Regers sauntered up to the main desk and flashed the pretty receptionist his most disarming smile.
“Sir, may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to Mathias.”
She blinked, coughed, as if such were the most outrageous request today. “Sir, Mr. Mathias is indisposed. Are you sure you wish Mr. Mathias? He’s the CEO. You’ll need an appointment and he’s booked months in advance.”
Regers flashed another shark-toothed smile. “I know he’s the CEO, miss prissy pants. Do I look like an imbecile? We’re just wanting a few minutes of Mr. Mathias’s time. I think he’ll make an exception. You need only mention the name, ‘Regers’.”
The woman scowled. She consulted a register. Busy fingers. She spoke into a com, a private line with a red receiver, tapping the rim of a holo screen.
“Sir, a Mr. Regers to see Mr. Mathias.”
There was a long pause before a voice replied.
“Bring him to the office—immediately.”
“Very well.” She motioned Regers and his men on. “Down the hall to the elevators. Third floor. You can’t miss the signs.”
Regers saluted her and winked at Deakes. “See, that easy.”
Vincent and Ramra blinked. Deakes only smiled.
They all got off on the third floor and entered a lush office with plush carpet. Regers’ heart beat with anticipation. How to play it? Cool? Smarmy? Come on like gangbusters? With fists flying? No, kid stuff like that wouldn’t work here. He’d have to play this one more subtly, with a heavy emphasis on ‘impromptu’. He leveled a toothy glare at Vincent, then one at Deakes, warning them to keep their mouths shut.
They stepped past an auburn-haired secretary toward a mahogany door labeled ‘CEO Mathias’. She leapt up. “Sirs, you can’t go in there. Wait here, please.” She pushed past Regers and his nose caught the whiff of styerethelene and new plastic. Something odd about this woman. The eyes too glazed. Hair too perfect, like a doll’s. A female bot? With stiff ceremony she ushered them into the CEO’s private chambers only to saunter briskly out, busy butt wagging, closing the door behind her. Regers shook his head in bafflement.
A man jerked himself up from behind a desk. He had a round, red-cheeked face with wispy, straw-colored hair, the color of old sea oats. Blue suit and tie encased a portly body and thickset neck. The man looked more used to being in a lab surrounded by high-tech equipment than in an office. Though he looked familiar, Regers couldn’t quite place him.
“Who the fuck are you?” came Regers’ derisive croak.
“Language, please. I’m Desmond Yadley, Mathias’s senior science officer. I’m subbing in for him.” His lips parted in a prim half sickle. “Regers, I remember you. One of those seedy mercs we hired, who supposedly died out there in The Dim Zone. I see I was wrong. Last we heard, you were stuffed in a Mentera tank, effectively dead.”
“For all intents and purposes, that was true, and yet here I am.”
Yadley shook his head. “I don’t get—”
“Where the fuck is Mathias?”
“Sorry, not here. Been gone for weeks now. I’ve been designated acting CEO. Don’t like the job much, but I don’t mind the pay. I’d rather be researching the samples Yul brought back for us.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Yadley stirred. “So Yul was lying to us. He had some distorted story about you choking to death on a crash-landed Zikri Orb on a dead moon. Said he tried to save you, smashed the glass and all, but there weren’t enough suits to go around. I see he was wrong.”
“Did he now? My old friend Yul. See, Dezzy, that’s the problem with the world as it is, too many lying, cheating, backbiting fucks who abandon ship mates to die.” He clenched his white-knuckled fist and rapped it hard on the water dispenser. “I’m here to get my money owed for services rendered. Also 10 times more for damages, like my mekkie arm and a dozen years of stress from being dumped in a Mentera tank. Speaking of which, where is my old pal, Yul? He and I have some words to share.”
“Even if I knew that information, it’s classified,” said the acting CEO with cool hauteur.
Regers sighed. He put an arm around Dez as if consoling an old beer buddy at the karaoke bar. His clown-like grimace did nothing to reassure Desmond. “Nothing’s impossible, Dez. This is the 26th century, ain’t it? I mean look around you. We have robots, radio fried pizza, air bots, remote control, dial a date, robocops, robomaids to clean floors, shake your hand, massage your dick if you want, wipe your smelly, brown-stained ass, console you when you’re down, like a true Mother Milly.”
Dez licked his lips with a scowl. “No need to get vulgar, Regers. I didn’t let you in here just to get browbeaten by a pack of dirty—”
Regers snarled and lifted a menacing fist, “I’ll ask you again, where’s Mathias?”
“Don’t know. Please, leave now. I’m calling security! He reached for an intercom on his desk.
Regers swept eyes about the room looking for cameras. One little spyhole to left north, possibly another to west. He grabbed tape from his pocket and pasted it over the sweephole. Then ran to the other. There could be more. A risk, but he’d have to take it. On a quick nod to Deakes, he and Vincent turned on Dez.
Dez paled, clutching the com but Deakes got hold of his wrist and twisted hard.
“Ow! Okay, okay, Jesus, that hurts.” He loosed a painful bray. “Last we heard was a transmission come in from Mathias on the trail of
