The carriage looked opulent, but Eli would have appreciated if more work had been put into the heating system as he rubbed his hands together. It had been the most expensive looking carriage he was able to book. Always lead with a good foot forward. The meeting had to go well. If he could get an in with Lord Lioncourt, member of the higher nobility and youngest corporate executive officer in recent history, he would be on easy street. He could send Ashley and Phillip to a top prep school. His wife would be so impressed that she would even nag him less. The Greensohns wouldn’t dare look down on him anymore. He could even join the Sterling club! One step away from gilding. Everything depended on getting this contract. He had a secret weapon, a gift he knew would instantly ingratiate him. It cost his life savings and then some, but why worry about pennies when gold was on the line? He spent the remainder of the carriage ride trying to stay on task, his voice box shifting mutely up and down as he practiced his pitch.
Arriving at the headquarters of the Hyperion Corporation filled Eli with a mix of awe and unease. He knew the hourglass towering over him was safe, safe enough for Lord Lioncourt himself. But something primal, something weak, screamed from within him. Looking up and seeing the impossible blackness above the tower, the void bubble, Eli trembled, concluding it must be natural that such displays of dominance would have that effect.
Eli steadied himself. He had burned through all of his social and financial capital to get here. He only had this one shot.
A guarantee worker, the hood of his robe down, was taking a smoke break leaning against one of the colossal silver-grey columns he was supposed to be polishing. There was an easy life. The King gave that worthless rabble food, housing, and purpose. Indolence is how they repaid him. After yelling at the man to get back to work, Eli felt a little less tense and entered the building.
Pausing in front of the elevator doors, he took out his pocket watch and stared. After some time elapsed, he straightened his tie and called the elevator. Proudly announcing to the elevator attendant that he had business on the 126th floor, he stepped in, turning sharply to face the door as to keep his feet parallel to the sides of the elevator. Visualizing the most important handshake of his life, he wiped his sweaty hands against his brown suit. As the elevator passed through the old foundation and began rising into the new building, he was able to see through the glass just how far from the ground he was. High and getting higher, his stomach lurched. Closing his eyes, he visualized the handshake, his lips moving to silent words.
Eli walked out of the elevator and was struck by the immense marble architecture around him. Even Royals might blush at such opulence. The receptionist greeted him. She clearly was not of pure stock, a chimera of occidental polluted with orientalism. Eli tried to suppress the turning of his mouth and the flaring of his nose. Perhaps good help was hard to come by even for people like Lord Lioncourt. No, that can’t be. Look at this building. He could easily afford to have a member from the gilded class serve him. There has to be another reason, and he had a guess judging from her clearly pronounced amative bumps. Anyway, this was to his advantage—he now knew something Lord Lioncourt kept secret. He could round up a couple of stunning purebred girls, occidental or oriental, who would make excellent full-service secretaries. He moved some beads in his mental abacus.
Eli had arrived exactly fifteen minutes early. Respectful, but not too eager-looking. After about an hour in the waiting room, he saw the mayor leaving the office, puffing on a cigar and smiling. A good sign. After what felt like an eternity to Eli, the receptionist finally spoke, “Mr. Lioncourt is ready to see you now.”
Walking in, Eli could hardly have imagined a more well-appointed office. The paperweights on Lord Lioncourt’s desk alone wouldn’t be out of place in a museum. Seeing Lord Lioncourt in the flesh, sitting there looking at him coolly, brought a shiver down Eli’s spine. A reaction to the man’s near-perfect phrenology. This was what it was to be in the presence of a high noble. The Lioncourts, it was whispered, were first among the nobility. Some rumored they even used to be royals. The King was a man of unquestionable judgment. But of course, he was. He was King. What he had understood once logically, he now felt viscerally.
Lord Lioncourt stayed seated as he entered. Eli put his hand out, which was met after a pronounced delay. His grip was firm. “Lord Lioncourt, sir. My name is Eli Jenkins. Please just call me Eli.”
“In that case, Jenkins, you may call me Sir Lioncourt.”
A bead of sweat fell down Eli’s head.
“Cigarette?” Lioncourt offered one from his immense chair.
Eli sat down in the well-appointed chair across from Lioncourt. Sitting down, he looked up at the man towering over him. “No, sir, I don’t smoke or drink. As reliable as they come, sir.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
Elated, Eli responded, “No, no, sir, please do.” only to realize the man had already lit it before he had a chance to say anything.
“Lovely receptionist, you have.”
“Anna is, indeed,” Lioncourt said with a lazy exhale.
No sign of annoyance there. That was it. Eli could see a chink in the armor and so thrust.
