more. 

    9.

    A shower and a shave later and I was ten minutes early for work and
feeling pretty good. Miles Wilson had been in since six and had read
everything I'd left for him, probably twice. He'd sent me an email CC'd to
Joe Stein praising me in general, which made me wonder if Miles Wilson was
really such a hard ass after all. So far he'd been a lot of bluster and lot
of soft heart. Then again, I supposed I wasn't full of threat-poses myself,
and it was true that the cocks that grabbed for their guns at every supposed
slight were often the dumbest pricks in the boardroom.

    I was greeted by a lot of buzz, people shaking my hand, patting me on
the back, and harried support services people handing me messages and memos.
I gave Carol a cool nod when I passed her office, and I could hear her
laughter as I made my way to my own. I already had enough coffee in me to
float the goddamned island of Manhattan myself, but I grabbed another one
just to look corporate, and settled back for the dumb, dull part of the job:
research.

    Choosing a company to acquire wasn't just a random melange of appetite
and violence, after all, as much as those idiots in the papers liked to make
it sound that way sometimes. Besides the legalities, the endless forms and
applications and fees you had to process along the way (and process properly
or the Fed would sit on you hard) there was the question of whether a
company would yield anything worth acquiring. You acquired a company for two
basic reasons; of course there were all sorts of political and personal
aspects that might affect the decision, but it was supposed to come down to
either the company in question would yield a sizeable cash crop when sold
off, or it would provide a useful service for the rest of the company when
it was brought into the fold.

    Into that you had to factor a lot of other things, among them how much
you were going to spend in money, ammo, and living employees to get the
goddamned thing. Anheiser Busch might be the golden egg of all acquisitions,
the Holy Grail we young guns dreamt of, but you'd have to spend the
equivalent of a small third-world army to get it. I wasn't one of those
bleeding heart executives who wept when one of their team went down, but I
disliked waste, too. In terms of resources, the people who worked for me
were the greatest one I had and the most difficult to replace. Wasting them
was just bad management.

    In theory, I could tell that Miles Wilson agreed with me. The margin
notes he left on my reports said as much. In theory, I guessed that Joe
Stein was of the other camp. Joe Stein struck me as a sociopath, viewing the
people around him as interesting exhibits or pieces on his board, but not as
equal and relevant beings. Stein had gotten where he was on the broad backs
of Delivery Specialists and Executive Assistants, most of whom were, I
imagined, dead now. He was one of the most powerful executives on the east
coast, but attendance at his funeral would be low. The bastard just didn't
care. Me, I suppose I wanted the best of both worlds, right? I wanted Joe
Stein's job before I was forty-five, but I wanted to be missed, too.

    At eleven thirty I went to another "lunch" with Jack Webster and his
fellows, once again not even smelling any food but getting a lot of Gimlets
bought for me. I was popular, a new guy who'd proven himself, fresh blood.
Jack's particular take on the business was that my way of tackling an
acquisition was the right way: plan ahead, don't take bullets for no reason,
try to triumph through superior tactics, not superior force. Jack wanted to
live to enjoy his pension, and it warmed his heart to know that there were
others like him, or who at least he could see from where he was. Jack didn't
work for me and unless his pursued a career in Acquisitions at some point
(not unheard of for Contract Enforcement execs; the departments utilized
similar skills) my management decisions wouldn't affect him at all. But it
was obvious that none of that really mattered to Jack. He judged everyone by
the same set of rules, and I'd come up passing. I filed that away. You never
knew when having a few actual friends in the building would pay off. Towards
that goal, I bought Jack a few drinks over lunch and listened avidly to his
anecdotes, which were just funny enough to make listening enjoyable, instead
of a networking goal. He warmed to me instantly, and I began to wonder if
Jack would make it far enough out of his bottle to enjoy that retirement he
was always dreaming of.  

    10.

    Alcoholism was, after all, the major problem of executives these days.
Drugs were frowned on, they were for the Support Services losers or worse,
the trash and crooks on the street. We drank. Not beer, or trash-wine, but
cocktails, elegant and flavorful. They were forcing Gimlets on me that day
but there was way too much Lime juice in Gimlets for my taste. I preferred
simple Gin and Tonics, well made and slightly chilled. I knew more
alcoholics, people with really hard-core drinking problems, than people who
had even tried another drug even once. Even back in school I'd known better:
smoking pot or snorting coke or whatever, it was the mark of a slacker. No
one wanted it. Every guy I knew from school who partied like that I didn't
know anymore, and none of them, far as I knew, went anywhere in life.

    Thinking these smug thoughts, I said yes to a third Gimlet.

    After lunch I was a little smashed so I shut my office door and stared
out my window for a few minutes, collecting myself. I didn't have any
meetings or anything, so I wasn't too worried, but I was always nervous
whenever I drank too much at work. Too easy to make mistakes. It was also a
bad sign when well-armed executives started drinking on the job, so I did my
best not to encourage it. I burnt a cigarette and watched the cars move
through the streets, liking where I was: thirty-three floors above the
uneducated, unambitious, and unlucky.

    I was interrupted by Miles Wilson on the phone, telling me that I was
needed in his office immediately. I ran my fingers through my hair, put my
jacket on, and strode into his cavernous space without hesitation or
noticeable list. His office was huge. I imagined I could make out cloud
formations near the ceiling, and there were certainly weather patterns.

    I sat down in a plush guest chair and lit a new cigarette to appear
casual.

    Miles Wilson regarded me for a moment. "We're serving another IA memo in
three days."

    I blinked. "On who?"

    "Cirrhus Financial Services."

    I blinked again, and then swore before I remembered myself. "I looked
through that file. It's bull. Give them three more weeks and they'll be in
bankruptcy and we could buy them for a song. Hell, the bank'll probably give
'em away to save on processing fees."

    He just looked at me. "Nonetheless, we're serving it, and you're leading
the team."

    I sucked smoke into myself to give me a moment's pause. "No."

    This time, HE blinked. "I'm sorry?"

    I leaned forward. "Miles, I am a professional. I've got a lot of
education and experience and you hired me to do a job. I have a
responsibility not only to M-Consolidated but to myself and my staff. I will
not move on a company I do not personally believe to be worth the risk. I
moved on CDS because you gave me no warning. If I'd had time to review its
financial structure a little more thoroughly, I might have refused, although
I might also have allowed that a test of my abilities was necessary. You've
had your test. CFS is a waste of time, money, and manpower. I won't serve
the goddamned thing." I glanced down at my cigarette and wondered dimly if I
was trashing my career my second day on the job. "Can I ask who greenlighted
this?"

    I was braced for him to claim responsibility. He leaned back and
regarded me again. "Joe Stein." he said after a moment. "He personally
endorsed it."

    I shook my head. "I don't see why."

