Rise High
Her blond hair, released from the pins, curled over her shoulders. She waved a hand to turn the glass wall into a standing mirror in order to check her physique. Since she was in her own private office, taking up the full top floor of the tower, she had thrown off the heels and, by classical mores, was completely nude. Yet, she was clothed in the artifice of the most advanced modern body sculpting money could buy. Based on the biographic data of her visitor, she had made certain adjustments to her bust and thighs in order to have the most impact. The changes were seamless and quite satisfactory.
Her entire office was crystalline, down to the floors and ceiling. Below, she could dimly see the movement of people in offices below including her receptionist, broken up by semi-transparent floor mats that softened the areas around the various sitting areas including her crystal desk. It was good thing she had gotten over her vertigo although the structure could be frosted or polarized as needed, especially to mitigate the sun or blinding reflections. Above, the theme continued, punctuated by the necessary structural supports for the rooftop helipad and aircraft warning lights, a relic generally made unnecessary by the automated air traffic control for the Enclave. Unwanted visitors would be shot down long before entering the airspace.
There were also myriad sensors and cameras embedded in the entire space, some of them dedicated to a private voyeur feed that was fed to exclusive clientele. Everything and everyone in the Enclave could be seen, including the President and CEO. She glanced at the metrics of her current viewership as she turned off the mirror and walked to her executive desk. The meeting would be available but edited in real time to mask out any non-disclosable information-there were still corporate secrets after all.
Her translucent wrist band flashed that her guests had arrived at security. On the desktop, there was a framed photo of the previous president, Melony Cassandra Hayes. The current executive had kept it as a souvenir.
She touched the intercom indicator on the desk surface, speaking, "Let them in as soon as they arrive." She sat down to face the stairwell that connected her office to the reception immediately below. She could see her secretary nod as she responded, "Yes, Ms. Arnold."
She estimated she had just enough time to prepare for an impressive introduction, parting her legs and adjusting the seats stim attachments to her clit. There were extensible prosthetics but she demurred for the simple vibrator. Leaning back, she let the pleasure roll over her. By this time in her life, an orgasm was practically automatic, like a sneeze, and typically she had dozens in any given day or night. Her body was a finely tuned sports car and it was like spooling it up for a quick drift on a closed track.
Just as the executives from the Euro conglomerate walked up the steps, she climaxed.
The older gentleman, Anton Ritter, with a balding pate, was the senior of the group of three, and the only one unfazed by the display. They were all men from the heart of the German Euro bloc, which was quite out of date these days compared to the Pan-Asian sphere and the remnant states of America. They were sharply groomed but lacked much of the sculpting afforded to the wealthy, not that it was illegal in the Euro bloc: thriftiness was embedded in their social customs. It didn't matter to her...she was going to fuck them, either way. She grinned as one of the VP's reddened, eyes darting away from her exposure.
"It used to be that Europeans were the more liberal in their sexual esthetics," she commented instead of a formal introduction. She wiped her hand and stood to offer it. Ritter shook it with a solid grip, "These are interesting times and we are quite fine with the arrangements, Ms. Arnold. I assume this meeting is to, ah, consummate, our new business relationship."
"There is a full bar and refreshments," she pointed to a spread on a clear table next to a set of sofas. She pulled him by the tie, "I assumed I would be sufficient for all of you, but I can call in my secretarial pool if you desire. Full disclosure, this meeting will be monetized, so don't hold back."
"Let's play it by ear, so to speak," he laughed as he took off his tailored jacket, one that would have been old fashioned even a hundred years in the past. Mawkishly, the other two followed along but sat nervously, nibbling on the farmed pseudo-shrimp and side-eying their boss as he nuzzled her proffered chest. They'd lose their inhibitions soon enough, she'd make sure of it.
Okano had been distant the entire time since his victory. Was she actually jealous? Matt wondered. It couldn't be, since she was the one who'd rejected his offers in the past.
He scanned the contract one more time on his retinal imager. By rights, he was now a married man, to his chagrin. Bee was actively pouting as they sat in a lounge somewhere deep in the sprawling estate. This time, they were to finally have an audience with the patriarch of the household. Or at least his representative: a synthetic avatar that wheeled itself in on a motorized chair. It had no legs, only a ghastly torso and a gaunt mannequin face with binocular cameras for eyes.
