Aliomenti Saga 6: Stark Cataclysm (14 page)

Marjorie’s cottage was just inside past the fringe of the thick forest. Gena used the time spent walking toward the home reflecting upon her targeted impersonation choice. Marjorie was of similar height, build, and (visible) age. Her speaking tone was slightly higher-pitched than Gena’s, but Gena could match the pitch without much difficulty. Marjorie also chewed her nails. Gena glanced at her formerly long nails, now cropped short, and sighed. It would take months to regrow what Adam called her “claws.”

In the faint pre-dawn light, she slipped from the trees, across the small yard, and approached the cottage. The lock was a simple device, one she disabled in seconds, and she slid silently inside the cottage, closing the door behind her.

Marjorie was awake, singing a popular song at a robust volume. A quick search of her supply pouch located a sleeping mist, which she placed at the base of the bathroom door. She listened carefully, waiting as the singing slowed and faded, and moved quickly into the bathroom to catch a sleeping Marjorie before she hit the solid surface of the shower walls and floor. Her slick body was difficult to control, and Gena nearly lost control twice as she moved Marjorie to a seated position. She turned off the water, dried the woman, and carried her back to her bed. She clothed the woman in the pajamas discarded on the floor and covered her up. Marjorie would sleep until early evening, unaware that her doppelganger would handle her daily work tasks. Gena spent several minutes in the bathroom, staring at her reflection, pinching and prodding her skin, pulling her own hair, and speaking her new name in a higher-pitched voice similar to Marjorie’s.

It was a trick that Adam had taught her, a way of internalizing her new image and name as her own. He’d taught her a lot, protected her from certain death for over a decade, and had acted as the perfect gentleman in every way. She just wished he showed interest in moving their relationship in a new direction. But Adam gave no indication he thought of her as anything but a good friend. She sighed. Relationship troubles—or, in her case,
non-
relationship troubles—had no place in her thoughts at a time like this.

She left the house at Marjorie’s usual time, walking to the nearby monorail station. The sleek vehicle rested upon a single track, hovering just above the surface to eliminate friction. She moved aboard the rear car, found an empty seat, and sat down. In an effort to avoid any suspicious behavior, she pretended to be asleep. The chatter picked up around her as the car filled with humans chatting about the great honor and opportunity they’d earned at the world’s largest private international bank and investment house.

She felt a powerful wave of sympathy. The great honor was a death sentence. The Aliomenti believed any human leaving the island was a threat, one who might break through the mental blocks established during “orientation” and spread tales of the island paradise. The boats from the mainland to the island arrived without incident. Those returning to the mainland suffered mechanical and structural failures, sinking beneath the waves. Alliance submarines tracked the boats and rescued the victims from drowning. The return trips were rare, and most were believed dead by friends and family with the cessation of communication accompanying arrival on the island. Most of those who’d “drowned” became members of the Alliance, happy to apply the remainder of their lives to thwarting the aims of a group that had enslaved and then attempted murder upon them.

The train slowed to a halt, and Gena let the other passengers stand and move toward the doors before opening her eyes. She followed the crowds, moving over a long pedestrian bridge comprised of a spongy substance toward the Aliomenti Headquarters building. Moments later, she walked through the automatic doors into the lobby.

The lobby was a study in ostentation. White marble floors polished to a brilliant shine. Decorative columns gilded with gold and silver. Priceless works of art hung upon walls made of deep-grained woods, the shining frames of gold reflecting the lights aimed upon the images. High-resolution display screens showed all manner of financial information: interest rates, commodity prices, currency exchange rates.

“
Hello, Marjorie. We appreciate your contribution.
” She nearly jumped. Those with previous experience at Headquarters had mentioned the welcome screens, but it still startled her. The screens scanned facial features in real time as people walked by, identified each person, and greeted them by name. Those in the swarm she’d joined looked pleased. The voice belonged to Arthur Lowell, and each of the humans thought the great man was greeting them personally.

Inwardly, she shook her head in disgust.

The elevator bank was crowded. She glanced past the crowds at the “executive” elevator reserved for the Aliomenti. It was the only direct route to the research labs belowground for those unable to teleport. She was distracted as the elevator doors surrounding her opened and closed at a steady pace. With grudging admiration, she had to admit that they’d perfected elevator traffic management techniques. Even with hundreds of humans waiting, she was in the lobby no more than thirty seconds before she boarded an elevator to the seventh floor.

The Private Investment Research group looked at investing in human ventures with exceptionally high return potential. Marjorie’s group researched trends projected out ten years into the future, then sought out human business startups with promising products or services. By investing early, they could buy controlling interest in the often-struggling business and reap huge rewards. She knew that it was her brother’s knack of doing the same thing—without an army of enslaved researchers—that prompted the reluctant Aliomenti creation of the department. They hated Will Stark, but they hated missing huge investment returns even more.

She found Marjorie’s desk and sat down, flipped open the first folder, and began to work through the paperwork. Her scouting trips to the island had prepared her well. She’d identified Marjorie and spent time studying her mind as the woman slept, learning what she did, how she did it, who she knew, her interests. She settled into the role as if she’d been performing the work for years. She kept her head down. The less talking she did, the better.

An hour later, she’d prepared analysis for two startups and mumbled hellos at three coworkers. The work was routine; she focused her energy upon listening to the chatter around her. Her coworkers tended to think out loud; that meant she knew what companies the Aliomenti and their research department found interesting. Her concern: the Aliomenti had figured out how to identify disguised members of the Alliance and had included those individuals in research efforts. If they could use an “investment” to destroy an Alliance company, she believed they’d do so.