    Miles seemed amused. "You're adamant about this?"

    I nodded reluctantly. "Yes. I don't like being wasted, Miles."

    "Well then, Happling," he said with a slight grin, "I'm sure you'll get
to ask Mr. Stein about it personally."

    There was a threat there. I was getting agitated. "Miles, can I be frank
here?"

    "Of course, Happling. We're a frank company."

    That was bull but there was no point in mentioning it. "Miles, I read
the job description. I know what my charter is. I didn't mind CDS because I
admitted the need for a test. You've had it. Is this the way Acquisitions
runs around here? Does Joe Stein make all the decisions? Because if that's
the case there are fifty Delivery Specialists in this very office who could
lead the teams just as well. It doesn't take a goddamn Ph.D. in anything to
lead a team. I thought I was hired to do some creative thinking. Some smart
thinking."

    He steepled his fingers under his chin. I realized I was a little scared
of Miles Wilson, the bastard never seemed to crack. Still, he seemed mildly
amused. "You can discuss that with Joe Stein, too, Happling." was all he
said.

    I realized I'd been dismissed. I didn't know what was going on, but I
was nervous as all hell. I stood up and left, and didn't look back. 

    11.

    There were two ways a corporation could legally get rid of an employee
they no longer wanted. One was to wait for their contract to run out or for
another company to buy their contracts out. The other was a forced exit,
which usually involved Contract Termination and a few deaths. 

    12.

    "Word is you're really stirring up the shit, old man."

    I looked up from my paperwork and Carol was smiling slightly. But there
was something yellow in her grin, and I had this crazy feeling that I had
something on Carol. She was brilliant and tough and she was going to be a
great Acquisitions legend, I had no doubt, but at the core she was also
still only twenty-three years old and young women often let their hearts
lead, even in these grim days. I wondered if my cavalier attitude was tying
Carol into knots. I leaned back and regarded her. Maybe she just wasn't used
to men not getting hooked on her golden cleft, or something like that. I
studied her face much longer than polite, wondering about this: the boys
she'd shagged back in school were probably in awe of her, this brilliant and
beautiful girl. They'd probably felt lucky to man that she'd lowered herself
to their level. Young men were like that. I'd been like that. But I had
twelve years or so on Carol and twelve years can mean a lot. It can mean
absolutely nothing, too, but for me it had meant a lot.

    Finally I crinkled my face up into my most charming smile. "That's what
we're supposed to do, kid. Support Services are the quiet ones. We're
supposed to buck and kick."

    She rolled her eyes. "This soon? Shouldn't you wait for them to find you
an apartment before you start pissing them off?"

    I held up a memo. "They already found me a place. Upper seventies. Off
the park by a block or so. Sounds nice. I can pick up the keys tonight. Want
to check it out with me?"

    She smiled genuinely, and it was a sight. Seconds later her control
slammed back into place, but that smile had been surprised out of hiding and
absolutely true. I could see how you could fall for a Carol McKagen. In five
years she'd be an iron-clad bitch and the world would be a lesser place for
it, but right now there was still enough of her genuine sweetness to make
her beautiful. I knew I was ruining her, playing games, and I felt crummy.
Not crummy enough to stop, though.

    "That sounds fun. I'm going to be here late, though."

    "So am I. They want me to lead another team and I don't like it, so I'm
trying to find out as much as I possibly can. And I've only got three days."

    She nodded. "Shall we say ten o'clock?"

    I said we could say that, and she twisted out of my office almost
girlishly. I wondered what she was like when she worked against you, with
that big brain and obvious mental armor. In five years she'd be a fucking
terror, she'd treat every situation like an Acquisition, and I thought with
some small pride that I was going to have something to do with that
transformation. I was going to be a piece of her armor, a reason she became
a bitch.

    The apartment was spacious and stylish, with hardwood floors and high,
high ceilings. There were three bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a
huge kitchen, two baths, and two other rooms that could have been anything.
There was also a terrace. It was a security building and you could see the
park stretching away beneath you from the windows. The rent was cheap
because M-Consolidated owned the building and it rented it to me at cost. I
had insisted on signing a lease, which was unusual and caused all sorts of
indignant groaning when my contract talks were ongoing, because most execs
were happy to just live there. But if you didn't have a lease they could
boot you any time they wanted, and often when an exec was renegotiating a
contract or planning to make a jump they booted you out just for spite.
Sometimes if your performance slipped they moved you to smaller, crappier
places. With a lease they wouldn't be able to do that. I had a two year
lease with an option on a third. I'd convinced them to give me that because
I'd presented it as a sign of faith on my part: I wasn't planning to move
anytime soon. They'd still grumbled but I was insistent, I was willing to
give up salary for it, so they caved.

    It was little details like that which made the difference between living
your own life and being some corporate drone. We all sold off parts of
ourselves in order to live, of course, I knew that: we're all bloody fucking
cannibals, in a way. But there was, I thought, a difference between choosing
which parts of yourself to sell and negotiating the price and just laying
there on the block letting them hack away.

    And also it was a control issue: the corporations liked to know where
you were. I'd told them that if they wouldn't lease me the apartment, I'd
lease my own from somewhere else. You could still get independent leases,
and often other corporations would rent to competitor's execs in hope of
getting an advantage out of it. I suspected strongly that M-Consolidated
illegally tapped and wired their apartments. They couldn't use any of it in
termination proceedings, but corporations rarely cared if information was
useful. They just liked having it. I thought about the possibility of
cameras and microphones while Carol and I made love on the living room
floor, turned on by the unfamiliar place and its odd echos, so empty. I
wondered if Miles Wilson was watching us, and if he was jealous. 

    13.

    I rode the subway and took taxis when I was feeling expansive, which
made me a little weird. Most of my fellow execs used car service and hadn't
descended beneath New York's streets in years. Many of them didn't even know
how to use the subways. They considered it beneath them, part of the loser
culture of Support Services and fast food industry.

    In a way, they were right. A lot of the people around me on the subway
were definitely college grads, or worse, poor slobs who either hadn't had
enough brains or enough money to get further in life. But there were just as
many people like me, well dressed, smart, determined. We shared one thing:
we didn't want to get cut off from the world. The General Education Mongrels
didn't like me, they might even hate me just because I had gotten along
better than them, but it kept me sharp to elbow them aside every day. It
made me feel a part of this city, even though I'd only been here for a week
or so. And some of the minimum-wagers weren't bad sorts, really; some of
them, I was sure, were just normal people who hadn't gotten any breaks. As
long as they didn't fuck with me, I could feel badly for them. Even though I
hadn't exactly been handed my Ph.D. on a silver platter, I knew there had
been lucky breaks for me.

