The mayor had finally agreed to the zoning proposal. It had cost Malcolm one more dinner than he had calculated but ensured Atlas corp’s plans to expand would be crushed. It also ensured that the properties of one Eli Jenkins would be all but useless—an unimportant but not unintended side effect. Call it a bonus. He would, of course, magnanimously purchase the properties from the distressed Jenkins at a price above the market value—after it had crashed, of course—Malcolm had plans for that land. By the time anyone read the fine print on the law, it would be too late. He would own all of it. If he could, Malcolm would avoid such tools, but the use of politics for a business of his size was unavoidable. If you are going to use a tool, you might as well use it well. He lit a victory cigarette as he mentally went over the rest of the plan. The whole area was to be rezoned as a garden area to “beautify the midlands.” He already had the building plans drawn up, with gardens on the ground floors of rooted skyscrapers. It would not only count as a tax write-off but also, since the first floor gardens are technically public, it meant he could use guarantee workers to maintain them.
His secretary came in, bringing a cup of steaming dahongpao tea. He took a slow sip while she silently waited. He considered the smoky flavor and searched around for any bitterness, finding none. He nodded his head in approval. Anna’s arm jerked in celebration, which she immediately tried to hide.
Malcolm ignored this loss of decorum and took another sip. “So, what is on the docket?”
“You’ve got meetings with builders coming up, then Geoff wanted to see you. Mr. Jenkins called. He sounded panicked and wanted to schedule a meeting.”
“I am sure he did. Make it after lunch, so I do not end up having to eat with the cretin.”
“Very good, Sir Lioncourt. I’ll see to it immediately.”
As soon as she left, Geoff poked his head in, uninvited. He was an ambitious young executive, which was useful so long as Malcolm could keep that ambition channeled.
Malcolm looked up, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Yes, Geoff?”
Geoff cautiously entered the room, standing far away. “Lord Lioncourt, Sir, there are a lot of rumors going around about your latest plans in the midlands.”
“Are there now? So?”
“Well, I think it is high time that I get a little more responsibility here. I did a good job setting up the new spidersilk factory. You said so in my performance review. I want something bigger, preferably with fewer goats to manage.”
Malcolm looked up, making firm eye contact. “And what is it that you propose exactly?”
Geoff took a step forward. “Let me spearhead the expansion.”
This could be dangerous. It was essential to make sure that no one executive below him got too much power, especially one like Geoff. But this could both placate him as well as take some of the more tedious tasks off Malcolm’s desk. Geoff was a Swordsly, one of the eight noble houses, but the least of them. His father used to own Crius before he was killed by a lowly copper, or so it was rumored. Their house had sold off most of its assets since then. Geoff was a riser, chomping at the bit to improve his position and that of his house. He was, at the very least, well motivated.
“Sure, I will leave the day-to-day to you. Think of it as a test, but careful not to disappoint, or you just might find yourself retiring to a nice little villa in the midlands.”
“Thank you, Sir Lioncourt. I won’t fail you.”
“I am sure of that. You can start your duties by taking the meeting with the builders,” one more thing off his plate, “they already have the broad strokes.”
Geoff nodded and began to leave.
“Oh, and Geoff? Remember Icarus, those with wax wings ought not to fly too close to the sun.”
Geoff tensioned his jaw, nodded, and left.
Anna was back carrying an envelope. “The latest on your hunt, Mr. Lioncourt.” She stood waiting to be dismissed.
The world was full of Marcos and Iras. Full of copper class citizens not employed that could pay the deposit against being guaranteed workers, especially outside of the iron grip of the capital— black market workers. It had become slightly tedious to go through the collected leads. He had even managed to accidentally catch some other hunters’ prey, but for them he practiced catch-and-release. If those hunters were too stupid to find them, those wretches could enjoy their freedom until they got knifed in the back by an informant.
He tried to approach each new envelope with hope—this was supposed to be fun after all. He took a black and gold cigarette out, lit it, and then proceeded to scan through the new leads. Unlikely, unlikely, dubious, impossible, unlikely. If those flunkies had the most rudimentary deduction skills, they wouldn’t waste his time with half of these reports. He threw them in the trash and spread out the updated lists he had requested. Weapon registers, deposits against guarantee work, and a list of newly arrived Iras in the cities of interest. There was one name, precisely one that ticked three of the boxes—one Alex Brown of Upper Winslet.
