The Dispossession of Dylan Knox

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Brooke was usually on autopilot during the walk along East 42nd Street from Grand Central Terminal to the river. It was a bit of pleasant exercise, unless heavy rain forced her to take the bus; but she could never prevent her mind from jumping to work ahead of her, anticipating all the tasks that awaited. Honking cabs didn’t penetrate her reverie any more than the trumpet of bus brakes, the rattle of store security blinds, or even the pounding thump from the passing car of a soon-to-be-deaf rap fan. Occasionally, an explosion of pigeons rising as one from an interrupted conclave, or raucous gulls chased by a cat from a feast of fallen chili dog would make her look up and notice the sky.

As she came alert to cross First Avenue, she heard a noise from the north even above the traffic: a large protest, she guessed, most likely in Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. People always gathered to protest near the UN when they wanted international attention, but it bothered her. It was as if they were rebuking the one organization that was most on their side. Practicality dictated that protestors play to the media cameras first, and then to the eyes of diplomats. UN headquarters reliably provided both.

On Monday mornings the staff of the secretary-general received their marching orders for the week at a ten o’clock briefing from the SG’s Executive Assistant Raimunda Devlin, once she’d finished her own one-on-one with the big boss. While Niels Van Valkenburg directed the entire organization in broad strokes, Devlin ran the SG’s office with military precision.

In a conservative navy suit and white blouse, Devlin addressed the troops straight-backed, as if at an invisible podium, her unblinking eyes first resting on one place, then darting to the next, and the next, her nose and chin held high, her crisp voice no louder than it needed to be. It was up to those gathered to hear her, not for her to make herself heard.

The upcoming trip to California was a big part of the agenda this Monday morning, and at Devlin’s nod Brooke gave a quick report on her advance team’s assessment of the Draconis assembly plant. Waiting until she could get a private meeting with Devlin and Ron Hatfield, she did not raise the subject of Dylan Knox.

Devlin’s office was a shrine to efficiency—there was nothing welcoming about it, and even less so as Brooke faced two sets of blank faces and crossed arms.

“You’re suggesting he might be an impostor because he didn’t remember you from high school?” Hatfield’s voice was as flat as his abs.

“We didn’t just have the same math class. We dated for over a year. Went to the prom together.” Brooke looked at Devlin, sure that she would appreciate the significance. Apparently not.

“Sixteen years ago, though. A lot of water over the dam. I’ve forgotten some of the guys I dated in high school. I wanted to. Sorry, Brooke, but what did you intend for us to do about this guy?” Raimunda Devlin didn’t fiddle with pencils or paper—when she talked to someone, they had her full attention, and it could be disconcerting.

Brooke fought the urge to clear her throat. “I just feel it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m sure Ron can find out more about Dylan’s recent past than I’ve been able to. But, just in case, why don’t we quietly ask Draconis to keep Dylan out of the greeting party during the secretary’s visit?”

Devlin was shaking her head before Brooke finished speaking.

“Not going to happen. Knox is the Mission Manager of the Solaria Project, right? So he’s the one the SG will most want to talk to. And should talk to, to show his support for solar power. You know that’s the main reason for the visit.”

“Sure, but the secretary could get the fifty-cent tour from the CEO—top executives love keeping the spotlight for themselves—and Dylan could be on hand to brief the media with the details but kept out of the main entourage.”

“Don’t think so, Brooke. Not because the two of you dropped your pants in high school.” Devlin’s most practiced smile always confused condescension with warmth. “I’m sure Ron will check the guy out—if you do turn anything up, I want to know about it—but otherwise the tour goes ahead as planned. You ask me, there’ll be a whole lot more risk while the SG’s glad-handing on Hollywood Boulevard with a governor who’s in a mid-term slump.” She and Hatfield exchanged a knowing nod that completely excluded Brooke, and the meeting was over.

Brooke called Hatfield a couple of times over the next few days. The tone of his voice ensured there wasn’t a third call. Dylan Knox not only had a clean record with every intelligence agency Hatfield had asked, but the guy’s father was a career diplomat, currently special assistant to the UK Minister of Labour. Brooke thanked Hatfield a little too effusively, trying to preserve her dignity, and resigned herself to searching the internet again. She’d learned nothing new by the time the UN entourage took flight for California.

The assembly plant for Draconis Space Ventures was destined to be etched into her memory, with its five-story-high ceilings and rooms so large she swore she could see the curve of the horizon. She couldn’t begin to guess what such a vast chunk of prime Irvine real estate would be worth, and that wasn’t a question Draconis’ Manager of Guest Operations and Events was likely to answer.

A special catwalk about five meters above the factory floor had been decorated with printed greetings as well as UN and American flags. Below, knots of media people were dwarfed by enormous gleaming cylinders that lay behind them, covered with giant letters and patches of technical hieroglyphics. Rare open panels revealed masses of wires and tubing in all colors and thicknesses, while vehicles like oversized airport baggage-carts were parked in odd places, nearly overflowing with strange tools and hydraulic hoses. The air was metallic with hints of petroleum chemicals, but nothing too unpleasant. It was probably considered the perfume of progress.

Brooke was impressed in spite of herself.

All of the arrangements for the visit seemed to be in order, but a feeling of unease had possessed her ever since the SG had taken her aside the moment he arrived at the Draconis complex. And not because he called her by the wrong name—he never got her name right.

“Brenda,” he’d said in a voice too loud to be as confidential as he pretended, “what’s this about an old boyfriend you’ve arranged for me to meet? Jockeying for a promotion, is he? Needs a little time in the spotlight?”

Brooke’s jaw dropped. “That’s not what I…”

His upraised hand stopped her.

“We all like to help our friends when we can,” he continued. “But I rather think we at the UN have a higher calling, don’t you?”