    My meager lot of possessions would be moved from the temp place to the
new apartment by professional movers, it sometimes seemed silly to have a
couple of pieces of luggage moved for you, considering what the current
labor rate was, but Big Ten Corporations didn't skimp, and I guess there
were new execs who would squawk if even the most minor luxury was taken
away. I wouldn't, but if they wanted to cough up almost a thousand dollars
just to have my bags moved, who was I to complain? I made a mental note to
tell my Support Services people to remind me to go home to the new place
that night. Otherwise I might go to the old place, and waste a lot of time.
I had a bad memory that way.

    I didn't get a chance to, however; there was an urgent electronic mail
from Joe Stein himself demanding my presence in his office at eight-thirty
sharp. I glanced at the clock: eight thirty three. With a sigh I made my way
to Stein's office. Everyone stared at me as I went -four days in, and I was
already being talked to by the legendary Joe Stein. In a way, I guess that
made me famous.

    If Wilson's office had sported weather patterns, Joe Stein's office was
a world unto itself. There was running water, rock formations (for
continents), plants (jungles), statues and other object d'art (mountains)
all on a plush blue rug that filled the floor like a placid ocean, up to our
knees, it seemed, in tall fibers.

    And there was Joe Stein sitting atop Mount Olympus, glaring down at me
with righteous anger, and I was brought in by his secretary like a penitent
being led to the judge -except I wasn't sorry, and I met his fiery gaze with
my own, because I knew what was going to happen here and I didn't care for
it. I had supposed we were all adults in this business.

    Just to remind everyone in the room that I had it, I shifted the Roon in
my shoulder to a better position.

    I walked up to his desk and stopped, hands in pockets. "You wanted to
see me, sir?"

    He was looking at me with what I supposed was his hard-ass stare.
"Happling, you've been here what, four days? Have we somehow offended you?
Did they perhaps hold your hand at MPO? Or maybe they treated you like a
prince or something. I don't know. But we don't mince words here at
M-Consolidated, and definitely not in Acquisitions, and we don't baby our
execs, even our bright ones."

    I nodded. "Understood."

    He waited on me for another moment. "Understood? So will you lead the
team on Thursday?"

    "No."

    His expression didn't change. With one hand he indicated one of the
chairs in front of him. "Have a seat, Happling. Obviously we've got to
talk."

    I sat down. After he'd stared at me for a few seconds I decided to get
this meeting moving. "Why are you recommending CFS for Acquisition?"

    "None of your concern."

    I blinked. "Sure it is, Mr. Stein. You want me to go in there guns
blazing, responsible for a couple thousand dollars and a dozen employees of
the corporation's. I need to know why."

    "Happling, that's the biggest load of bull a junior exec has ever tried
to sell me." He snapped, suddenly very obviously furious. "You need to prove
yourself to me. To this company. You need to show me some fucking balls. You
don't want to go in there because you're afraid. Look at how you handled the
CDS acquisition -you did everything but wear a vest on that one. You afraid
of getting hurt, Happling? No shame in it, just maybe you want to reconsider
your career options."

    Joe Stein was an imposing, intimidating guy. His eyes were flat and
harsh, his face a rock of wrinkles and leather. He looked like he ate small
animals for breakfast. My heart was pounding. I lit a cigarette to collect
myself. "I'm not afraid, Mr. Stein. But I disagree with your Vision
Statement. I think it's important for people to now why they're doing
things. I think it's silly to acquire companies that are very clearly going
to be in Chapter 11 in a few weeks. I think it would help me greatly to know
why you want it so badly despite this. I think it would be a good thing for
you to realize that if you wanted a little android you should not have hired
me."

    I swallowed. The bastard's expression never changed. His flinty eyes
stayed with me the whole time and I couldn't tell if he was even thinking
about me, or if maybe he was balancing his checking account in his head.

    "All right, Happling," he said quietly, "since you feel so strongly, you
don't have to lead the team." To my horror, he smiled. "Thanks for stopping
by."

    I swallowed again, but there was nothing to swallow; my mouth had gone
completely dry. "You're not going to explain it."

    He shook his head, and now his eyes had something in them, it was
delight. Or humor. Something like that. "I never explain, Happling. You can
go."

    I couldn't make my legs work. "But -"

    "I'm sure Miles will have something for you in a few days."

    I finally managed to stand. My head was pounding, suddenly. I could hear
the threats buzzing around me, unspoken and unprovable. "Mr. Stein," I said
miserably. I waited until he looked up at me. He seemed almost serene, and I
was feeling nauseous. I had to salvage something from this, I had to make
the son of a bitch think twice about this.

    "Yes, Happling?"

    "Mr. Stein, I won't be that easy." was the best I could manage. It got
only a flash of something unreadable in his face, but it was enough for me
to turn my back on and stride out of his office defiantly against. At least
I'd made a mark.

    Back to my office, I felt bullets in my back. 

    14.

    I shut the door and stared out my window, feeling low and doomed. Four
days, and my career was good as over. Four days, and because I had some sort
of weird sense of principle I was ruined. I considered this, and the general
fairness of the universe, for a moment.

    Part of me rose up on its hairy, primitive haunches and demanded I go
back get it all back, bow and scrape to Joe Stein, lead the fucking Delivery
Team, get back on track. That part of me that used to hide under rocks and
whimper when the Mammoth thundered by millions of years ago wanted to find
that dark space again and make good use of it. I held back, though, because
I knew there was no getting it back, I'd marked myself as a troublemaker.
And for what? I didn't even have the paltry justification of righteousness
and honesty, because I wasn't even sure that Joe Stein was doing anything
wrong. Just because he was looking to acquire losing prospects didn't mean
anything unless there was a reason.

    Behind me, someone opened my door without knocking or being buzzed by my
support person, and when I rolled out from under my desk with one of the
company's .45s in one hand it turned out to by Miles Wilson, looking at me
with amused surprise on his face.

    "Think we came to terminate your contract already, Happling?" he asked,
sitting down in my guest chair with enviable calm. "Lucky for you you didn't
blow my head off. Nothing covered under FCAC conventions will get you off a
murder rap in that case."

    I struggled to my feet. "I seem to remember someone claiming the threat
of termination was enough probable cause for self-defense?" There had been
something in the papers, but I couldn't remember.

    He waved it aside. "If the courts start allowing that shit we'll all
have targets on our backs, and they know it. They threw the book so hard at
that character I think they're still executing him. Now, come on, let's
talk, you and I."

    I was panting, so I lit a cigarette. "Going to offer a No Harm guarantee
if I give up the contract? Maybe make me pay back salary earned?" I snorted.

    "Too late for that, far as Stein is concerned."

    I looked at him. "Then why are you here?"

    His pleasure in my circumstance was palpable, and dislikable. "Oh,
Happling, things are never as simple as you think. You're on my team, my
friend. So far, you've done exactly what I wanted you to do, and I
congratulate you on your principles."

