“I’m not,” Octar blustered. “You can’t… Oh damn. This is a problem.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Marko said. “Why don’t you tell us about ZOO and FlexTech?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Should we be discussing this here? That HR woman was kind of scary.”

  “I have counter-surveillance tech built into my desk,” Octar said. “The walls are soundproof. It’s safe to talk in here unless someone has their ear to my door.”

  We all considered that for a second, then turned to regard the door.

  “I’ll look,” Aria said.

  She got up and placed her ear to the door, listening, before cracking it open and peeking outside. Aria closed it again and returned to her seat.

  “Your assistant is still at her desk,” she said. “No one else is out there.”

  “Tell us about ZOO,” Marko repeated.

  Octar sighed and fidgeted in his seat.

  “I don’t even know you,” he said. “You could be part of Harper’s pogrom for all I know.”

  “I’m Marko. This is Aria and Victor. We aren’t working for Harper, but if we were you’d already be screwed. You all but admitted to collaborating with ZOO.”

  Marko leaned forward.

  “I’ll make you a deal. Tell us about ZOO and its aims. If your goals align with ours, we might be able to help. If not, I promise we won’t turn you over to Harper.”

  Octar sat quietly, thinking.

  Aria (Party): No way he’s going to trust us. Why would he?

  Marko (Party): Aria, Victor? What’s your Presence?

  Victor (Party): With the suit, I’m up to six.

  Aria (Party): I’m at eight, why?

  Marko (Party): I’m also at six. Now, imagine if Zendaya or Timothée Chalamet offered to help you with a problem. They have so much confidence and charisma you’d probably accept. It’s just human nature, or gobbek nature in this case. I think the kids call it rizz. Our rizz is off the charts.

  “I guess it can’t hurt,” Octar said. “You already know enough for Harper to have my balls. Very well.” He leaned back in his chair. “FlexTech sales have been stagnant for years. Introducing the military line helped inject some diversity, but the vast majority of our sales are still in formal or business attire.”

  He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair.

  “StreetWear has the potential to open up an entirely new revenue stream by attracting prospective customers from an underserved demographic.” Octar frowned. “Unfortunately, the board has repeatedly rejected plans to move ahead with StreetWear, citing their belief that FlexTech should remain a prestige commodity.”

  “I take it ZOO formed to put pressure on the board?” Marko said.

  Octar nodded.

  “Precisely,” he said. “The board’s response to ZOO has been markedly aggressive. They tasked Harper and her minions with quashing dissent, going so far as to implement policy making ZOO membership a fireable offense. We appealed to the shareholders, but don’t have the votes to force the issue.”

  “How many votes short are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-eight,” Octar said.

  “That’s not bad,” Marko said. “Any chance of swaying the shareholders or leveraging a buyout?”

  “Leveraging a buyout?” Octar said, frowning. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “How much does a share cost?” Marko said. “Can you make an attractive enough offer to essentially buy the necessary votes?”

  “Shares are rarely bought or sold,” Octar said. “It isn’t explicitly forbidden, but HR takes a dim view of such activities.”

  “I’m confused,” Marko said. “Isn’t your company publicly traded?”

  “Publicly traded?” Octar said, as though he’d never heard the term before. “You mean by offering shares to outside interests? Certainly not!” The gobbek almost seemed offended by the idea.

  I had a thought.

  “How many shares are there?” I said.

  “A total of one hundred,” Octar said. “Forty-nine are held in perpetuity by FlexTech and provide the board with their authority. The other fifty-one shares are awarded to outstanding employees who personify our esprit de corps. I have one myself. FlexTech was founded on the principles of accountability and transparency with employees having a seat at the table. If the shareholders move in unison, the company is forced to change direction. Sadly, that hasn’t occurred for some time.”

  “Have you tried talking directly to the holdouts?” Marko said.

  “Or threatening them?” Aria offered.

  “None of the twenty-eight are current employees,” Octar said. “They are retirees who retain their shares until death, upon which time the share is returned to the company to be redistributed. We have, of course, sent them communications, but haven’t spoken to them in person. It seems rather crass, to be honest.”