Alex had recently purchased a revolver, had arrived in the last two years, had been paying his deposit for the past few months, and was living with a woman named Ira. Further investigation through a phone call showed he had traveled with his daughter named Daisy, though there has been no word about this Daisy since. It appears that this Alex Brown was his man with no less than 98% certainty. Malcolm rubbed his hands together. Finally, he had solved it. Perhaps he should be kinder to Eli—the hunt had proven to be of above-average difficulty, though that did not change the expected value of it, which was low. Expected outcomes are what mattered, not luck. Still, he might increase the amount he gave the newly impoverished Eli by 5% more than he had initially planned.
He looked up at his dutiful secretary. “Reschedule the meeting with Eli, tell him to come as soon as he can, then clear my docket for the next two days.”
“Yes, Mr. Lioncourt.”
After his meeting with Eli, he would take the Excalibur, his S-class void cruiser, on a quick jaunt to Upper Winslet. He phoned the chief engineer to make sure the preparations would be ready. He felt like a boy on the eve of King’s day. Finally, he would know who was behind Marco’s disappearing act.
Eli walked in wearing one of his trademark cheap earth-toned suits. He was visibly sweating.
“Please, Mr. Jenkins, have a seat. Now, what is this all about?”
“Remember that land you thought about buying from me? I decided to sell for your asking price. Atlas would still be willing to pay more, of course, but you can’t put a price on doing business with Lord Lioncourt himself, can you?” His voice flitted with nervous energy. I should remember to invite him to cards. If he could afford the buy-in, that is.
“Mr. Jenkins, do you think me a fool? Do I strike you as one blind to current events?”
“Sir, what are you referring to?”
“I know very well the mayor has decided to rezone that land for gardens as part of his ‘Beautify the Midlands’ initiative. That land is now practically worthless. Atlas surely canceled their bid. It is quite unfortunate that you decided to go into such debt doubling down on your holdings in the area.”
“It was just that you and Atlas both were interested. A wise man acts on that kind of insider information.”
“And how, wise Mr. Jenkins, did that work out for you?”
Manic tears began to fill Eli’s eyes. He was just on the verge of a breakdown.
“Listen, Eli,” He said, softening his voice, “I am not a charity, but if I take over the new garden district, it will probably win me a few favors. Out of friendship, I will take that worthless land off of your hands. I will even give you 15% above its current value. It is not as much as you put in, but it is enough to keep you and your family from sliding to the wrong side of the river.” Gold could never tarnish, not fully the Swordsly’s were evidence of that. But silver could, and Eli was as silver as they come. A large-scale bankruptcy could potentially have him and his entire family downgraded, especially with a word or two from someone with power. This was the original plan for Eli, but now Malcolm no longer found it important.
Eli broke into tears and began blubbering with gratitude. Malcolm lit another cigarette and impatiently waited for the emotional display to finish.
Aboard the Excalibur, all geared up with Esmeralda fastened to his belt, Malcolm ordered the air sac further drained. The burgundy sides collapsed against their posts as skin clings to emaciated ribs. Only one material was both strong enough to hold the vacuum and lightweight enough to make the vacuum buoyant in air. There was only one company that produced it, his company. That young scientist had been one of Malcolm’s best investments. Under his father’s reign, Hyperion had been focused in the already crowded space market. Malcolm had moved them almost completely into patent materials. The material that held the vacuum was naturally black, but the aesthetics of a black skeletal frame against the blue sky didn’t suit Malcolm. His was the only burgundy void cruiser to be found. He wouldn’t commission one, even one for Cleon Dragoncourt when he had asked. In his ready room, he put Wagner on, sat in his leather chair, took out a book, poured some cognac, and lit a cigar.
The frigid winds of Upper Winslet pierced him, he fastened his jacket. It didn’t look like much but would protect him from not only winds but also all but the highest caliber of bullets whose force would liquefy his organs anyway.
His steward asked, “Shall I make arrangements at a hotel, sir?”
“In Winslet?” Malcolm asked incredulously.
“Excellent, sir. I shall see things are set up in your room for tonight then.”
Waiting outside the registered address, it wasn’t long until Malcolm had confirmation as a shrill yell pierced the thin walls of the domicile,
“Marco, stop tryin’ to boss me around, ya jobless drunk! A girl can’t live like this!”
The response in pleading baritone couldn’t entirely be made out through the wall, but now it was 99.9% that his quarry lay on the other side of the wall. The door slammed, Malcolm retreated to a safe distance to observe the now alone Marco Jones through the window. He grabbed a bottle of tigal and proceeded to drink until he fell asleep in his chair. Surely this can’t be the man who forged a fake ID, came up with a plan to smuggle his girlfriend, and retreated far away, covering his tracks. Especially since such a carefully laid plan was laid to ruins in such a blatant manner. But how did the meddler expect to profit?