    I snorted again. "Thanks."

    "Listen to me, Happling, because that's where this all boils down:
principles. You have them, and Joe Stein doesn't. I have them, too. Joe
thinks he got where is because he doesn't have any, but he's wrong. Joe
Stein got lucky, my friend. He thinks I'm still where I am because of my
principles." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that?"

    I opened my mouth.

    "Don't answer that." he said suddenly, holding up a hand. "Whether you
like it or not, Happling, by standing up to yours, you joined my side of
this."

    "Side?"

    "This is my division, Happling. Wise men never forget that. Joe Stein
became foolish not so long ago."

    I blinked. I never asked to get into something like this. "Mr. Wilson -"

    "Happling," he snapped over me harshly, his whole body suddenly poised,
"get this straight: Contract Termination IS going to get a memo. You get the
rare chance to decide if it involves you or...someone else."

    Without warning, all my nervousness fell away. This had become just
another job interview. I'd been doing things like this ever since I'd been
sixteen. One more was no problem.

    All you had to do was know your market value, and work it. 

    15.

    I walked out of Wilson's office a ghost, pale and knobby-kneed,
unusually sedate and ruined. Everyone was looking at me without really
looking at me, which was somehow worse. They were all slack: They were
planning on mountain biking and rock climbing, bungee-jumping and all manner
of other ridiculous recreational activities to waste their lives away in
pointlessly arduous bullshit -but I envied them. They were just going to
enjoy themselves, I suddenly had a war on my hands.

    Carol was already gone for the day, and I got her answering service when
I called. I didn't leave a message. I just hung up and considered my largely
empty apartment. I knew that whatever was going to happen was going to
happen soon -so I didn't even jump when the phone rang.

    "Nathan?"

    It was Carol. I didn't think I had surprise left in me, but I did.
"Carol?"

    "Shut up, this won't take long. I just.....I just had to let you know
that they're putting Contract Terminations on your case tomorrow. They're
already working the file end, they're in there right now running the
precedents. I -I just thought you ought to have a fair chance."

    I opened my mouth to say something vaguely affectionate, but she had
already hung up. 

    16.

    Contract Terminations was the flip side of Acquisitions: we were so
alike the departments often swapped workers in tight situations. In some
corporations they shared office space, and one firm in the south actually
had one Director for both divisions. They were hard-assed men and women who
had as much legal savvy as Acquisitions because their stated goal was to
break legal agreements, one way or another. They were usually made up of the
movers and shakers in the company who were not already in Acquisitions.

    They were also usually disliked by the other employees, and usually
lived weird, shadow-lives, because their jobs meant they turned against
their fellow employees. When a corporation needed to get rid of a contracted
executive, they could ask nicely, buy out the contract, or have the contract
terminated.

    Corporations usually chose the latter. It was cheaper.

    There were several ways to terminate a legally binding contract. You
could find an improper clause or other infirmity in the contract itself;
some companies actually hid infirm clauses in their employee contracts in
order to be able to ditch workers easily. You could build a case and present
evidence of negligence and Failure to Abide to the FCAC. Or, you could claim
the employee was a threat to the corporation and its other employees and
kill them.

    The ratio of violent terminations to FTAs was about fifty-fifty. If you
shot an employee on grounds in order to terminate their contract you had to
have a lot of paperwork ready to be processed by the FCAC investigative
courts, which were no joke. The FCAC had a lot of broad powers and it
enforced its laws and rules and procedures viciously, and if a corporation
terminated an employee without just cause the fines could be crippling.
Thus, Contract Terminations had a dual role: they had to produce hard-copy
evidence that the employee in question was a danger to the corporation and
its other employees, and they had to be ready to take on employees who were
usually not ready to terminate their contracts.

    I called Miles Wilson and left him a voice mail. I expected a raise if
this turned out well for him.  

    17.

    I got to the office at four in the morning and checked over my
ammunition. It looked undisturbed, but I replaced it anyway, just in case.
If they really hadn't searched my office for firearms they were a poor
excuse for a Terminations Division, and I didn't want to start shooting
blanks at my executioners. I checked messages and sent Wilson a detailed
email, and then I logged onto the Law Services Net and updated all my legal
sundries, feeling numb. I wrote quick electronic mail to my family and the
few friends I thought might be interested, and timed the delivery for later
that afternoon, so I could cancel them if things went well.

    I went into Joe Stein's office and went through his desk, which was
locked. I broke the locks with a letter opener, I didn't care if he knew it
or not, I was just taking a quick look around. He was one of those people
who liked keeping their computer passwords written down on a pad of paper in
his desk drawer, probably because a lifetime of scotch, cigarettes, stress
and assorted other bad habits had left his memory suspect. I powered up his
terminal and took a stroll through his files, finding very little of any
interest. So little, in fact, that I instantly decided that Joe Stein didn't
leave records behind. You met execs like that, sometimes, guys who tried to
do it all in their heads, or kept hardcopy in their briefcases. You were
either an incredible success with that or you got drummed out pretty
quickly.

    Then, I went back to my office and waited.

    At eight-thirty an email popped up on my screen: this is to inform
Nathan R. Happling that his employment contract has been submitted for
review and possible termination by Joseph N. Stein, Director, Acquisitions
Division, for possible information irregularities at the time of
signing...blah blah blah. "Information irregularities" was a blanket phrase
they used, to cover almost any possible pretext they might dig up. Anything
helped. There had been a case where the FCAC reduced an Improper Termination
fine against a company by a million dollars simply because the poor slob
they knocked off to make office space had lied about one of his references 
-if you couldn't prove incompetence, embezzlement, turpitude, or espionage,
"information irregularities" would do in a pinch. If you could actually find
any.

    I was surprised that Joe Stein had put his name on it. Of course his
sign-off would be on the order to investigate, but he certainly didn't have
to announce it so blatantly. Looking closely I saw that the email was CC'd
to almost all the department heads, meaning that within an hour everyone
would know I was black-tagged, and that the legendary Joe Stein was the
cause of it. I had my reply ready, I'd worked in Contract Enforcement, and
knew some of the tricks of the trade. I hit the reply button and fired off a
response email, copying everyone I could think of.

    "In response to your Termination Review Notification of this morning, I
request an explanatory interview with the Initiating party as defined under
article 15A-34 of the FCAC regulations. This interview must be arranged
within four hours of your receipt of this request or all Termination
Proceedings must be halted until an FCAC mediator can be assigned." I hit
the "return receipt" button and sent it off. The email would put the monkeys
in CT into hysterics; it was a buried regulation that few run-of-the-mill
employees were aware of, but if M-Consolidated neglected to grant me an
interview they would be sunk in the courts and the fines would be
astronomical.

