“Mr Darius,” Gabriel said, his soft tone making him sound far more menacing than he could have done by shouting, “Believe me when I tell you that you should hope never to meet my commanding officer.”
With that said, Gabriel relinquished his grip on the man’s neck, dropping him to the floor. Darius fell to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping for air for a full minute. Once he had recovered his breath, he moved to salvage his dignity by making a swift exit. The booth door sealed behind him, leaving Gabriel alone with Madam Jezebel.
“Quite a performance!” Madam Jezebel smirked, sipping from an ornate glass.
“I’m leaving.” Gabriel informed her, turning towards the door.
“Oh, don’t be so antisocial,” Madam Jezebel said, waving him back over, “I hardly get to see you anymore. Sit down, have a drink with me.”
Gabriel’s normally impassive features were crinkled ever so slightly into a scowl. He didn’t want to spend a minute longer in this woman’s company than absolutely necessary; nonetheless, he did feel a sense of obligation that was strong enough to overcome his reluctance. Slowly, he turned away from the door and took a seat directly opposite his hostess.
Madam Jezebel was a slim, elegant woman dressed in a snow white fur coat – an item of clothing with no practical use in the temperature controlled booth, but no doubt very chic – whatever that meant. Her eyes were a hazel brown colour, looking somewhat dark compared to the luminescence of his eyes, and her dark hair was styled with parallel blonde stripes, and was tied into a cornbraid.
She exuded an aristocratic presence with traces of a superior smirk perpetually playing at the corners of her blood red lips. Her relaxed demeanour stood in stark contrast to Gabriel’s rigid posture and stone-faced expression.
“Why am I here?” Gabriel asked with an undertone of impatience.
“Is there something wrong with talking to my son?” Jezebel Thorn asked innocently.
“In principle, nothing.” Gabriel conceded out of respect for logic.
“Well then presumably that’s why you’re here.” Madam Jezebel replied, as she took another sip, “Now lighten up and talk to me.”
Mother and son shared the same grammatically flawless speech and cadence of the upper classes. But whereas Gabriel’s time in the military had rendered his accent and pronunciation textbook-standard, Madam Jezebel retained the flute-like pitch and inflections which her son had long since shed.
“So, you didn’t just double-cross yet another business partner and summon me here to send a signal that you have friends in high places?” Gabriel asked suspiciously.
“You know better than I do that interference in security matters is illegal,” Madam Jezebel brushed aside the accusation without explicitly denying it, “not that you spook-types seem to have a problem lording it over the rest of us.”
Gabriel eyed her distrustfully, dissatisfied with her answer.
“Although, if you must know,” Madam Jezebel continued, “a joint venture between Darius and myself recently fell through and he was unhappy that I shorted his stock.”
“I thought you no longer fleeced colonists for profit.” Gabriel said with disdain.
“I have indeed left the colonial investment business which paid for your expensive upbringing here amongst the Clouds – for which you’re welcome, by the way,” was his mother’s breezy riposte, “so stop projecting your dear wife’s bitter feelings onto me. Speaking of which, how are my grandchildren getting along?”
“Very happy and progressing well.” Gabriel replied as if delivering a field report, “Orion will have mastered elementary algebra before he turns eight.”
“Hmm, cramming several millennia worth of knowledge into such tiny little heads.” Said Grandma Jezebel pensively, “call me a Luddite, but I’m not sure sticking them in front of a holo-screen for seven hours a day is good for them.”
“Call me rude, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Gabriel retorted.
“You’re rude,” Jezebel countered smoothly, “unless you can tell me why my own grandchildren are none of my business. When are they next coming over to visit?”
“If Aster has anything to say about it, never.” Gabriel replied.
“Of course. You know, I could get them accepted into one of the top engineering academies.” Grandma Jezebel offered magnanimously.
“Their father and mother both succeeded without a nepotistic leg up,” Gabriel answered, flatly declining the offer, “they can as well.”
“Well, that first part isn’t strictly true,” Madam Jezebel answered, unfazed by her son’s brusque tone, “But the offer remains open, nonetheless.”
Gabriel’s smartphone chimed, reminding him that it was almost 9am. Without a farewell or an explanation, he got up from his seat.
“Have fun at work.” Madam Jezebel waved him off with a smile.
Gabriel left the private booth and went back the way he had come.
Madam Jezebel Thorn had mastered the elegant, unassuming smile that she presented to the world, but it concealed a sociopathic contempt for others around her, particularly if they couldn’t help her schemes succeed. One wouldn’t know it from a single meeting, but she had made a sizeable fortune as one of the most ruthless colonial venture capitalists in the industry, providing the seed money for numerous outposts on the frontiers before pitilessly squeezing them for everything they were worth.
‘Vulture capitalists’ they were called, ready to seize export or import shipments to compensate for late payments or slash security meant to defend against corsair raids. Colonial outposts that were desperate enough to turn to vulture capitalist funders were effectively signing themselves into debt slavery.
Walking past the throngs of pampered parasites as they exchanged vapid gossip on the latest goings on, Gabriel was reminded that many of them had made or inherited fortunes from similarly amoral lines of business. Not all of them, to be sure; he also recognised the faces of tycoons in mining, robotics, shipbuilding, pharmaceuticals, heavy engineering, and consumer electronics. But there were more than a few vulture capitalists here – glorified loan sharks rubbing shoulders with the other sharks.
Here they all were, wallowing in self-indulgent decadence and luxury, feasting on the fruits of what were mostly other people’s labours; living in this well-feathered nest in the sky while tens of millions toiled in the squalid depths below. All of them were perfectly capable of stabbing each other in the back – and sometimes the chest – and had no doubt done so on multiple occasions in order to stay on top.
Gabriel felt few emotions at all. But there was one in particular that made its presence felt in his chest all the way back through the entrance hall.
It was Disgust.
THE DIRECTORATE
Every tower in the city tall enough to poke above the cloud line gleamed with pride, basking in the glorious rays of the bright-white star like conifers in the winter dawn. Every tower was a monument to the success of interstellar capitalism, a glorious testament to the incredible wealth which had financed their construction.
Every tower except one.
Amidst the shining towers of Asgard City, some distance away from the hyper-opulent city centre, stood a sullen fortress jutting out of the ground like an iron spike piercing up through the soil. The ‘Spire’ was surrounded by a half-kilometre wide dead zone of barren ground that was empty of comparable structures, as if to keep the gaudy neighbouring towers at a respectful distance.
The surface of the Spire was a made from a dark material which absorbed virtually all the light that touched it, adding to the dour contrast with the surrounding towers. Across the entire tower, not a single window was installed; such a frivolous sign of civilian comfort was a structural weakness, unsuitable for a building from which all intelligence activities in the sector were coordinated.