(1)
Sometimes I hate my job. Sometimes I sit at the breakfast bar in my apartment in the morning and dread the thought of the working day. Sometimes there's a leaden pain in my gut and a sinking feeling of dread to accompany the ache in my heart that tells me its 8.30am and time to leave.
Today is one of those days -I woke up hating my job. Its 8.20am and Emma Corrigan, anchorwoman on Good Morning Mort! is earnestly discussing a new range of Bustier Holsters for the BLA Derringer with a dead-eyed salesman.
There's a plate of buttered toast on the breakfast bar in front of me but I don't feel like eating. I'm sitting crumpled over on the stool, like a marionette with its strings cut, putting creases in a 3,000 credit suit.
Do I care? No, not really. In fact I don't give a damn. If I look like a scruffy bastard maybe some pompous Karma executive will fire me before I sign the release form; before I'm asked to send five young operatives to their deaths. Maybe I'm not that lucky.
Slayer's Balls I hate my job.
(2)
It's 10.45am and in the last 105 minutes nobody has even threatened to fire me. The corridor from the elevator to the committee room on floor 17 has never seemed this long before. My heels make a hollow lifeless thud everytime they hit the polished hardwood floor - a floor that seems to stretch away endlessly in front of me to the doorway behind which the Special Projects Oversight Committee wait.
The pit in my stomach deepens and the ache in my heart makes me want to curl up and cry. The words of my colleague Roger's pep talk buzz round inside my head like angry wasps but I can't find it within myself to agree with him.
"Look Iain, it's just a bunch of fucking wet-nose SLOp's. Meny'll be spitting out another wad of fresh faced recruits in a few months and there's more than enough to go around until then. Who gives a shit about SLOp's? This is your project, a damn successful one I might add, so stiffen up; walk in there; give the Oversight Committee their damn presentation and sign the release papers once they authorise the field test. In three days time, you'll be the darling of the entire damn corporation. This is your success! Make sure SPOC knows that and they'll have no choice but to give you and this department the respect deserved."
I've gone over those words dozens of times in the elevator, trying to find in them the encouragement and justification that will put steel in my backbone and fire in my speech. Roger obviously feels it. Why don't I?
I tell myself I'm a success one more time and ignoring the hollow, mocking laughter that I seem to hear thrown back at me, I knock and go in.
(3)
There are five members of SPOC around the table. Three men and two women. All human. The first, Carl Jarrat, is one of Karma's elder statesmen. Wisps of white hair frame a heavily jowled face and I breathe a sigh of relief. A point in my favour - Jarrat has sat on the Oversight Committee for a couple of my previous projects and he's always been encouraging and supportive.
The second man, Liam Kelland, is an up and coming charger - snappily power-dressed and assertive in manner. I remember passing him in the corridors before now but these days he seems somehow stronger, more determined. Office scuttlebutt says he's had a Karma implant to rectify his weak chin. Whatever it is, three promotions in two months say its working.
The first woman, Allya Trenchant, is the plaything of almost every man in Karma who earns more than 150k a month. She's slept her way to the top and looks like she enjoyed it. Every man who put her to the sword paid for it with a contribution to her growing collection of Karma implants and a hand on to the next rung of the corporate ladder. A stunning brunette, with a pneumatic figure, she's here purely to distract and divert me but if I can get her on side, she knows which ears to whisper a good word into.
Next to her, the other woman can barely hide her disgust at being within 100ft of Trenchant. Everything in her body language screams hatred for what Trenchant has done to become successful but beyond that, she is very much an unknown quantity to me. She's Maya, but there's no surname; just Maya. Her ebony skin and classical features make her more elegant and alluring, without trying, than Trenchant could ever hope to be. From what I'm told, Maya has fought her way to the top kicking and screaming but now she's there everyone on SPOC holds her in high regard.
To her right is the main man. Gavin Hansard has deliberately placed himself on the fringe of the SPOC team and as I enter the room, he's turned away from the boardroom table, gazing out of a massive picture window down at the streets of Central Mort. A precisely dressed, young-looking 50 year old, Hansard deliberately affects disinterest to unbalance presenting project managers. The unwary tend to disregard him and concentrate on winning over the rest of the team - a mistake, as he probably has more clout with SPOC than Jarrat, Kelland and Trenchant put together. Whatever he says at the end of this meeting will determine the future of my project, my department, my team and me.
Despite all that, it's Maya who leans forward and speaks first.
"You are Dr Iain Randall, Project Leader for Karma Projects 44- Gamma-5497?"
It isn't really a question. Besides, I don't trust my voice not to waver right now. I settle for a simple nod.
"Please give us your closing report on this project. The Stormer Type 491-Ninja."
And so it begins.
(4)
With every passing minute, I grow in confidence, falling comfortably into the familiar stride of my presentation. Trenchant pouts and eyeballs me throughout. She more than anyone makes me feel like I'm being evaluated and judged but somehow I don't think its my professional ability that is under her examination.
But as I extol the virtues of my creation, I begin to realise that the four-ninety-one is exactly that: my creation. I am proud of the fact that my team's hardwork and dedication has paid off and although I'm not comfortable with the term 'justifiable losses' I don't want to let my team down. Thinking about those familiar faces, their partners and children, and the amount that each of them has riding on the success of this project, strengthens my resolve. They've done their bit and now it's my turn - I'll not fail them.