    I pictured Joe Stein's face when he found out he would have to schedule
an interview with me, and it made me feel momentarily better.

    Fifteen minutes later, a woman from Contract Terminations showed up,
shut my office door, and sat down in front of my desk. I was keyed up, one
hand on the gun taped under my desk, resisting the urge to shoot her and
deal with the problems later.

    "What kind of bullshit was that email, Happling?"

    I blinked. "And you are?"

    "Miriam Sanders, Contract Term. You want to explain that crap?"

    I shrugged. "The law is the law, Miriam. You want me out, I have a right
to full disclosure as to the reasons, evidence, and intentions involved. The
interview is public record and can be used in court proceedings in case a
Wrongful Termination suit is brought."

    She snorted. "Well, this is off the record, and I can tell you that you
won't be filing any goddamn WT suits, you asshole." She smiled. It looked
like someone was moving her lips for her. "Four days, Happling. That's some
sort of fucking record."

    "If this is off the record, Miriam," I said with sudden fury, "than you
should know that I have a loaded 9mm aimed at your fucking chest and if you
call me an asshole just once more I will claim my fingers were sweaty, and
they slipped."

    She'd come to see if I was a pale laddie, easily cowed, and I had given
her an answer. She leaned back in her chair and seemed contemplative.

    "Do you think it will do you any good?"

    I shrugged again. "It can't hurt, and you can't make a move against me
until you come through with the interview, or you'll get so fucked with FCAC
fines they'll have to sell your body to science to make up the numbers. And,
if nothing else, I get to make Joe Stein hop on a jet and dance for me, the
fucker."

    She was still regarding me. Without another word, she stood, turned, and
opened the door, all cool as you please.

    "All right, Happling," she said in a clear, formal voice (her
court-voice, I thought), "you have an Informational Interview scheduled with
Division Head Stein at one o'clock today, in Mr. Stein's office. This
interview will be a matter of public record." she smiled. "Good luck, Mr.
Happling." 

    18.

    "You're an exciting bastard, aren't you?"

    Jack Webster stood in the doorway of my office with his jacket off, his
massive automatic crowding his shoulder and his face split in an eerie grin.

    I looked up from my reports and memos. "I am?"

    He nodded, walking in. "Sure. First you shag one of the prime uber-gals
of Acquisitions who'd been shooting down kamikaze seducers since she
arrived, giving the rest of us resentment grist for months to come, and then
you get Joe Stein so pissed off he wants to castrate you permanently." He
sat down in my guest chair and put his feet up. "And it's only Thursday."

    "Well," I said, glancing back down to the evidence I was gathering for
my interview, "I'm not the one writing this scene, you know. I'm usually
quite content to be the strong, silent type."

    "Uh-huh." Webster said, his pale face still grinning. "Circumstances
prove you a liar. Where'd you come from, Happling? And what, exactly, were
you hired to do here?"

    I opened my mouth to make a snappy reply to that, and then stopped with
my mouth open foolishly. Webster, with his rummy, happy-go-lucky way with
the world, might have hit the nail on the head, I thought. What had I been
hired to do, since it very obviously wasn't to be an Assistant to the
Executive Vice President of Acquisitions. "I think I was hired to kill Joe
Stein." I found myself saying with a cloudburst of realization I hadn't
expected.

    Webster's grin froze on his face. "What, chum?"

    I looked at him. "I think I've been set up, Jack." I said wonderingly.
"I think I'm being used." It made sense, in a way: Miles Wilson liked to
think of Acquisitions as "his department", Joe Stein was obviously playing
fast and loose with FCAC rules and regs. Miles can't just murder the bastard
and any Termination action against Joe Stein, of all people, would be a mess
at the least and lethal at the worst. SO, bring in someone who's got
something on the ball (me) and quickly persecute them into taking a stand.

    Slowly, I said to Jack "Miles Wilson hopes I'll kill Joe Stein when they
move against me."

    He stood up. "Nice talking with you?"

    I didn't pay attention as he left, I was paralyzed by the possibilities,
ruined by the fact that I'd been blatantly and callously used. I was a tool.
For a moment, I wondered if here was the ultimate difference between myself
and truly major-league executive like Miles Wilson. He'd engineered a
hostile termination and there was no way to really link it to him. I'd
already scheduled the meeting with Stein, Stein was already planning to come
gunning for me and now I had him in the building so I could take shots at
him when it happened -and I had no choice. If I stepped back, my career was
over. If I didn't defend myself aggressively, I was dead. If I could
terminate Joe Stein within legally acceptable parameters, I might save
myself in both areas.

    Joe Stein.....the man was a legend.

    And I was going to kill him.

    19.

    I went to lunch at eleven o'clock, alone. I avoided all the high-powered
executive watering holes, where everyone went to get liquored up for the
afternoon. Instead, I went to a low-rent bar and grill filled with support
staffers and laborers. They didn't notice me. Or at least they did a really
good job of pretending not to notice me. Either way, I felt more at ease as
I ordered a burger and a gin and tonic, then another gin and tonic, then
another. By the time I left I was a little loaded, and I left a big tip
because I figured the poor girl could use it, and I thought the last tip I
might ever leave for someone ought to be special. I probably paid her rent
for the week. Then I went back to the office, gathered up my research, and
fixed my tie. I checked my Roon and ran a hand through my hair.

    When I got to Joe Stein's office he was flanked by several suit-and-ties
from Contract Terminations and Legal Services. The dozen or so people still
didn't crowd the office. Lurking in the back, leaning against a sculpture
with a large drink in his hand was Miles Wilson. He didn't even look at me.
As I crossed the room my shoes clicked on the floor and echoed, and they
stared at me. I quickly scanned the room, and stopped in front of Joe
Stein's desk.

    He studied me. "Have a seat, Happling."

    I didn't move. "I don't see a support services recorder, Mr. Stein. This
meeting is public record."

    He didn't react. "One is on the way."

    I nodded. "We'll wait." I sat down and crossed my legs, trying to look
casual.

    Silence filled the room, surrounding us. Joe Stein stared at me, so I
stared back at him. His face was heavily lined and the patches under his
eyes were dark and ominous. I gave Joe Stein two years, tops, before a
massive coronary took him off Miles Wilson's hands for free. The moments
stretched out and the silence wasn't broken until a sturdy woman of dubious
intelligence wandered in with a digital recorder and a cowed expression. She
sat down tremulously and flicked it, and as if they too were electronic the
Legal Services ducks began to speak.

    "This interview regarding the matter of Contractual terminations and
subsequent objections of Nathan R. Happling, hereafter known as the Subject,
is hereby commenced on this day the 25th of April in the office of Joseph
Stein, Director of Acquisitions, M-Consolidated Corporation, New York
regional office, hereafter known as the Supervisor....."

