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Dietrich sat, his chair facing the window behind his mahogany desk. Being located on the 342nd floor had its advantages, he mused over his cigar. The foot-long stick was worth more than the average family sedan and was much more illegal. But it was worth it, and there was nobody to take it off him. He was startled to hear the clink of the decanter being moved; he hadn't heard anyone come in.
He waited for whoever it was to pour themselves a drink, and then turned his chair around to see who it was.
Before him stood a woman. Unfortunately her attire, a black jumpsuit with no insignia, probably from a low-end chain in London, meant that she was not one of his staff. Her face was interesting to him; he was sure he had seen her before somewhere. He was about to ask her how she got in when her hand was quickly raised, the gun she held pointed at him. The shot was silent and hit him directly in the chest, tearing a small hole into his off-white shirt from Brandon's.
"Gah!" was all he could get out before he could speak no longer.
The woman drank down the cognac she had put into the glass and walked over to the desk.
"Don't worry, it's not lethal. You just won't be able to move for a while." She paused. "Or speak," she seemed to add as an afterthought. "You will be able to listen though, and also look. This is what I need you to do."
She reached into a bag slung from her shoulder and retrieved an item which she threw onto the desk. She then started to fumble around in the bag as she spoke again.
"You have been contacted by Archibald of Bold Industries. He probably got James to make the contact. He is going to make you an offer you may want to refuse."
She continued to look through the bag, reaching into the bottom as her words slowed down.
"You may want, uh, to have, mm, your contacts, damn, look at that." She pointed to the device on the table.
It was a cylinder, about twenty centimetres in length. From one end projected some tubes leading to a patch that reminded Dietrich of a sub dermal key implant. The cylinder seemed to have a slot in it as if another piece was required.
"It's an implant, a Skin Contact Activated MicroPore Injector. It injects substances through the pores in the skin. Namely poisons. If you do refuse his offer he may use one of these on you." She started to pull vials out of the bag one at a time.
"This one will take seconds to kill you, it isn't pleasant and is a messy death. This one is slower. It will take a few hours to get you but is a nicer death as you'll feel a lot less. This last one will take a week. It's quiet; people will think you have a cold."
She moved around the desk and rotated Dietrich so he was facing the window again.
"I think it is time I left. You'll be beginning to move again in about ten minutes so I'll make my leave. Once you have made the meeting you may want to talk to me again. If you do, put an obituary in a paper. Make it the Mirror. The obit is for a Jennifer Hault."
She moved to the door, opening it. As she went to move through it she turned back, her black hair swirling around her shoulders.
"Oh, and Dietrich, make it a nice obit."
Andrew Jones, 24/04/01
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