Date: 5/30/2440 Time: 12:00 PM Chicago
The boardroom was a temple of glass and steel, perched so high above Chicago the city below looked like a scale model, an intricate grid of lights blurred by misting rain against reinforced windows. The air was still, the kind of stillness only executive silence and seven-figure filtration systems could buy. But tension threaded through it, tight as piano wire.
“We have a local on the ground in our employ who refused military recall,” said Matheson, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, speaking with the calm precision of a man used to redrawing maps.
Around the oval table, holographic displays flickered with satellite feeds, flagged communications, and red-tinted anomaly alerts. This wasn’t a meeting. It was a war room in business formal.
A ripple passed through the room.
Director Vasquez, head of Risk Management, folded her arms and reclined with calculated indifference. “Refused? Bold. Is he aware of the consequences?”
“Very much so,” Matheson said. “Technically, he didn’t refuse, he acted within his ninety-six-hour window, well inside protocol. And he made a counteroffer. A smart one.”
He tapped a floating pane, pulling up a dossier. “He wants a small percentage of project profits routed through his logistics firm. Nominal on paper, enormous in prestige and leverage. In exchange, he serves as a buffer: keeps the military at arm’s length, limits competitors, and absorbs the refugee surge on his own terms. He’s already aligned with a network, locals and several prominent V’ren families.”
“Ambitious,” said Kinsley, the youngest at the table and already a rising star. “But is he trustworthy?”
“In the ways that matter,” Matheson replied. “He protects his own. That makes him more predictable than anyone claiming moral clarity.”
Another pane lit up. “He’s also asking for the title of Divisional Director, plus control of all unoccupied pre-collapse land claims within his territory, about seventy-five hundred square kilometers we’re losing money on anyway. In fact it looks like we’vebeen paying his family to maintain it for the last three centuries as guarantors of the CCA. His exact words: ‘My sanctuary, my problem.’ He wants to turn the refugee burden into a long-term, self-sustaining population base. All under his jurisdiction.”
Silence settled like fog, broken only by the low hum of climate control.
“Not a bad strategy,” Vasquez murmured, almost smiling. “Leverage chaos for control.”
“Exactly,” Matheson said. “We give him a long leash, keep the other players out, and he stabilizes the region without draining our resources.”
Kinsley’s eyes narrowed. “And if he goes rogue?”
“Only if we mishandle him,” Matheson said. “He’s sentimental about those under his protection. Treat him fairly, and he’ll reciprocate. He even used our own AI suite to draft the proposal, framed it as a shared success model, not a demand. The subtext was clear: I understand the game. Let’s play to win.”
A pause.
“He’s as sharp as anyone in this room,” Matheson finished. “Let’s not waste him.”
Vasquez’s gaze swept the table. “So… we give him what he wants?”
“We do,” Matheson said flatly.
Outside, beyond the rain-streaked glass, Chicago shimmered like a living neural net, every light a decision, a risk, a calculated move.
And the man on the ground?
They thought they’d just recruited him.
In truth, they’d put themselves in his game.