    It went on and on, one of them speaking for a while and then giving over
to another without pause or noticeable transition. Some of them read from
files or books, some just seemed to be speaking parts they'd known for
years. It went on, and on, and on. I just sat there and stared at Joe Stein,
who stared back. I could feel Miles Wilson in the room, like a hot coal
floating nearby.

    Then, it was over, and for a blessed second, there was silence.

    "Well, Mister Happling," one of the Legal Services hags said suddenly,
"you called for this interview as is your right under article 15A-34 of the
FCAC regulations. What would you like to know."

    I hadn't brushed with these regulations and procedures since school, but
I could remember some of the basics they'd drummed into me. "For the record,
I would like the reason for the termination proceedings outlined."

    This was standard, and there was no perceivable hesitation as some blank
Legal Services drone launched into a memo-reading.

    "The Subject has been charged with the following delinquencies which
have negatively impacted his job performance: failure to execute an Intent
to Acquire Memo in accepted company procedure, failure to accept
company-sponsored housing in accordance with The Subject's contractual
obligation -"

    I was ready for that, "Move to strike. Review of my contract will show
that the standard Housing Provision clause was removed by mutual agreement."

    The blank Legal Services drone blinked, and glanced at Joe Stein. Joe
Stein didn't take his eyes from me, but nodded, slowly.

    "The second complaint of the Supervisor is hereby stricken from the
Termination Proceeding." The drone said automatically. "The following
complaints still remain on the record: performing on the job under the
influence of alcohol and/or narcotics -"

    I almost jumped from my seat. "Move to strike," I said without much
hope, "there's no proof of that."

    Joe Stein shook his head slightly, and the drone answered me. "Pending
future evidence which may include eye-witness accounts, the company will
maintain that complaint. The following complaints still remain on the record
as well: sexual harassment of a female member of the Subject's department
and team, and the threatening of an executive of this corporation with a
firearm without previous permission." The drone did a quick look-through
their paperwork and nodded. "So ends the complaints of the Corporation and
Supervisor."

    I wanted to turn to look at Miles Wilson, who must have given a
statement regarding my pulling a gun on him the other day. Without his
statement they wouldn't have enough paperwork to support that particular
claim. For the same reason, I hoped to hell I didn't run into Carol any time
soon. If she was smart, she was on vacation already, waiting for this to
blow over.

    "I request twenty-four hours to review the evidence against me and file
a defensive motion, and possibly a grievance." I said hollowly. I was from
Contract Terminations, for christ's sake. I knew the rules of the game.

    Joe Stein grimaced. "Do we have to do that?" he asked. He was still
staring at me, and I forced myself not to answer him.

    "Yes sir." the drone piped up. "That's his right. If he files a defense
it'll go to a hearing with a FCAC judge, and if he files a grievance and
it's found proper we'll have to deal with that before we even get to the
termination work." The drone sounded almost admiring. Most people in my
position probably just grabbed for their guns and hoped to shoot their way
out. They didn't realize that there were legal tricks you could try first.
They couldn't just put a bullet in your head, after all; there was due
process first.

    I piped up before Joe Stein could say anything else, because I sensed a
way to really rub it into this guy, this legend who was just a little man,
after all, small and petty. "That is a request covered by the Full
Disclosure laws. I have a right to review all the evidence against me,
without exception."

    That meant that if I filed a motion and they pulled some evidence out of
their asses, I'd be able to file Delay Motions and further Grievances based
on the purposeful withholding of evidence. I watched the drone explain this
to Joe Stein, and could see his temperature rising. While it made me feel
good, I also realized it was exactly what Miles Wilson wanted me to do. The
good feeling curdled within me, and I began to sweat again, as if the heat
coming off of Stein was palpable.

    "All right, asshole," Stein ground out, "you've got 24 hours. And full
disclosure. And this open hearing is over." He nodded at the support
services wench. "Turn that fucking thing off." He didn't wait to see if she
paid any attention, he'd already turned back to me. "I don't know what the
fuck you think you're doing or who the fuck you think you are, you little
shit. Maybe you think being where you are at your age makes you a big
fucking stink -I'm bigger, and you won't be here tomorrow to file jack shit.
You got me?"

    I kept my cool by sheer force of will. "Mr. Stein, are you threatening
me in front of witnesses?"

    He laughed. The cocksucker actually laughed.

    "Mr. Happling, if I thought you had anyone who cared enough about you to
sue me after your wrongful death, I might care about that." he let his
chuckles die off. "Now, get the fuck out of my office."

    As I passed Miles Wilson, I didn't allow myself to look at him. But I
was pretty sure that that cocksucker was looking at me. 

    20.

    No one would touch me. I went into my office and I wedged the door open
and I sat behind my desk and stared at it, and no one passed by. No one
called. I didn't receive any email, memos, or intraoffice mail. The place
was deadly silent, and I stared at the door with my Roon sweating in my hand
until I thought my eyeballs would pop. And then Miles Wilson was standing
there.

    "Second time you've threatened me with that, chum."

    I stared through him. "Since you seem content to screw me, Miles, maybe
I ought to do it for real here?"

    He laughed, and stepped in. From his pocket he produced a pint of Early
Times. "I thought we could have a drink, chum. After all, this might be my
last chance."

    "Very fucking funny. If I manage this without getting killed, Miles, I
will not forget you."

    "Sure you will." He said easily. "Because, off the record, if you manage
this without getting killed I'm going to pension you off handsomely and you
won't ever have to worry about it again. Unless you'd rather be promoted?
Maybe a comfortable job in Marketing or some other non-lethal department. I
could make you Senior VP of HR like that." He snapped his fingers obscenely.

    I stared at him.

    "No?" He sighed, handing me the bottle. "Very well. The point is, you'll
have your choice of reward, Happling. I know I'm using you in a very callous
way. I don't expect you to let that go without proper inducement."

    I stared at him. "You know, Miles, I was wondering: How old are you?"

    He cocked his head at me, but didn't lose his smile. "Why?"

    I shrugged. "Humor me. We who go to our deaths and all that."

    "I'm forty-five, Happling. Jealous?"

    "Two days ago I would have been." I admitted. "Now I've found wisdom.
How many years do you think you have?"

    "Now, don't get all existential on me, Happling."

    I shook my head, and began to clean my gun as I spoke. "No, no, I have a
point. You're one of the Top 200 executives in the country, according to
Forbes magazine. You pull in six digits in declared income and have options
up the boot. You have the best health care package imaginable, and what the
corporation doesn't cover you could certainly afford. You can buy new organs
when yours break down, and you can afford personal doctors and nurses when
you weaken beyond that point. Right? And, you live a healthy lifestyle, if I
recall: you can afford a personal trainer who keeps you fit without
straining you too hard, and you have the experts creating your menus for you
so you eat correctly. I've read several articles on you, you see. All in
all, I'd say you have an outside chance of living another 80 years. Sixty,
definitely."

