UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

IX - PLANET EARTH

The office, paid for by the good people of Earth, was enormous. Carefully tended plants stood just so, each in a matching pot, arranged to complement the cane furniture. The early afternoon sun filtered in through gauzy white curtains, a ceiling fan stirred the slightest scented air, and music, one of the arias for which Dwellers were justifiably famous, wafted from unseen speakers.

The android looked exactly as she did, and, over a period of time, Governor Sandral Usmos had come to regard the robot as an extension of her own persona. They wore the same kind of clothes, jewelry, and makeup, walked with the same determined strides, and spoke in the same clipped syntax.

A clone might have offered a more elegant solution, but would almost certainly object to the role of professional decoy. No, the robot made more sense, and would provide a much needed alibi should anything go wrong. Treason can be dangerous, after all - and is best practiced from the shadows.

Sandral checked the day's agenda, verified that nothing had changed, and gave the android its instructions. Attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony, dispense the usual platitudes, and return home. Once there, the robot would a***e the house staff enough to establish its presence and retire early. The ruse had worked before and would almost certainly work again.

The governor patted the android's fanny, hoped hers was equally firm, and crossed the office.

She felt for the button, heard a motor whine, and waited while a bookcase slide out of the way. Her heels clicked on waxed duracrete, an elevator carried her downwards, and a door opened to a private garage.

Though luxurious, the aircar was no different than thousands of similar vehicles that crisscrossed the skies every day. Anyone who checked the registration would find that it belonged to a Mrs. Jonas Wase.

Sandral nodded to the female bodyguard, slid into the back seat, and signaled the driver. A divider rose, the windows turned dark, and the journey began.

* * *

The room was circular, like the Roman Colosseum, and generally referred to as "the pit". A rather fitting name, since rings of concentric seats surrounded a stage on which executives were required to defend their profit-and-loss statements. All-out attacks were the order of the day, and the so called "creative tension" was supposed to generate a more rigorous corporate culture.

Leshi Quinn, vice president of marketing for Zuon Inc., the enormous conglomerate that Elijah Zuon had built during a life of ruthless acquisition, stood at the center of the bull's-eye and stared up into the lights. His enemies were up there, all staring down, hoping he would fail.

Not that there was anything new in that, except that he had failed miserably, a fact that would be all too clear by the end of his presentation. The executive blinked, wondered if the old man was up there, and hoped he wasn't. "Mr. Quinn? Do you have everything you need?"

The voice belonged to Agatha Mush, vice president of sales and one is Zuon's favorites. She had the numbers in front of her and, that beings the case, knew the nature of his report. He could imagine the satisfaction she must feel.

Enjoy it while you can, b***h, Quinn thought to himself, because I have a surprise for you, and all the rest of the world for that matter.

But the surprise wasn't ready yet, and the report must be given. And not just given, but given in the most objective manner possible, lest he be humiliated by the men and women around him.

The executive cleared his throat and flashed his trademark grin. Like most of the corporation's upper-echelon types, Quinn was something of a face jockey and relied on his looks to ease the way. "Yes, thank you Agatha. In spite of some bright spots, and what I would characterize as excellent prospects, the last quarter was more than a little disappointment".

The holo tank came to live along with a host of three-dimensional charts, video of company operations, and sound clips to buttress his points. The essence of the report was simplicity itself. Quinn , on behalf of ZI, had diversified into lines of business that he didn't know much about, namely ship-building and off-world mining. That was why competitors, Doug Douglas Enterprises foremost amongst them, had eaten the company's lunch.

Steps, and the executive was careful to enumerate each one of them, had already been taken to put the situation right, and he had confidence in the future. Quinn enumerated his points, killed the holo, and waited for the bashing to begin. It came with predictable speed.

Though unable to score really major points, Quinn had been too honest for that, his enemies had a field day nonetheless. More than an hour had passed before the vultures quit his corpse and ordered fresh meat.

Weary, and angry at the manner in which he had been treated, Quinn made his way up the thickly carpeted stairs. Lies oozed out of the darkness. "Hey, Les, way to go". "Good job, bud, you nailed it". "Nice dance, Quinn, I like your moves".

The executive hasn't gone much further when an arm reached out to grab him. "Mr. Quinn? The chairman would like to see you".

Quinn felt his stomach lurch. The old man had been there. Damn, damn, damn.

Zuon maintained a bevy of personal assistants, all cloned from his favorite secretary and decanted at regular five year intervals. The old fart claimed that it was so he could tell them apart, but his staff had other theories, some of which were quite kinky.

Whatever the case, this particular secretary was thirty-something, had red hair, knowing eyes, and generous red lips. She smiled as she ushered Quinn into the conference room. Her teeth were perfect and appeared unusually sharp.

Zuon had extended his life through countless organ transplants and maintained his youthful good looks via ongoing plastic surgery. He rose to greet his visitor.

"Les! Good to see you! Sorry about the beating you took, but it serves you right. Show no mercy and expect none. That's what I say! Here, take a load off. Comfy? Good. Now tell me why I shouldn't fire your a*s and have your entire family put to death".

The tone was cheerful, deceptively so, and Quinn responded with that in mind. "I don't blame you for being angry, sir, but I can put things right, and double the company's revenue within the next twelve months".

It was an absurd claim, but delivered with such sincerity that Zuon was intrigued. He perched on a corner of the conference table. The sarcasm was obvious. "Really? How fascinating! Tell me more".

So Quinn did, starting with the macro socioeconomic situation, and going on to knit the various pieces of the scheme together. Zuon, who didn't impress easily, found himself growing increasingly excited.

The plan would not only improve the companies bottom line, but put the screws to Doug Douglas Enterprises, something Zuon had long wanted to do.

The industrialist sent Quinn on his way, summoned his secretary staff, and ordered them to disrobe. The clones complied, which was nice for Zuon, and for those scheduled for the pit. Their presentation went off without a hitch.