“Interesting choice, bet she has quite the charms, that one.”
Lord Lioncourt’s icy stare showed he had miscalculated. Of course, who was Eli to dare to be so familiar with a high nobel. Stupid, stupid Eli. That was a bad use of the information. Beads were rapidly reshuffled in his head.
“Indeed. Mr. Jenkins, was it? What business exactly is it that you have with me today?”
“I have a proposal for you, sir, once in a lifetime profits.”
“Yes, I am sure my wealth is your chief concern.”
“And, of course, it will help the empire.”
“Charitable and patriotic, how good of you.”
His tone wasn’t as Eli had hoped, but Eli had an Ace in the hole. “But before we get into the nitty-gritty details, I have a small present to thank you for having this meeting.” Reaching into the pocket of his finely pressed brown coat, he took out an envelope with the bright red seal of the Bureau of Contracts and Acquisitions. Lord Lioncourt accepted the envelope, opened it, and gave it a read—
“A No-fight contract?”
“Yes, sir.” Eli beamed. He had picked the most expensive type of contract there was—a fact Lord Lioncourt would no doubt be aware of. “I’m not a hunter myself, though. Just thought nothing is too good for the Hawk himself.”
“Quite,” he said with a smile. “Shall we get down to business, then?”
Eli sighed in relief.
XII Malcolm
More and more, Malcolm wanted to crawl out of his skin. He had better let that damn mayor’s aide know just how much she owed him. What in the hell was he going to do with a no-fight contract for some random lowie with a name like Marco Jones? He couldn’t exactly regift it—that would be a blow to his reputation, enough perhaps to somewhat undermine his operational abilities. Of course, the Eli Jenkins’ of the world wouldn’t bother to actually do any research. They would trust price to the point they would probably eat shit instead of filet mignon if it were the more expensive option on a menu. Even if it was a no-fight contract Edgeworth would still manage to find a way of embellishing it. A sneer worked its way up the right side of his mouth.
Malcolm inhaled his cigarette deeply, the red ember growing and consuming the black paper in a fiery cone. The cigarette retained its shape and structure, turning into one long cylinder of ash in only two or three puffs already bordering on the gold filter. He put it out and lit another.
“So, did you bring your proposal for me to look at?”
“Yes, sir,” Jenkins said, passing a folder across.
The midlands were full of his type: as mechanical and predictable as robots, trying to claw their way up the social hierarchy with a smile, only ever engaging in their position, never thinking about what they actually had—it was for this reason that anything you gave them was an absolute waste, pearls cast before swine. He had trouble even considering them human, but then, they were an occupational hazard.
Perhaps he could at least end up useful. As Jenkins made his rehearsed sales pitch, Malcolm took out his pocket watch, staring at the rotating eye of the tourbillon, watching the seconds as they passed by. He opened the folder Jenkins brought rapidly perusing its contents.
“So, what here is proprietary?” Malcolm said.
“Proprietary, Lord Lioncourt?”
“Yes. As in something here that no one else can copy.”
Drips of sweat fell down Eli’s under-baked brow. “With you on board, sir, I am sure it will be a success.”
“But why, Mr. Jenkins, would I need you? Even if I did want to go ahead with this half-baked idea if the crux of its success relies on myself, why not simply do it myself?”
Eli shifted in his tiny chair. “My Lord, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Let me put this very clearly: even if this idea was good—which, to be honest, Mr. Jenkins, would be exceedingly and overly generous to say—so long as another corporation can copy it, it would only be profitable if it was executed better than they could. The only possibility of that is if I did it. If you could, you already would have. So, I already have both all the information and the only unique thing on the table of value. There is no scenario in which I need you.”
The man before him had a sickly pallor and appeared to be melting into his seat.
Malcolm had gone too far. He knew it. Sometimes he just could not help himself. He knew even if someone brings you a giant heaping plate of extremely expensive excrement if you don’t take a bite, smile, and then give them something in return, the gossip will be more trouble than it is worth. It was perfectly okay for someone in Malcom’s station to crush a man. You just had to do it the right way.
“I am just explaining this to you because I see potential in you, Eli.”
“You do, my lord??”
Malcolm sighed, “Yes, and I would like to make some deals with you, just not this one. Here, I see you have property holdings in Bree. I have quite a few plans for development in that area. Schedule another meeting with my receptionist on your way out.”
“Thank you so much, Lord Lioncourt!” He could scarcely be a more pathetic specimen.
I will see that he is ruined by the end of next year. Malcolm leaned back in his massive seat and read through the hunt contract. At least the mark seemed fit enough. Something woefully wasted on a no fight contract.
Homo Economicish 