Awkwardly, the trio stood to bow formally. The synth waved a puppet hand, "None of that please. You think I'd still use this ancient drone if I cared about that bullshit? But if you think I dragged you all the way into this den of hypocrisy just to show off, well, you're right." It chuckled. "Sorry if I don't press the flesh, I'm a germaphobe. Practically a Howard Hefner in his latter years, or was it Hugh Howell? Whatever, fuck it."
Matt nervously blinked. Apparently, life extension hadn't extended to rejuvenating the old man's cogitation centers, or he was playing them for some reason.
"My son, what's his name, thought he'd prod me by staking off some bit of MY property. Well, good for you. Take her back, make her queen of your Federation or whatever you call it these days. Deal's done. She'll be shipped air freight tomorrow, all taxes paid for. I am not a cheapskate. Anyhoo, oh yes, a toast."
A slender girl crawled into the room, a silver platter with various glasses was balanced on her back. Her movements were freakishly smooth. They all took a glass except for the avatar, who mimed one in a pincer hand.
"Kampai, kiddos." He mimed slamming a glass to the floor. "Ok, formalities over. Contract has been delivered with my signature key. You're wondering what all this horse and pony show as all about, and I'm not one to be coy. We're trading pony's for horses. Oldest business, livestock! And we're doing a three way exchange. Everyone wins, zero sum kiss my ass."
Bee spoke up out of turn, although Okano nudged her sharply, "He means women."
"Bingo. You're my type, but I'm not a sticky fingered bushwhacker. World population is tanking, and let's say, the commodity is all sequestered here, not much free trade going on. Thing is, the republican guard gets angry, eat the rich style, when not given the spoils and no one is really producing in high quantity these days. Range wars are all petered out, it's just dust and bones out there on the pillaging front. Refugee problem kind of solved itself, go figure, but also dried up the tap. Birth rate is in the shitter and picky fuckers won't go for 100 percent skin dolls though to be honest, you're more synth than not." It nodded its head toward Okano. "To be honest, true androids kind of creep me out too. I've got openings for another wife...no? I prefer pale blondes anyways, so go fuck yourself. Seriously, I love that shit and I will be watching."
It continued, rolling back and forth, wheels catching on the rug. "Back to the story, your company is acting as middleman, under the table, for a hefty broker fee. Polity breeds the best free range dames. Oh, someone seems to have his bubble burst. Too dark for you? Well, get over it, the Federated States have agreed to make it all nice and legal: free trade, bitches. You chose a career in selling this shit, now it's just all out in the open. Belay that, cross border trafficking is still officially verboten, I forgot. That part's secret, the three way deal under the table. I said that already. No talkie, or a subminiature detonator might find its way into your brain stem. Don't want to get sanctioned by former NATO shitheads or whatever they call themselves these days. We made some concessions, including letting go of the fifty percent rule. Congrats, you can apply for real citizenship, skin doll."
It cackled and leaned forward in a crude attempt at some form of discretion. "Some inside information, I'm feeling generous, though it may seem meaningless to you. Part of the deal includes a specific transfer of advanced bio-mimetics the Polity has been incubating for a long while. We get our pesky hands on it in exchange for some quality appeasement. Fools, we're greedy, rabid dogs and we'll have them for lunch soon enough. Guess what, your whole business model will become obsolete, so I'd sell any shares now. Shit, I'm feeling so good that I'm leaving you, Mr. Arnold, an extra bonus at your guest suite. However, ladies, your commodity prices are falling fast, so figure it out or starve. Now, get the fuck out." It wheeled around and left the room. The table girl crouched motionless in the middle of the room.
The trio just stared at each other, completely befuddled by the contrarian antics of the ancient patriarch. His info dump whirled in their heads as they tried to puzzle out what he meant. Whatever it was, it didn't sound appealing.
As they were guided back to their guest house, Matt clenched his fists, "What the hell was I doing here?"
Bee was in a daze, "He said I was his type. I could have been a Mrs. Weaver after all."
Okano patted her on the head, "You don't really want that."
"How do you know?" Bee skipped away. "I don't get what he was talking about. They wouldn't even let us in even when we wanted to. Now, they want to kidnap Polity bitches? What's the deal?"
"I don't know. He seemed a bit...gone. Senile."
