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Peter Dietrich was jumpy. A small dermal patch behind the ear solved that problem, the endorphins released into his bloodstream. The patch calmed him down enough to concentrate on the news uplink site he had connected to via the plug in his temple. Food riots in London, mass terrorism by so-called freedom fighters resulting in the city’s supply being cut in half for non-corporate citizens. Pollution levels normal; there were a mere eleven smog alerts this month. No real news to speak of, just the normal junk that served to make the news corporations a profit.
Dietrich checked the time again. Timing was essential. Too early and he would look too eager, too late and they would not even admit him. He examined himself in the mirror he always kept on him. Blonde hair cut to the latest fashion, the wavy locks covering the discreet silver plug. He checked his suit, the double-breasted charcoal grey Regal suit, with the platinum cufflinks with the limited edition Marshall Brothers diamond studs, and the twelve hundred credit Chronoex watch. Perfect for knocking those executives dead.
The lift started making its way up the four hundred floor building, the headquarters of the Dalyn-Steward Corporation. The building dominated the skyline of London, placed on the site of the old Canary Wharf tower after it was destroyed in the Asia Wars of 2021. The black needle was the landmark of the city, a sign of power where the credit ruled all.
The very fact that Dietrich was here at all was a testimony to his seven years of hard work; his promotion to external operations executive was speeded up by the sudden and unexpected demise of his superior. Dietrich smiled to himself. In this game it was survival of the fittest, and his superior just could not cut it.
The lift slowed to a halt at the 376th floor. Dietrich fished out a thin fibre-optic cable, attached one end to his plug and the other into the Datamanä hidden in his collar. Checking this in the mirrored glass of the lift, he nodded to himself with satisfaction. Barely visible. Slick.
The door silently slid open and he was confronted by a tower of a man standing in a small lobby area. Dietrich tried not to flinch. The guard was easily six and a half feet tall and was dressed in a expensive black suit. This did not detract from his purpose. He had muscles like steel cables and eyes like cameras. Knowing the corp, Dietrich thought, they probably were. The man barely moved, just a slight motion towards the small reader he held in his meaty hands.
Giving the guard his ivory-plated passchip, he entered the main concourse, an area designed to show the superiority of the corporation. The rectangular room was deserted except for the secretary sitting at her desk. The roof was arched and high, an obvious display of wealth in a world where space was a very expensive commodity. The Dalyn-Steward corporation logo adorned the desk and the wall behind it. A red dragon on a black diamond.
Dietrich approached the secretary, who did not acknowledge his presence. She was sitting behind a black marble desk, her expression blank, a wire leading from a terminal to a plug behind her ear. Sensors detected his presence, disconnecting her from the Net. Her eyes fluttered for a second as she reaccustomed herself to the different reality of the real world. She looked up at him with silver eyes, top of the range replacements probably shipped in from the new manufacturing department in the corporation’s new offshore arcology.
"Mr. Dietrich. The Board are expecting you."
With a nod Dietrich walked towards the heavy double doors, which opened automatically. In front of him was a long, sleek table. Jacks and screens were placed discreetly into the wooden surface. Real wood, he thought. No obvious guards or security measures, but with the amount of power wielded in this room he knew the corporation would keep their best assets well guarded.
Sitting around the table was the board of directors, six of the most powerful men in this corporation, which in turn was the most powerful corporation in Europe. At the head of this table was Mr. Charles Dalyn-Steward himself, one of the most powerful men in the world. According to the biography he was seventy-six but he looked barely over forty, a calm man with pale skin and just a trace of grey in his black hair. He sat in a high-backed padded chair, his back to the floor-to ceiling windows which looked out onto the rest of the city. With the building here above the smog levels you could see out on to the sea.
Dalyn-Steward smiled slightly as Dietrich approached. The other men turned to watch him. Corporate predators each one of them. If he showed any sign of weakness they would see him fired for wasting Mr. Dalyn-Steward’s time. In this business you would not have the opportunity to work for another company, or anyone else for that matter.
"So, Peter," said Mr. Dalyn-Steward, "explain to us your plans for your new project."
Andrew Jones, 27/09/00
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