  “We aren’t afraid to be crass,” Marko said, smiling. “Do you have a shareholder list? We can track them down and give them your sales pitch.”

  Aria (Party): I’ve found waving a gun around is a pretty good sales pitch. As fun as that sounds, why is this our problem? I don’t see how it helps us take control of FlexTech.

  Marko (Party): We weren’t asked to take control of the company, we were asked to “orchestrate” controlling interest. Check your logs. Ever since the fiasco at Pine Ridge, I’ve decided to pay close attention to how our tasks are worded. Defeat, not kill. Orchestrate, not acquire.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Victor (Party): That’s a good point. We didn’t have to kill Kaius either, just defeat him. I wonder if we could have taken over Nova Sector without having to fight?

  Aria (Party): Why give us all these cool abilities and weapons if we aren’t supposed to use them?

  Marko (Party): I’m sure there’ll be fighting, it just doesn’t have to be the answer to every question.

  Octar, meanwhile, had swung a keyboard out from under his desk and was typing away at it. He clicked his mouse a few times, then had a puzzled look on his face.

  “I queried the system and I can’t find a shareholder list,” he said. “I can see where the information should be located, but it isn’t there.”

  “How about a mailing list or email?” I said. “You said you’d been trying to contact them, right? There has to be a list somewhere.”

  “I doubt their employee email is still active,” Octar said. “I can look for physical addresses, though.”

  He tapped at his keyboard, eyes fixed on the monitor. His mouse clicked and the computer made an angry beep. The look of concentration on his face was replaced by outrage.

  “It’s been redacted!” he said. “And the files locked by HR. They don’t have the authority for that!”

  “Sounds like someone doesn’t want you tracking down shareholders,” Marko said.

  “Do you keep any physical records?” I said.

  Octar snapped his fingers and pointed at me.

  “Yes!” he said. “The logbook. It’s part of the ceremony. When the company awards a share, they bring out the logbook. You fill out an entry and sign for the share. With the advent of computers, the entire event is purely tradition, but it should have the information we need.”

  He turned back to his computer, punched a few keys, and I heard a printer start up. The sound was coming from the monitor on Octar’s desk. Was that why it was so big? It was a printer/monitor combo? I’d never seen or heard of something like that. The side toward Octar spit out a piece of paper and he handed it to Marko.

  “That’s the list of the twenty-three current employee shareholders,” the gobbek said. “You’ll need to compare that list against the logbook entries.”

  Marko nodded, folded the list and slid it into his jacket.

  “Where can we find the logbook?” he asked. “And how sure are you it hasn’t been tampered with?”

  “Impossible,” Octar said. “The logbook is kept in the archives and only removed for ceremonies. Even HR couldn’t change that. The archivist, a lovely gobbek named Clara, wouldn’t stand for it.” He opened a drawer and extracted a pen and a fresh piece of paper. “I’ll authorize access.”

  Octar scribbled out a note, signed it, then handed that to Marko as well.

  “You’re not coming?” Aria said.

  I can’t,” Octar said. “It’s too risky. Take the elevator and enter 903001 on the number pad. That will take you directly to archives.”

  “How can we stay in contact?” Marko said. “I doubt you want us hanging around your office.”

  “Do you have a magifone?”

  Marko pulled out the device he’d stolen from Tolun and poked at it. He waded through a few screens, then read out the number to Octar.

  “Very good,” Octar said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow morning when I return to the office. I don’t entirely trust that my home is surveillance-free.” He stood. “Allow me to escort you to the elevator. My presence should keep any of Harper’s cronies from interfering with you, at least until you’ve reached the archives.”

  We followed him out of his office and toward the hall.

  “I’ll return momentarily, Brooks,” Octar told his assistant.

  “Sir.”

  Our trip to the elevator was short and entirely uneventful. Octar pressed the call button and waited for the elevator to arrive.

  “Good luck,” he said. “Don’t underestimate Harper. She’s callous and vindictive, but worst of all, she’s quite intelligent.”