She tried not to suck in a breath when an Aliomenti cash flow statement fell out of the next folder. She knew the Aliomenti skirted reporting requirements of various world governments. The island was technically an independent country, and thus they made their own rules. That didn’t excuse them from taxes, fees, and reporting regulations in countries where they did business. Their real financial statements never left this floor, however. The Aliomenti liked to know how much money they had; they felt no compulsion to share those numbers with others. And the numbers were… terrifying.

She felt the Energy move into the room, and she wasn’t the only one. She could hear her coworkers—mostly female—shift in their seats to provide a better view of the man who’d joined them. Porthos, known to the workers as Mr. Sebastian, knew how to make an entrance.

“He’s so handsome!” one of her colleagues whispered.

“And he’s so young to be a senior vice president!” another whispered back.

Gena tried to contain the laugh, but a small snort escaped. She felt the eyes of her nearest colleagues zero in on her, and she looked up. “Excuse me,” she said, put a hand to her mouth, and coughed twice.

Gena “squinted” her hearing to enable her to listen in as Porthos addressed the senior managers overseeing the group. “Our Minnesota branch approved an investment for Trask Energy. Why was that done?”

Gena felt her face turn warm. Porthos knew of Fil’s company?

“Sir, I can find the paperwork if you’d like, but it appears the locals found the company to be highly profitable and poised for explosive growth. We researched it here and arrived at the same conclusion. The amount returned should grow by triple digit percentages yearly, which over time could mean—”

“I’m aware of how compound growth works,” Porthos replied. His tone was icy. “That company was on our blacklist, one that must not be funded. Yet it was. I need to understand who made the decision to override the decree from the Leadership committee and approve the investment.”

Gena felt her face turn hot. She knew who’d done the research and wrote up the release without checking the watch list. Porthos was given Marjorie’s name by the supervisors, and was at her desk seconds later.

“Marjorie, is it?”

Gena forced herself to look at him, avoiding direct eye contact. She was happy her face had turned red; Porthos would likely take that as a sign of physical attraction. “Yes, sir?”

“Follow me, please.” He turned on his heel and left the room. Gena rose from her chair, glanced around at the concerned faces of her coworkers, and followed. The gossip about her fate would start as soon as the door closed behind her. That wasn’t her prime concern. Porthos was going to question her; the instant he thought she was holding back, he’d invade her mind. Or try to, anyway. The instant that happened, the Tracking Hunter would know “Marjorie” was no human. She needed to answer his questions directly.

Porthos opened the door to an office across the hall and motioned her inside, letting the door close with a melodic click behind them. “Have a seat.”

She sat.

“Do you know why I pulled you aside?”

Gena shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Are you aware of the investment fund blacklist?”

“Should I be, sir?”

Porthos considered. “You’re an entry level analyst, aren’t you? Your supervisors haven’t explained that part of our process yet?” He shook his head. “They’re trying to avoid responsibility for failing to check the recommendation and research against the list.” He glanced at her. “Allow me to explain. The blacklist shows the names of companies and individuals that the Leadership team has determined to be incompatible with our investment goals. No money is to be invested with such companies, in any amount, ever. Do you understand?”

Gena allowed her eyes to widen. “Yes. You mean… oh no… a company I recommended for investment was on the list, wasn’t it?” She scrunched up her face, as if trying to remember, before snapping her fingers. “Was it the one that makes the electrical generators?”

Porthos nodded. “Indeed.” He sighed. “It’s not a large amount of money, but the technology is… dangerous. We can’t have our funds be responsible for helping that technology come to the marketplace.”

Gena put a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sebastian!” She paused. “Sir, if I may ask a question? What about the technology is concerning? If I understand, I can make better decisions in the future, and at least flag something for review by management before providing an investment recommendation.”

Porthos considered her question. Gena did her best to look interested in the answer only as it related to doing her—Marjorie’s—job. This was the moment when the Hunter might become suspicious and she might need to leave the building in an unnatural hurry.

After what seemed an eternity, he shook his head. “There’s no need to know the explanation. It’s sufficient that you know that the Leadership team has made the decision and altered your processes accordingly. I do believe this episode highlights the need for tighter review processes by those with access to the list.”

Gena nodded, and bowed her head. “I’m… sorry, sir. For the problems this may cause.” She looked up. “Is there anything I can do to help fix the problem?”

Porthos gave her an appraising glance, one that seemed to imply a degree of positive interpretation of her character. Would he want to start recruiting her—no, recruiting
Marjorie
—following this conversation? “I don’t believe so, Marjorie. We have others responsible for… undoing poor decisions. With the level of danger the Trask technology poses, we’ll need to mobilize those individuals to take action.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. “I was going to ask what those teams do, but you’re going to tell me I don’t need to know, aren’t you?” She smiled.

He gave a faint smile back, his eyes glinting. “You’re a quick study, aren’t you?”

“I do try, sir.”

“Continue trying. Make no mention of this conversation to your colleagues. They have no need to know about any of this, least of all anything related to the question you had the sense not to ask.” He stood, she followed his lead, and both headed for the door.

She returned to her desk and to a barrage of questions. She told everyone Mr. Sebastian wanted to understand her rationale for a recommendation she’d made. No more, no less. After several minutes of answering the same question with the same answer, they left her alone.

She needed to think. Undoing a decision? Action teams? She knew them well enough to know what
that
meant. She needed to get away, warn Fil as soon as possible, and help prepare him for any possible threat.

Gena went to her supervisor and explained that she’d not felt well that morning, that she’d completed her assigned workload for the day, and asked if she might head home to recuperate in time for work the next day. Her supervisor glared at her, but checked her work and found that she had indeed finished her work. With a look of extreme discomfort, he agreed to her request.