The "Hostile Takeover" Snippet
that got me thinking about the Fournayverse again.
Copyright Kit Russell, 2008(ish) This is first draft, unedited material.
The man calling himself Ethan Gage tried not to look too impressed as he was shown into the observation lounge. Not by the bodyguard whose suit showed the slightest outline of a gun -- deliberately, he suspected -- not by the real-wood paneling that must have been imported from offworld, and certainly not by the man he was here to see.
So he kept his head up, did not kowtow to the man, as he had been taught to do to his "betters." Instead, he held out his hand, had was greeted by a handshake that was a bit too firm, sending the message -- that he was the employee.
He could live with that.
"Mr. Gage. Please, come in."
He obeyed; he had no reason not to. After all, the man would be paying him well for his unique services.
The room was a well-appointed listening post, he realized; someone had gone to a lot of trouble planting bugs.
The man touched the screen, and it flared to life, presenting a scene of a public restaurant. He touched it again, twice, over the image of a young woman who was just walking in through the door.
Up close, he could tell that the suit she wore was part of Gabriel Omani's winter [YEAR -2] collection; though it was two years old, it did not seem outdated on her. And besides, unless he missed his guess, anyone who knew her would know that she could afford the latest fashions.
There was something familiar about her; he squinted to look closer. His host must have noticed -- he touched the screen once more, homing the camera in on the woman's face.
The face tugged at his memory; he was sure he'd seen it somewhere in the society tabs. It was distinctively American; he could have made only the vaugest guesses as to her ethnicity. The smooth dark-beige skin could have come from any number of combinations. Her hair was medium brown and pulled back; he couldn't see any more of it from this angle. She had full lips and high, broad cheekbones; her eyelids were ever so slightly epicanthic.
But it was the eyes themselves that drew him; they were a pale gray-green that stood out against her short, dark fringe of lashes.
"Mr. Gage," his host said, "Meet Janice Fournay."
Ethan did not waste his breath by asking Of Fournay Shipping fame? Instead, he murmured, "So that's my target."
"No," his host said, surprising him; "That's your opposition."
Copyright Kit Russell, 2008(ish) This is first draft, unedited material.
The man calling himself Ethan Gage tried not to look too impressed as he was shown into the observation lounge. Not by the bodyguard whose suit showed the slightest outline of a gun -- deliberately, he suspected -- not by the real-wood paneling that must have been imported from offworld, and certainly not by the man he was here to see.
So he kept his head up, did not kowtow to the man, as he had been taught to do to his "betters." Instead, he held out his hand, had was greeted by a handshake that was a bit too firm, sending the message -- that he was the employee.
He could live with that.
"Mr. Gage. Please, come in."
He obeyed; he had no reason not to. After all, the man would be paying him well for his unique services.
The room was a well-appointed listening post, he realized; someone had gone to a lot of trouble planting bugs.
The man touched the screen, and it flared to life, presenting a scene of a public restaurant. He touched it again, twice, over the image of a young woman who was just walking in through the door.
Up close, he could tell that the suit she wore was part of Gabriel Omani's winter [YEAR -2] collection; though it was two years old, it did not seem outdated on her. And besides, unless he missed his guess, anyone who knew her would know that she could afford the latest fashions.
There was something familiar about her; he squinted to look closer. His host must have noticed -- he touched the screen once more, homing the camera in on the woman's face.
The face tugged at his memory; he was sure he'd seen it somewhere in the society tabs. It was distinctively American; he could have made only the vaugest guesses as to her ethnicity. The smooth dark-beige skin could have come from any number of combinations. Her hair was medium brown and pulled back; he couldn't see any more of it from this angle. She had full lips and high, broad cheekbones; her eyelids were ever so slightly epicanthic.
But it was the eyes themselves that drew him; they were a pale gray-green that stood out against her short, dark fringe of lashes.
"Mr. Gage," his host said, "Meet Janice Fournay."
Ethan did not waste his breath by asking Of Fournay Shipping fame? Instead, he murmured, "So that's my target."
"No," his host said, surprising him; "That's your opposition."