He hadn’t given her a chance to reply, but with a self-satisfied smile he’d strode forward to meet the corporate welcoming party.

Who could have told him about Dylan? She couldn’t see how either Devlin or Hatfield would benefit from doing so. And the only other people who knew about the Brooke-Dylan relationship were her friend Patrice Grayson, and the other security guy, Brown.

Van Valkenburg had long been rumored to have informants among the staff, but had someone deliberately twisted the information to make Brooke look guilty of something underhanded, or had the SG simply heard what he wanted to hear? It wouldn’t be the first time.

She tried again to shake off the worry. She needed to get her head back in the game.

After some brief speeches from the catwalk, the secretary-general and the Draconis founder and CEO Dean Pershing descended to floor level where they were surrounded by microphones and cameras. The SG stepped toward Dylan Knox. Brooke realized she was holding her breath and tried to calm herself while Pershing introduced Dylan to the crowd. At Brooke’s arrival earlier in the afternoon Dylan’s face had shown no flicker of recognition even from the week before. Yet she’d foolishly blurted to the secretary-general that she and Dylan had gone to school together. i***t!

“I am most impressed with the Solaria Project, Mr. Knox.”

“Thank you very kindly, Your Excellency. Your interest in our work is very gratifying.”

“I confess that before today, I had thought microwave transmission of the solar energy gathered in space would be a more efficient method of transferring that energy to the surface, but your laser array may make a convert out of me.”

Dylan gave an awkward nod. “Most kind.”

“Although you must admit that there will be some who will feel concern to see a militaristic nation such as the United States in control of space-based devices producing a potent beam of energy.”

Brooke gasped. Why would the secretary-general say something so inflammatory? Was he trying to gain points with the Russians or Chinese? Or was it some kind of oblique attempt to put Brooke back in her place? Dylan turned to his boss with a look of confusion.

“Mr. Pershing and I have done our best to explain to Your Excellency that the laser will be no threat as a weapon.” He forced a smile for the media. “I’m sure this is your well-known sense of humor.”

“Explanations to me alone mean little, Mr. Knox. I would hope that your company—and your country—will be willing to host visitors from other nations to inspect your equipment and reassure themselves.”

Even Pershing began to look agitated. Dylan crossed his arms over his chest.

“The Solaria Project is not only peaceful by design, it’s the forerunner of a technology that will end dependence on fossil fuels, and do a whole lot more to bring peace to the world than the United Nations these days.”

“Excuse me?”

“The UN should be bringing the world together. It should be helping people to prepare for the worst effects of climate change and for the refugee crisis that lies ahead. Instead, it allows itself to be shackled by petty squabbles. And you personally act at the whim of whoever’s likely to back you for re-election. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

The secretary-general stepped back as if he’d been slapped and a geyser of noise shot through the vast space as reporters hissed at cameramen, soundmen snapped at reporters, bystanders exclaimed shock into whatever ear was nearest, and Draconis staff tried to restore order. Later, in excruciating replays of the event, Brooke heard Dylan call the SG a puppet and complain that in nearly a century, because of weak-willed figureheads, the UN had moved no closer to being the world government that it needed to be.

As the secretary-general lamely protested the insults, Dean Pershing responded by physically pulling his mission manager away from the fray and stepping to the microphones himself. To his credit, he made a sincere and intelligent plea to those in the gathering to ignore the misunderstanding they’d witnessed and return their focus to the bright promise of the Solaria technology and the hope it represented for struggling people around the globe.

Of course, his plea did no good whatsoever.

Brooke could swear she saw drool on the chin of one of the news producers as he raced for his team’s remote truck outside.

While Raimunda Devlin and Ron Hatfield went into a hastily arranged conference-call with other UN executives, Brooke gathered the rest of their team and followed the stream of media representatives to the lobby, then the parking lot. She and her people tried their best to echo Dean Pershing’s sentiments and offered to provide any further information desired about the secretary-general’s sincere, deep support for clean energy. In between her breathless attempts at persuasion, she checked to see if any of her co-workers had brought Dramamine.

At least it wasn’t an assassination attempt. Only character assassination.

She should have pushed harder to convince the others that Dylan was trouble. Now the s**t had hit the fan, and everybody was going to wear it, but especially her, since the SG was convinced that she’d deliberately arranged for Dylan’s presence for self-serving reasons. That little bit of misinformation now took on a whole new level of malevolence!

Niels Van Valkenburg portrayed himself as a paragon of virtue to the world, but on his own turf he was a petty tyrant who dismissed underlings on a weekly basis for the most trivial of failings. This confrontation would be a lead story in the California media over the weekend and would spread much farther unless an authentic international incident bumped it from the headlines. If Van Valkenburg stuck to form, Brooke would get a pink slip no matter what she said, and that thought was like a fist around her heart. Working for the UN had given her purpose in life—helping to bring stability and hope to millions whose lives were shattered by conflict. To be expelled from that calling would be unthinkable.

Until a week ago she would have been thrilled just to have the SG get her name right for once. Well, he was never likely to forget it again.

The ironic part was that she couldn’t even disagree with Dylan’s personal insults about Van Valkenburg. She would defend the UN to her last breath, but its current leader was weak and submissive to the powerful—almost a sycophant.

An hour later, the media had scampered back to their burrows, and the UN entourage was ready to depart. Brooke made no move toward the limousine holding her boss and the secretary, not needing the death stare from Devlin to warn her off. Clearly, word of Brooke’s guilt by association had spread to the security team too—they wouldn’t even make eye contact with her. She took a cab on her own, quickly shutting down the driver’s attempts at conversation. Then, as they approached her hotel, she told him to take her back to Draconis.

The day had been a disaster. But if she was going to lose her job, she was going to have the satisfaction of unloading on Dylan Knox first.