    He was still smiling. "This is fascinating. Normally my time is at a
premium but I suppose you've earned an indulgence, so go ahead."

    "Really, Miles, you're not even into middle-age yet, are you? And
assuming that you do everything right and pay all the bills, you'll probably
be coherent right up until the end. I mean, even some dumb laborer who can't
even afford real fucking food can sometimes live into his hundreds by sheer
stupid luck, right? But you'll be capable. You might be weak, and shriveled,
and hooked up to machines, but you'll be sharp-minded, right? And you know
what?"

    "What?"

    I matched his easy grin. It was an effort, but I managed it. "Once
you're dead, Miles, once you're heart gives up for good and your brain dies
for want of blood and all those machines go flatline and all those
healthcare professionals rush to the phones to sell M-Consolidated stock as
fast as possible, you're little empire will be handed over to someone else,
and you will cease to have existed." I turned my grin up a notch as his
faded slightly. "I guess I am getting existential, after all."

    "Your time is about up, Happling." He said with a hint of annoyance.
"You want to explain that?"

    I had his interest. His threats about his time were bull. "Yes, I do.
Who held your position before you did?"

    "Lisa McCallister." he said immediately. "May she rest in peace."

    "Never heard of her. And before her?"

    He shrugged. "I have no idea. Your point?"

    "And before Joe Stein? And before them? You see? Time robs you of your
legend, Miles. A hundred fucking years after you give up your grip on
M-Consolidated's Acquisitions, no one will even remember you ever had it." I
clicked the barrel back into place and loaded a shell into the chamber with
a click. "It's all pointless, Miles. Business is just work, and work is
always anonymous. No one remembers the fucking slaves that built the
pyramids, they were just the unlucky multitude. Like us. I realize that now.
You taught it to me. So I'm going to do my best to blow Joe Stein's fucking
head off, and to keep him from blowing mine off, and if I do I will take my
proper goddamn inducement in cash and I will gladly resign this position and
I wouldn't mind having that in writing, right now."

    He blinked at me. "I can't put that in writing."

    "No? Too bad. Because I am also very willing at this moment to drop my
motions, liquidate my meager savings, and live the high life in some ghetto
somewhere mugging people. I will walk out that door and take my fucking
chances and leave Joe Stein to you if you don't give it to me in writing,
goddamn it!" I hissed.

    He looked at the open door nervously. "I cannot put this in writing,
dammit, and you know it."

    I shrugged. "Phrase it like this: If I am still legally employed by this
corporation tomorrow morning, with no termination proceedings against me
pending, you will accept my unprejudiced resignation and pay me a buyout on
my contract. If I'm still employed tomorrow that means Stein is dead, right?
But you won't have to say so. So write it up, bring in a Support Services
notary, and we'll get this show on the road."

    He considered this. "All right. We'll call it a friendly wager. That
will certainly add to my reputation. How much do you require?"

    "Total value of my contract." I said immediately. "No negotiation."

    He nodded. "Done." He slid off my desk. "Keep the bottle. I like this
idea, Happling, it'll make for a great rumor about me, don't you think? I'll
run the papers by you in a few minutes." He paused at the door to look back
at me. "Think you can stay alive that long?" Without waiting for a reply, he
barked a laugh and was gone.

    The stupid bastard didn't get it. He still thought his reputation was
going to outlive him. 

    21.

    I knew something was up when everybody went out to lunch.

    I buzzed one of my Support Services people and there was no answer, and
two more attempts revealed that all three had gone out to lunch. I poked my
head out of my office and the silence was amazing, pristine and complete. It
seemed like the entire floor had gone out to have a drink, and my stomach
knotted up. I started sweating.

    I closed my office door carefully and went back to my desk, where I had
laid out my arsenal: there was the Roon, which I carefully eased into its
shoulder holster, and the twelve-gauge, and two other automatic pistols. I
didn t think I would be able to comfortably carry anything more, so I
slipped the pistols into my jacket pockets along with some clips of
ammunition, and hefted the shotgun in my hands. I was as ready as I could
be. I sat down behind my desk with the shotgun in my lap and waited.

    I had never been involved with Contract Terminations, but back in my
undergraduate days I'd taken a general course on it, just like I took
general courses in a lot of fields, to get a taste for what I wanted to do
with my life. The 101 class had been very popular, because the professor was
an outrageous retired Terminations man from a mildly impressive Corporation,
and had delighted us with bloody stories of how Terminations Teams did in
uncooperative employees -he gave it all a real
cloak-and-dagger-balls-in-your-hand glamour, and about half the class ended
up in CT Masters Programs due to his direct influence, I don't doubt. To be
honest, Contract Terminations have always been the one unhappy spot for me,
the one aspect of modern business that made me nervous. Fighting out
acquisitions with other companies was one thing, having your own team hang
you out to dry, that filled me with dread. I tasted that familiar sinking
feeling as I watched my door.

    More specifically, I watched the crack of light under my door. My office
was dark and I knew I'd see shadows if anyone approached my office; I'd
gotten the idea from one of those stories that old professor used to tell,
and while I'd never seen it tried first-hand, It seemed to make sense. When
my phone rang after an hour or so, I almost filled the door with bullets.
There was no extension listed on the phone's message screen; it was either
an outside call or it was a page and not a direct dial, which wouldn't show
any record of a call made. Shaking, I reached over and plucked up the
receiver.

    "Jesus Christ, Happling," Miles Wilson hissed in my ear, "he's waiting
for you in his office, for god's sake. What are you waiting for."

    "It's my ass, Wilson," I said savagely to mask my nervousness, "I handle
it any way I want to." and I hung up. M-Consolidated, like most of the major
corporations, had a detailed library of all the trades, and I'd finally
located the article regarding the executive at Ford-Sun Inc. Who'd shot his
supervisor in the parking lot twenty-seven times, and had been acquitted.
The ruling was based on the fact that since his supervisor had been
aggressively seeking to terminate him, it had been self-defense. I'd read
the articles over several times. Ford-Sun had accepted the ruling and
settled up back pay and vacation-time, and the executive had quit on the
spot and retired.

    Retired.

    I was not even thirty-five yet, but the concept had a sudden
attractiveness. I could go someplace they hadn't even heard of the Big Ten
Corporations list, drink myself into a decades-long stupor, and die in
peace.

    All I had to do first was kill Joe Stein.

    Thinking these calm thoughts, I saw the shadows in front of my door a
split second before they kicked it in. With a thrill I thought akin to
happiness, I pumped the shotgun, pushed my desk over, and dropped to my
knees with the gun to my shoulder. I was shouting something. 

