ICR-5

"I still think we can bring down the quarterly expenses if we really put the vice to Personell.  You're always soft on them, Terry."

"If we squeeze to hard we won't have Personell to squeeze, Horace.  You can't get blood from a stone."

"I'd rather have gravel than a stone, at this point.  Squeeze."

The suits sit at a long table, each fat face wriggling and shuddering with each emphatic approval or angry dismissal.  Every one of them flanked by a humongous bodyguard, moderatly dressed compared to their charge.  Getting the entire board of directors together is quite a feat, but in times of crisis it does happen.  A little engineered chaos, and here they are.  Ready.

Vulnerable.

My ticket in sits quietly.  I can see him perspiring.  He should know by now that he's too valuable for me to kill today.  He can go back to his mansion when I'm done.  Next time, we'll see.  I let the discussion continue, let them get worked up.  Let the guards lose focus.

"I'm curious how the Icarus test subjects are progressing.  What's the report?"

"The children have all been dosed, and we've got a..."

"Test Subjects, not children."

"Right... my apologies.  The... test subjects... have all been dosed with different ammounts of ICR-5, and we have about a 30% survival rate on this trial.  The test is ongoing of course, but my people project at least a single usable survivor this time."

"Fantastic!  And our buyers, still chomping at the bit I hope?"

I crack my knuckles.  It relaxes me.  Every eye in the room shifts to me for a moment, upset at the impertinent interruption.  I wait, and within seconds I return to being beneath visibility to the autocrats.

"Yes, but of course they're growing more impatient by the day.  They were expecting more... immediate results."

I crack my neck.  It's almost time. Once again I become an object to the suits around the table.  Some of them glance angrily at my Ticket.  It takes considerably self control not to smile.

"Well, they'll be glad they waited. Now, who wants to explain what happened in the Nevada Confederacy last weekend?  We can't afford to keep ablating facilities.  Who has answers?"

There's a cold silence that settles on the table.  I give one last crack, and at this point no-one is interested in looking at me.  They're all too busy staring at their dossiers, or hands, or belly buttons.  No one wants to answer Head Suit's question.  Perfect.  The last crack was the seal on my polycarb knives in the sleeves.  My hands drop to my sides, and a pair of impossibly sharp, absurdly strong plastic blades slip into my palms.

Time to work.