Roughly 40 minutes seem to go past in a heartbeat - I'm almost done. Time to drive the message home.
"In conclusion Ladies and Gentlemen, the Stormer type codenamed four-ninety-one Ninja is a detraction from the trends in Stormer development that we have experienced thus far.
"While developments such as the 714 Chagrin have made Stormers stronger, faster and capable of taking a lot more damage, the four-ninety-one Ninja is a smaller and more compact Stormer designed to survive long enough to complete just the assigned mission and no more.
"We were looking for 'plausible denial' with this variant - a Stormer type capable of striking hard and fast but leaving little evidence of its passing. We've facilitated that by splicing in a little of the chameleon-type DNA previously used in Vevaphon, specifically for stealth missions, in combination with the unique self-replicating, auto-degrading genetic material created by my team.
"That Ladies and Gentlemen is why we have dubbed this stormer variant the 'Ninja' - an apt moniker I hope you'll agree."
I draw breath and pause, stepping back to indicate my presentation is completed. I know what comes next will be harder still - the cross examination of my project as the SPOC members fire questions at me from all sides. I think once again of my colleagues and their families - I'm as ready as I could be.
As before, Jarrat comes to my aid, a half smile on his wily old face. "Humour an old man and explain once more the Ninja's unique genetic construction, would you?"
I could almost kiss him. He knows as well as I that the real strength of this project is in that single breakthrough and he's gone out of his way to give me carte blanche to ram it down SPOC's collective throat. I jump at the chance.
"Thank you for your interest Mr Jarrat. Basically, my team and I have worked long and hard to refine a suitable genetic structure for the unique operating parameters intended for the four-ninety-one.
"What we've come up with is a collapsible cell structure that can compress itself by some order of magnitude and hold that compressed form indefinitely. Certain surface cells will be genetically coded to react with a chemical agent that, when applied, will trigger rapid cell expansion, returning the four-ninety- one to its original, and operational, structure.
"It works along similar lines to dehydration techniques we are all familiar with but it owes far more to the cellular advances made by Karma on the Xenomorph than it does to the simple removal and reintroduction of H2O.
"At our production facilities, the four-ninety-one will be vat-grown alongside our other Stormer variants and will emerge with full combat capability at operational status. Our technicians will then introduce the agent that activates the latent cellular compression.
"Each four-ninety-one will then be supplied to the customer as an ingot of inert genetic matter. When the surface of that ingot is brought into contact with the reagent, cell expansion is triggered and within moments, the 'Ninja' is ready for action."
Jarrat nods, sitting back and winking. Unsurprisingly, Kelland is next - ever alert for an opportunity to look good and climb a rung or two more on the corporate ladder.
"How effective is the 4-9-1 Ninja going to be in a combat situation? Its projected capabilities look rather, ahem, modest."
"Well Mr Kelland, we never intended this variant to be used as a solo combat unit. Although it will be programmed for close combat the four-ninety-one's speciality lies in stealth, infiltration and evasion.
"On, say, an assassination mission, the four-ninety-one should be more than capable but if, for whatever reason, the threat rating of the mission increases, this variant will also be programmed with co- operative combat protocols - waves of attacking Ninja's should give any opponent second thoughts."
Maya cuts across Kelland's response, bluntly stating: "Waves of close-combat Stormers are going to be cut down by combat ready personnel with any decent level of firepower - sounds like a waste of resources."
"With respect," I reply; "... no one is suggesting that the Ninja replaces either the Malice or the Chagrin in a primary combat role, I just want to reassure you that should it be necessary, co- operative combat protocols will greatly increase the four-ninety- one's combat efficiency.
"One of my team described the four-ninety-one as a 'fire-and-forget stormer' meaning that the Ninja is cheap to mass produce and you can throw them at an objective until the mission is complete.
"Those that are killed have the benefit of a rapidly degrading cell structure - a useful byproduct of the compression and expansion ability that prevents an enemy from getting his hands on our secrets - to quickly eradicate evidence of our involvement, while those that return can be recycled.
"Compared to a Malice or a Chagrin, our financial forecasts and projections suggest the Ninja will be most cost effective. The four- ninety-one is a one-shot, disposable Stormer."
Maya seems to have more to say, but for the first time since I entered the room, Hansard turns toward me, clearing his throat in a brisk no nonsense manner that causes the rest of SPOC to fall silent.
"We've trained you well Dr Randall. I'm hearing a lot of corporate buzzwords that you hope will excite us, fire our imagination and bring us into line. Vat Ninja's? Disposable Stormers? Cute. But I only have one question before I bring this presentation to a conclusion..."
"Yes Sir?"
"Does it work Dr Randall?"
Words catch in my throat as Hansard pushes a clipboard of field test authorisation forms across the table to me. Jarrat smiles encouragingly and nods. With the exception of Trenchant, distractedly fiddling with her hair, the others just watch, eyes fixed on my trembling hand as I reach for a pen.
"I'm giving permission for a field test Dr Randall. Do you believe in the 491 Ninja enough to put your reputation on the line along with the lives of a handful of Operatives, Employee's and Civilians and countersign the release forms?"
Five expectant faces gaze at me, but I'm lost in only the soulless wells of Gavin Hansard's eyes. Fleeting moments of indecision pass - now is the time for strength, not weakness. I bend down over the clipboard but cannot look away from Hansard.
"Be sure," he breathes.
I'm not and yet... despite that; I sign.
(To be continued?)