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Mason took a sip, cradled the glass in his hands.
 
“Depends which it we’re talking about.”

“Grabbed me.”
 
Sadie shrugged, the motion small.
 
“I thought I was dead.”

Mason looked at her sideways.
 
“Truth?”

“Always.
 
Only.
 
Nothing but.”

“You looked like you needed an exit.”
 
Mason looked away, closing his eyes for a moment as the sun touched his face.

Her voice drew him back.
 
“I didn’t.”

“Right.
 
Sorry.”

“I…”
 
She paused.
 
“Do you know who Aldo Vast is?”

“No clue,” said Mason.
 
“Should I?”

“Not especially.
 
I’m just trying to work it out.”

“Take your time,” said Mason, pouring some more for both of them.
 
“The day’s not going anywhere.”

“What I’m trying to work out is this,” said Sadie.
 
“I’m trying to work out why you shot him in the leg.”

“Oh,” said Mason, “that guy.
 
His name was Aldo?”

“Aldo Vast,” said Sadie.
 
“He was…
 
He is…
 
It’s complicated.”

“Ok,” said Mason.
 
“Look, Sadie?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to tell you your business—”

“—But you’re going to anyway,” she said.

“I don’t want to tell you your business, but it looks like he was after you.
 
He had a piece of glass, hate in his heart, and—”

“I could have handled it.”

“I’m not doubting that,” said Mason, turning a little to face her.
 
“I don’t think I could have, though.”

“What?”

“It’s kind of hard to see someone about to cut on someone else you…”
 
He paused, shaking his head.
 
Someone you like.
 
Is that right, Floyd?

“Someone else what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
 
“Couldn’t stand by, that’s all.”

“Real noble of you,” she said, reaching for the bottle.
 
“So you shoved me in a van and drove a couple hundred klicks to Fuckistan, edge of Nowheresville.”

“Yeah,” said Mason.
 
“That sounds about right.
 
When you say it like that, it makes me sound a bit like a dick.”

She laughed, a bright sound on the edge of the morning.
 
He liked it — honest laughter in a way he couldn’t remember hearing inside the Federate.
 
People were always laughing at jokes that weren’t funny made by people they wanted something from.

“Still,” he said.
 
“I’m sorry.”

“That’s funny,” said Sadie.
 
“I thought you said sorry just then.
 
I must be imagining things.”

“We’re not all assholes,” he said.

“Yes you are,” she said.
 
She looked sad for a moment.
 
“I don’t know if you know what it’s like, being outside a company.
 
When a van turns up to take you away?
 
It never brings you back.”

Mason turned that over in his head.
 
“I don’t think this was a regular van taking you away.
 
I don’t think this is a regular mission at all.”

“That why she’s in charge?”
 
Sadie jerked her head back inside.
 
“The doc.”

“I’m not sure she’s in charge,” said Mason.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.
 
“Just…
 
Nothing.”

“Whatever, company man,” she said.
 
“Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I want to know.
 
What we doing today?”

He reached for the bottle, same time as her.
 
Their fingers touched, and her hand lingered for a moment before pulling away.
 
“Sorry,” he said again.

“It’s not you,” she said.
 
She looked away.

“Yeah, it is,” he said.
 
Or what I am.
 
He let the bottle go, grabbed his glass, and tossed back the liquor.
 
“Fuck it.
 
Today?
 
Today we’re going shopping.”

“You have significantly overstepped your remit, Mr. Oldham.”
 
The board secretary looked down the table at Julian, the old oak —
real wood, like they could buy themselves class
— buffed to a dark gloss, catching the dim overhead lights in its surface.

“Yeah, about that,” said Julian.
 
“It’s not—”

“I haven’t finished, Mr. Oldham.”
 
The Secretary cleared his throat, looking left and right at the board members, stacked in perfect rows in immaculate suits down the side of the table.
 
“Please do not interrupt.”

“Of course not, sir.”
 
Julian shifted his weight and swallowed.
 
He could feel the pile of the carpet, thick under his feet.
 
Probably real wool — they’ve put that in since I was last up here
.

“You’ve instigated a manufacturing run without the involvement of Marketing.
 
Or, as near as we can tell, R&D.
 
Is this correct?”

“Kinda,” said Julian.
 
“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“I don’t think I like your tone,” the Secretary said.
 
His face was lined, the kind of years he carried no longer easily pushed aside by treatments.

“I apologize,” said Julian, looking down at his shoes.
 
It’s not like it’ll make any difference.

The Secretary looked at him a few moments longer.
 
“Very well.
 
The manufacturing run has been pushed out without the usual clinical trials.
 
The syndicate could be heavily exposed if this new product turns out to be hazardous.”

“More hazardous,” said Julian.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said ‘more hazardous.’”
 
Julian shrugged.
 
“Than our usual products, I mean.”

“Our products are well tested.”

“Yes,” said Julian.
 
“We know exactly how they break, and how to manage the media.”

“Quite,” said the Secretary.
 
“You do show a good understanding of the key principles.
 
Why, then, did you contravene your remit within your department?”

“I had to,” said Julian.

“You what?”

“I had to.”
 
Julian turned to look out the window at the rain —
ordinary, wet, heavy, shitty rain
— and straightened his tie.
 
He threw a glance back at the Secretary.
 
“You’ll understand shortly.”