  The elevator dinged when it arrived, and its gleaming doors slid open. We entered and Marko punched in the number Octar had given him. The gobbek watched until the doors closed and the elevator started to descend. This time the Muzak was playing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and I shook my head in disgust. I hadn’t thought it was possible to make the song worse.

  When the doors opened again, releasing me from my torment, the air in the hallway was noticeably cooler. We found a single set of large, heavy security doors on the far side of a small waiting room. Though furnished with chairs and a pair of loveseats, the room was completely empty. The only sound came from the faint whir of a security camera mounted above the doors.

  Marko and I took a second to look around, but I got the feeling Aria was out of patience. Or bored. Possibly both. She strode over to the doors and knocked. Banged, really. A hidden speaker squealed to life.

  “The number for the lobby is 000,” a female voice said. “You’ve gone the wrong way.”

  “Um, hi,” I said. “Mr. Octar sent us? We have a note.”

  A panel in the door slid back and a tray emerged.

  “Deposit the note.”

  Marko put the note in the tray, and it withdrew, the panel closing with a snap. There was a short pause, then the door made a buzzing noise and cracked ajar. I pulled it open and we stepped inside.

  An elderly gobbek ushered us through the door and shut it firmly behind us. She had graying hair piled high in a beehive, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and her right tusk was made of shining silver. I briefly wondered what had happened to the original. She had on a long red cardigan over a white blouse and gray slacks.

  “And how is Harvey?” she said, smiling.

  There was a moment of silence before I remembered Octar’s first name was Harvey.

  “You must be Clara,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m Victor and these are my friends, Marko and Aria. Mr. Octar sends his regards.”

  She shook my hand with a firm grip, and her eyes twinkled.

  “Mr. Octar, is it?” she said. “I remember when Harvey worked in the mail room. A pleasure to meet you, Victor. I’m Clara, head archivist. How can I help you?”

  “There’s been some confusion with the shareholder list,” Marko said. “We’ve come down to inspect the logbook and see if we can clear it up.”

  “I expect it has something to do with that nasty Ms. Limon,” Clara said. “No, don’t tell me! Never could stand her. I can tell you aren’t employees, but Harvey is a good sort, so I’ll be happy to show you the logbook.”

  She led us to a large office that was crammed full of filing cabinets and bookshelves. Clara settled herself behind a metal desk, pulled a keyring out of her pocket, and fished around until she found the proper key. She inserted it in her desk and, with a slight grunt, pulled out an enormous ledger that was probably four inches thick. Clara slipped on a pair of clean white gloves, then opened the book. Each page was thick, creamy parchment and gave off a faint whiff of peppermint.

  “You’ll be wanting living shareholders,” Clara said, carefully turning the pages.

  She skimmed through the first third of the book before turning it on her desk toward us. Each entry in the logbook had the same format. An official hand listed the employee’s proper name, including any middle initial, their job title, the date, and the share certificate number. Under this, each recipient had printed their name, listed an address, and then signed in cursive.

  “This is a fantastic historical document, Clara,” Marko said.

  Clara beamed at him.

  “We don’t want to take up too much of your time,” he said. “Is there any way you can make us a copy?”

  “Certainly,” Clara said. “This is all public information. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll pop over to the machine.”

  A few minutes passed, and Clara returned with a stack of photocopies. She handed them to Marko, who smiled with gratitude.

  “That should include all current shareholders,” Clara said. “I can’t promise the addresses are correct, some of those entries are fairly old.”

  “Thank you for your help, Clara,” he said. “It’s been invaluable. I’d like to ask for one more favor.”

  She nodded her assent.

  “Do you have a blank sheet of paper and a pen I could borrow?”

  Clara dug around in her desk and came up with a legal pad and a pen. She passed them to Marko, who jotted something down, tore off the page, and folded it before placing it in his breast pocket. He returned the other materials to Clara.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Aria said. “Or do we have to go back up through the lobby?”

  “We do have a freight elevator in the back,” Clara said, frowning. “It exits in one of the loading bays, but it’s only used by staff.”

  “Could you make an exception?” Marko said. “We’d like to avoid any nastiness.” He winked at her.

  Clara laughed.

  “Oh, I suppose. Just this once!”