The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.02 Dogs of War

“…Purposeless destruction.”

The man held a casual air of quiet displeasure, because he was far too well-bred to be annoyed. Rarely reaching an emotion level beyond mild irritation was a perk of being the wealthiest man on Lusinia. He sat back in his stuffed leather armchair and sipped from the brandy glass cupped between his delicate fingers.

This was Silverton Salmanic, the slick self-assured charismatic chairman of Salmanic Incorporated, and when he wasn’t busy running the power monopoly on Lusinia from his penthouse office at the highest point of the tallest and oldest city on the planet, he dabbled in corrupting and controlling governments like mere playthings. From his office chair he could see the entirety of the city below him, and out across the horizon towards the desert city of Galmanoc.

The best suits are known as ‘tailored’, in reference to how they have been purpose-fit to fit the wearer by an expert, often in a variety of tastefully expensive materials. Calling Silverton’s suit ‘tailored’ would be an insult to fashion, as it was practically a second skin braced against his trim body. It was black, the same refined black as his tie and slicked-back hair, a delightful contrast against his crisp white shirt. His face had a pronounced jawline and all the telltale signs of genetic sculpting via generations of very rich people procreating with each other. He represented the epitome of bourgeoisie, his body an exemplar of refined dignity.

This unfortunately made the fact that he had no left eye quite a glaring physical paradox; instead, he had a bionic plate. A silver-rimmed disc embedded into his skull, with a glowing blue display that illuminated his face from within the shadows of his chair. It revealed a possible quirk in the man’s façade of mundane nobility via the pupil display: rather than have a conventional dot to represent his iris, it was instead a concave curve of black, like that of a cat’s eye. Concentrating on the eye itself was disheartening, as its pupil had a habit of clicking around and looking at things seemingly of its own accord.

“…What is the extent of the damage this time?” Silverton asked aloud, his voice a purr of warm silk.

“Blackouts towards the East, mostly small towns and farmland,” replied his confidante. She was his secretary, dressed in opulent office attire that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the 1950s. She brandished her electronic clipboard with intent, adjusting her half-rim glasses to look at the back of Silverton’s chair. She was used to talking to the back of his head.

“That’s disturbing. That implies that they are getting closer to the central hub. I don’t need to remind you what the magnitude of disaster would be if the plant was put out of operation,” said Silverton, swirling his brandy glass in contemplation.

The secretary looked down at her clipboard. He didn’t need to remind her, but implying that he did was how he expressed his disappointment, and it was purposely to make her feel stupid. She was the most informed employee at Salmanic Inc, all of the breaking news that needed to go before Silverton went through her, and anything that didn’t matter she kept back.

The clipboard currently displayed the damage costs of the destroyed section of pipeline. Over the last two months saboteurs had been systematically taking out entire segments of the huge and vital pipes that carried power all over Lusinia. The first incidents had been parts of the pipe that didn’t matter, the lines that carried power out to the smallest of villages on the fringe of the central continent. Over the months the attacks had increasingly taken place towards the direction of the central power plant, Salmanic Incorporated’s greatest secret asset.

“You have said in the past that, despite the abundance of security employees armed with the latest in deterrence and supplemented with the quickest response vehicles on the market, we have no idea who is perpetrating these attacks. I take it this is still the case?” ventured Silverton. The secretary checked her clipboard but already knew the answer.

“…Still no visual ID of the culprits, sir. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, Lucretia. Somehow I think this matter is a bit beyond your responsibility, despite your impeccable employee record and company loyalty.” Lucretia blushed slightly, as that was the closest thing to a compliment that Silverton could give.

“Might I suggest contacting help from outside?” she said.

“You mean bring in the assistance of people trained in these matters, rather than hoping that my extensive army of generously paid security suddenly gain the competence and skills necessary to prevent covertly planned strikes on my property? …Do go on.”

Lucretia tapped the electronic pen in her hand against her lower lip while she paused for thought.

“I take it you would be resistant to informing the PSF on this matter, sir? They would surely be more than willing to help if they were made aware of the threat to the planet’s only source of power,” she said.

“I would rather not, Lucretia. There are too many variables of risk in that option. Although…soldiers of another sort, perhaps?”

“Sir?” prompted Lucretia.

“Soldiers for contract…‘Dogs of War’, I believe the vernacular is.”

“Mercenaries? Inspired, sir.”

“Yes. Discreet. Relatively cheap. Expendable,” said Silverton, licking his tongue around the last word. “I assume you can take care of this decided course of action?”

“Already working on it sir,” replied Lucretia, tapping away at her clipboard. “What price should I be offering?”

“Money is no object.”

“That’s…generous, sir.”

“You need honey to attract flies.”

“Very humorous, sir. If you will excuse me, I shall get straight on to this task.”

“Very good Lucretia. I am sure you will do this with the usual aplomb you bring to your work.”

As Lucretia closed the heavy office doors behind her, Silverton massaged his brow with his free hand and allowed a smile to spread across his lips. He was like a cat who had just found an injured rodent.

Silverton realised that he was bored of the view from his window. This was not much of a problem; he was rich enough to afford a new one. Pressing a button on the control panel embedded into the arm of his chair, there was a faint hum as the entire penthouse began to rotate around to face a different part of the city.

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | October 11, 2013 at 12:00 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment

Tags: Lucretia Velarina, Salmanic Incorporated, Silverton Salmanic

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