“I—”

“It’s quite simple,” said Julian.
 
“You think you’ve got me on, what, a trial, right?”

“We’re not a court.”
 
The Secretary frowned at him, then looked sideways at one of the board members.
 
The other man shrugged.

“Whatever,” said Julian, waving a hand.
 
“The truth of it is, you’re on trial.”

“I beg your pardon?”
 
The Secretary had started to rise from his chair.

Julian turned to face him.
 
“Sit the
fuck
down.”

The man goggled at him.
 
“What?”

Julian tugged at one of his cuffs, then brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve.
 
“You’ve all been sitting here, talking at me, measuring dicks under the table, right?”

“I—”

“Exactly,” said Julian.
 
“And while you’ve been doing that, my friend—”
 
His voice caught for a second, and he cleared his through.
 
“My friend outside has been sucking you dry.”

“I have
never
—”

“Probably not,” said Julian, nodding.
 
He started to walk around the table.
 
The men in their chairs, not a woman amongst them, swiveled to track him as he walked around the table to stand by the Secretary.
 
“You’ve invested quite a bit in me, haven’t you?”
 
The secretary swallowed, looking up into his face.
 
Old and weak
.
 
“There’s just one thing left I need to do.”

“What…
 
What’s that?”

“I need to kill one of you.
 
Apparently he needs to understand what your stress response is like.”

The Secretary blinked at him.
 
“What?”

Julian leaned forward.
 
He lowered his voice, made it soft, almost a whisper.
 
“It’s ok.
 
It won’t hurt.
 
I promise.”

“What…
 
What won’t hurt?”

“No, you’re right,” said Julian, standing up.
 
His voice cracked, and a sliver of laughter, bright and fragile, burst out.
 
“You should choose.
 
Who’s it gonna be?”

“I—”

“It’s a simple question.”
 
Julian looked down the table.

The man to the Secretary’s right leaned forward, the movement small.
 
“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yeah?”
 
Julian looked at him sideways.

“Did you just say that you’re going to shoot one of us?”

“No,” said Julian.

“Thank God,” said the man, leaning back.

“I didn’t say I’d shoot anyone at all.
 
It’d be hard to get a weapon in here, right?
 
I said I was going to kill one of you.
 
The method…
 
He left the method up to me.”

The man swallowed, then looked at the Secretary.
 
“I’ve called security.”

“Good for you,” said Julian.
 
He turned back to the Secretary.
 
“Ok, boss.
 
Who’s it going to be?
 
Which one of these fools gets to die?”

“I—”

“Hell, you can vote on it if you like.”
 
Julian turned away, looking out the window again.
 
A bolt of lightning stabbed down across the city, the bright arc filtered out by his optics.
 
“Only thing is, you don’t have all day.
 
I need your… nominee in the next thirty seconds.”

He heard the movement start behind him, the surge of people towards the door.
 
It was locked, of course.
 
Voices raised, the rattle of the door handle.
 
Angry shouts, edged with panic and fear.

Fear
.
 
They didn’t know the meaning of the word.
 
Not yet.

Tugging at his shirt cuff again, he turned back to the room.
 
Most of them were gathered by the door, eyes frighted.
 
One man stepped forward, opened his mouth to start speaking.

“Can it,” said Julian.
 
“I really couldn’t give two shits what you’ve got to say, unless it’s a name.”

The man blinked.
 
“I…
 
I nominate the Secretary.”

“Seconded,” said a man behind him.

“What?”
 
The Secretary was pushed forward by the men around him to stand in front of Julian.
 
“I—”

“This should be a pretty good lesson, don’t you think?”
 
Julian patted the Secretary’s shoulders, almost gentle.
 
“I’m real sorry about this.
 
But you are kind of an asshole.”

“You—”

Julian stepped forward, overtime dropping in around him.
 
He went to work, and he was thorough.

The Master had been very specific about that.

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

Julian looked at the table, the dark wood smeared along one side.
 
The board was seated back around it, two of them with bright red splashes on white shirts.
 
He glanced over at the —

It’s not really a body anymore, is it?

— the remains of the Secretary, what was left of him slumped against the wall, a dark red stain soaking into the wool of the carpet underneath him.

“Everyone ready?”
 
Julian felt the smile stretched over his face, teeth barred, a mask pushed on.
 
He turned back to the door, twisting the handle.
 
It opened with a soft click, the bottom edge whispering over the carpet as he pulled it open.

The man who walked in was dressed in an immaculate suit, a red pocket square standing out against the black of the material.
 
He paused in the doorway, looking over to the body against the wall, then looked back at Julian.
 
“Good.
 
You have given me their fear.”

“Yes, Master.”
 
Julian swallowed.
 
It still feels weird saying that
.

“Weird?”
 
The master looked at him, a small smile tugging at his face.
 
“You’ll learn to like it soon enough.”

The man turned to the table, opening his arms to the board.
 
“Gentlemen.
 
It’s come to my attention that new leadership is needed.”

“Are you…” said one man.
 
Julian’s overlay identified him as
Mercel Strider
, head of Marketing and Analytics.
 
“Are you…
 
responsible for this?”

“For what?”
 
The master leaned forward from the waist, the movement almost imperceptible.
 
“Oh.
 
I see.
 
You want to know if I’m behind the death of your… previous master.”