    22.

    It was over far too quickly. The idiots stood in the open doorway like
Shane and with a twitch of my finger I blew a hole in both of them, knocking
the one in front into his partner and backwards a few feet. I recognized
them from my meeting with Stein.

    My motions and grievances et cetera had not yet been studied, but there
were loopholes. The term Actively Destructive Behavior had been added to the
FCAC code, I thought, merely to give corporations a loophole for ignoring
most of the FCAC termination rules. It usually involved planted evidence of
embezzlement or espionage, something like that. You shot someone to death in
their office, and when the FCAC investigator shows up to ask why the
employee wasn't allowed his/her day in court, you showed them the files and
said that their criminal activities were too grave to wait that long. The
Actively Destructive Behavior clause allowed this sort of drastic action,
supposedly in rare cases.

    I stared through the smoke and dust at the two dead men outside my
office, and wondered what the word rare meant these days.

    I didn't linger, though; I was up and flat against the wall behind my
filing cabinet in a moment, my heart pounding and sweat running into my
eyes. Two shots sank into the desk. I dropped the shotgun in favor of the
Roon; it was a twenty-three shot automatic and if I was going to be
bug-hunting through the office I would need its flexibility.

    I counted to three and then stepped out from behind the cabinet and
there were two more dumb cocks with guns in their hands walking blithely
into my office. Cursing the state of professionalism in business today, I
used three bullets to cut them down; they must have thought I was still
behind the desk, the fucking idiots. Joe Stein might have been brilliant,
but his CT department was proving to be less-than-stellar.

    Poised for flight, I stood for a moment in my dark office, listening and
waiting. Silence rang in my ears. I relaxed my grip on the Roon -no use
shooting my own foot off because I was too tense- and lowered it to my side.
For a moment, I just stood there, waiting. Nothing happened, and I moved to
the doorway, resisting the urge to watch the dead bodies for sudden moves.
There was no one out there, just two more dead bodies, and silence. I
glanced left, down towards the elevators. I glanced right, down towards Joe
Stein's mammoth office. I looked up, just because I felt like CT goons might
be coming out of the fucking pre-fab walls.

    Slowly, I padded down towards Stein's office.

   

    23.

    It was absurdly easy, really.

    I walked on down the hall with my Roon in one hand, turned the corner
into his office, and the bastard was sitting behind his desk. He had a small
semi-automatic in one hand and he fired blindly at me, hitting me in the
shoulder and spinning me around backwards back into the hall. I went numb
from head to toe, blacked out for a few seconds, and then erupted into red
pain from head to toe. I lay on the carpeted floor trying to remember how to
breathe for a while, listening to joe Stein curse at me from what seemed a
great distance. I pondered the fact that I was going to die, apparently,
that I had just made the same stupid mistake the four dead guys in my office
had made, a stupid rookie mistake.

    The cursing came nearer and nearer, and feeling dripped back into me. It
filled my left hand like a balloon filling with air, and the cool metal of
the Roon reminded me of its presence. As Joe Stein's voice turned the corner
and exited his office for the hall, I raised the gun (with agonizing
slowness; it seemed to have grown more dense, like a white dwarf sun) and as
his body followed his voice I put three bullets into his chest before my arm
went numb again, and the gun slipped from my fingers.

    He toppled over with a sudden vomiting of blood and a gurgling, slurping
noise that might have been more curses, drowned in his own death. He fell
across me, and I could feel his warm blood soaking my clothes, mixing with
my own, weighing me down. I stared up at the ceiling and he began to twitch.
My shoulder was a two-foot sphere of wet ache, and I grit my teeth to keep
silent.

    I knew I wasn't alone. Yet. 

    24.

    It was a clean wound, with a cheerfully disgusting exit hole. My right
arm hung limp at my side, but I found that if I didn't jostle it too much I
could move. When I jostled it, I greyed out and fell down. Sometimes when I
didn't jostle it I greyed out and fell down.

    In small increments, I pushed Joe Stein off of me and got onto my knees.
I stayed there for a while, breathing deeply. Then I got to my feet, leaning
against the wall. I lost track of things for a few minutes again. I was
sweating freely, my heart pounding but irregular. In a lucid moment I
wondered if I was being a sissy about it, and that made me giggle
lightheadedly. When that had passed, I shuffled down the hall and into Miles
Wilson's office. He was sitting behind his desk with a stiff drink in one
hand and a cigar in the other. He waved me in cheerfully.

    "Happling, you look like shit, my friend."

    "Do I?" I said with great effort. There had been a witty rejoinder
paired with that, but it drifted away in the wind currents of Wilson's
cavernous office, and I just panted.

    "Don't look so grey and pale, Happling, you're a rich man. I've filed
our agreement -you saw me do it, earlier- and you've kept up your end, so
you're rich, my boy!" He grinned at me for a while. "Are you sure you won't
take on a new job? I'm disposed to like you, after all."

    I was panting still. There wasn't nearly enough oxygen in the room.
"No." I said thinly.

    He chuckled, sucking on his cigar and filling the place with smoke. He
was corrupting all the air. He looked back at me and opened his mouth to say
something. And I shot him.

    Some time later, some fucking cop was shining a light into my eyes.

    "He's not dead." the guy said. He sounded disappointed. 

    25.

    The hearings took three months, and I was front page news in the Trades.
I had the paperwork to back me up, and my lawyer found more info on the
Ford-Sun precedent than I would have imagined possible. I also had Miles
Wilson's filed and certified agreement. It took three months and a lot of
grumbling, but everyone eventually agreed that I had acted legally, in
self-defense, and without Actively Destructive Behavior. I was free, and I
was rich. Not rule the world rich, but rich.

    The funny thing was, the job offers poured in. Every CT department in
the goddamn country wanted me on staff, including, in a funny twist,
M-Consolidated, which sent Carol out to my apartment to make the offer. She
seemed very uncomfortable, but I was gracious. We made small talk for about
half an hour, talking about the hearings, the weather, why hadn't I bought
any furniture.

    "It's been forty-five minutes." I said then, kindly, I thought.

    She glanced up. "Will they think that's long enough?"

    I nodded. "I think so."

    Later on that night I sat on the floor of my living room and stared out
of my window at the lights and buildings of New York City. I sipped Irish
Coffee which was basically a generous dollop of whiskey with some coffee
brewed near it, and I watched the small people walking. They were all
wearing suits. It was the longest I had ever sat in my apartment, in any
apartment, alone, not doing anything, ever. Usually I moved through my
apartment in a blur, sleeping, changing, screwing, leaving. The quiet was
disturbing. My phone hadn't rang all day, and I wondered if it ever would.

    I had no idea what to do. I didn't know what people did if they didn't
have a job.