Malcolm decided to investigate. The door lock was a pathetic standard six-pin. It was rare these days that he got to use his more exotic tools. Taking out his tension wrench and a standard hook, he went at the lock: nothing on one, click out of two, nothing on three, click out of four, nothing on five, click out of six, click out of five, and the lock was open. What an absolute piece of garbage engineering. As it stood, practically anyone would have been able to break in and rob the drunken oaf blind while he slept there.
With his soft-soled shoes, he silently crept on the balls of his feet through the hovel, checked for traps or alarms, but only in a perfunctory manner. The active ingredient in tigal was euphoric. It also acted as both a sedative and a muscle relaxant. Unsurprisingly, it was highly addictive. It was another engineering marvel produced by the eternal empire of the King and now run by the Shepard family.
The smell was of body odor, stale cheap tobacco, and of course, the aggressively pungent scent of tigal. Overflowing ashtrays, purple stains, empty bottles, and clothes were strewn all about the floor—this Ira woman clearly wasn’t much of a homemaker. There he was, a partially shaven ape passed out with big purple lips. Malcolm took Esmeralda out of her holster and pointed it at the sleeping man, but it just didn’t feel right. He should investigate more first.
On the end table beside him was a well-worn stained piece of paper, titled:
So You Are Dense and Want to Not Die Horribly
A Gram Guide
Reading it, Malcolm couldn’t help chuckling under his breath. Things were beginning to make sense now. If Marco could have followed half of the advice, it probably would have cost far too much for even the Hawk to find him. He was intrigued about the sealed paper but had no intention of digging through filthy pockets just to find it. Instead, he would prepare for a more dramatic entrance. Walking into the bedroom, he quickly found the revolver, which, of course, couldn’t put a dent in his spidersilk jacket. The silk would prevent penetration, and the gel in between the layers would spread the force making small-caliber bullets such as these feel no worse than a bee sting. Still, it might ruin some of the embroidery. Knowing the caliber from registration, he replaced the bullets with blanks, placed a thin layer of clear explosive gel around the door frame, and walked back to the Excalibur, leaving not one trace.
He stationed his steward near the domicile to tell him when Marco woke up and when Ira left. The less time he spent in Winslet, the better.
Sauntering at a leisurely pace, he knocked on the door, already knowing everything that was going to happen.
Marco answered the door, looking and sounding faithful to Malcolm’s model of the man. The trap was sprung. He tried to lock the door. Malcolm set off the explosives in the door frame; Marco would run to his gun filled with blanks. Malcom sighed—this was too easy—he entered the hail of gun smoke distinctly lacking in bullets.
He was trying so hard not to kill Marco until he had his hands on that sealed note, but Marco’s bumbling was making it difficult to keep up appearances. By rights, he ought to just end it here, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.
“Perhaps sir would like t’ read this?” He had finally found it in one of his coat pockets.
Malcolm unwrapped and read the note.
To the Hunter About to Shoot My Dear Dumb Friend Marco,
Hello! You found my dear friend Marco and are about to kill him, meaning that either the bloody idiot didn’t follow my instructions or that you are an exceptional hunter. My guess is a bit of both. Please consider sparing him. I mean, just look at him. I assure you killing him will bring you no great joy. Given your implied acumen you have at this point no doubt deduced that any difficulty you might have had in finding him was not his doing. If you are interested in a more challenging and satisfying diversion, given that Marco is left alive, you can hunt me instead, the architect of this little chase. If so, you may contact the head bartender at the Alchemist, a bar in the lowlands. Ask for a Mr. Green. If you agree, angrily crumple up this note, put it in your pocket, give your terms to Marco, then storm off.
P.S Don’t worry, if he talks, I’ll kill him
Cordially,
Mr. Green
Finally, the real hunt is on, thought Malcolm, leaving Marco to his poverty.
***
Gram was a few negronis in already when he picked up the phone from Marco.
He sounded panicked and elated.
“What was in the note?” Gram tried to repeat the question back to Marco innocently.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy. It was nothing. Just keep your mouth shut about what happened and find a nice place to lay low. You know how toffs are, so long as you don’t hurt his reputation, you’ll be a safe man.”
“Yeah, I know it’s boring up there. I’ll try to visit you one of these days, promise.”
“Yeah, miss you too, man, really it’s okay, you were just in a tight spot. It’s what friends do.”
“Anyway, I gotta get back to drinking, gotta keep my liver well-trained, or it might slack off.”
“Nah, how about you give me a way to reach you, then when it’s safe, I’ll give you a ring.”
“Hey, Jim, can I get another negroni? Don’t shy on the gin.”
Gram did his best to suppress his hands from shaking, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Fuck.
Homo Economicish 