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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Thirty-One
When George arrived, he found Paul pacing impatiently in Section One's conference area. George glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late, just as he planned. He'd considered making it thirty, but that would have been too obvious. No, twenty was perfect, judging by the angry flush in Paul's cheeks.
George could have demanded that Paul come to Oversight's newly-opened offices. He decided, instead, that the symbolism was better at Section One. Meeting here served as a reminder to Paul that Section was George's territory, not Paul's. A reminder that Paul was a caretaker, not an owner, and that he held his privileges only at George's sufferance.
George went to stand -- quite deliberately -- a little too close to Paul. It was intended as another territorial encroachment, one meant to force Paul to step backwards in an acknowledgement of his subordination. Paul, however, remained resolutely in place, staring at George with those pallid eyes that always seemed so vacant of anything but self-absorption. Alas, once George adopted his stance he could hardly reverse himself, so they were stuck in place, inches away from each other's faces, trapped in nauseating proximity to each other.
"I'll be forwarding Oversight's new protocols within the week," said George. "You'll be expected to conform to them to the letter."
"Of course."
"You will submit weekly reports on all activities. In addition, once a month, you'll attend a Committee meeting at Oversight with the other Section heads."
"Understood."
George leaned in even closer, so close he could barely stand it. "There will be no black ops," he growled, "no secret projects, no off-the-book accounts -- and absolutely no deviation from my instructions."
"Whatever you say." Paul didn't change expression in the slightest, but he still managed to convey the impression that he was smirking -- as if delighting in the prospect of violating every single instruction George had just given.
"I'm glad that's clear," George said, but he wasn't glad at all. In fact, the veins in his temple were starting to throb.
Being caught between Phillip and Paul was like being consigned to one of the inner circles of hell. A fitting punishment, he supposed, for his treachery. Except that it wasn't treachery. Adrian had been on a path of self-destruction. If things had taken their natural course -- if George hadn't intervened to ease her out in a controlled fashion -- she might very well have wound up dead instead of retired in splendor on her plush country estate. He'd saved her life. He'd saved the very organizations that she held so dear. He'd done the right thing, really, and he deserved accolades, not punishment.
In any event, Paul's ascension at Section One was just a temporary setback. One that George would now bring to an end. Or at least he could take the first step in that direction.
He took a step backwards to put Paul at ease. "Now that's all settled, I'd like to address a more sensitive matter."
"Yes?"
"It's about Charles Sand."
"Really?" Paul's forehead creased in surprise.
"There is a source," said George, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, "who I'm afraid must remain confidential. He claims that Charles has been passing intel to Red Cell."
It was a complete fabrication, and not even a very believable one. But it didn't have to be: it was mere bait to dangle in front of Paul. Would he bite?
Paul looked dubious. "Charles? Working with Red Cell?"
George shrugged. "There's no real proof. In fact, I don't find it credible in the least. However...."
Paul raised his eyebrows.
"It's somewhat inconvenient for there to be suspicion cast on someone -- how do I put this -- so intimately connected to Section's leadership," said George. "Especially so soon after the recent upheavals. An investigation -- no matter how it turned out -- would reflect badly on everyone and might undermine the Council's confidence in the new leadership structure."
"I see." Paul nodded gravely. He'd bitten, just as George hoped. Now all that remained to be seen was whether the hook would catch or not.
"It might be better," George said, "if the issue could be resolved informally, without the Council having to be involved."
"I agree."
"Then I trust you'll take care of it."
"I'll make it my top priority."
And so the hook caught. Charles, of course, was utterly finished. Which he thoroughly deserved, as far as George was concerned. George had virtually pressed a gun into the man's hand and pasted a target on Paul's chest, and what had Charles done? Saved Paul's life. The idiot. He could have solved all their problems so very neatly, but instead he threw that opportunity away. George didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.
However, eliminating Charles wasn't the point, in and of itself. Rather, the aim was to undermine Paul. Aside from Paul himself and perhaps Madeline, Charles was Section One's most experienced field operative, and during this latest fiasco he'd shown himself willing to be loyal to Paul despite having every reason to hate the man. That made Charles an asset: one that Paul was too much of an egotist to appreciate, and that George would therefore take away from him -- chipping away at Section's foundation, bit by bit, until it began to crumble out from under Paul's feet. The fact that George had maneuvered Paul into sabotaging himself only made things all the more satisfying. It might also -- or at least George hoped -- drive a wedge between Paul and Madeline. The day that happened, George was quite certain, would be the day Paul's reign would come to a crashing demise.
"Very well then," said George. "I'll contact you to schedule the first Committee meeting sometime in the next fortnight." He gathered up his overcoat to take his leave. As he made his way to the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "It slipped my mind until now, but I suppose I should extend my congratulations on your promotion."
"I could say the same to you."
Indeed he could. George smiled. The game had begun.
***
Madeline found Adrian's office -- no, Paul's office, she reminded herself -- completely empty. It had been stripped of all furniture, decorations, equipment -- even the floors appeared scrubbed clean, as if somehow that would banish Adrian's shade from within the walls. It didn't work. In fact, the cleansing only seemed to draw more attention to her absence.
Paul stood by the window ledge, watching through the glass at the activities on the floor below. When Madeline joined him, he looked up and smiled.
After all their plotting, all their struggles, they were victorious. It shocked her how good it felt: a dizzy euphoria gripped her, and the scope of the risk they'd faced only made it more exquisite. The feeling would fade, she knew, and then they'd have to seek out another challenge, like high-stakes gamblers addicted to beating the odds. But for now, it was glorious.
Eventually, Paul broke the spell. "Have you reviewed the protocols from Oversight?" he asked.
She nodded. "They're completely unworkable."
He rolled his eyes. "Then we'll have to ignore them."
"While appearing to comply, of course."
"Of course."
They shared a smile of silent understanding.
"We'll have to draw up our own internal regulations as well," he said.
"I've begun that process already."
"Good." He scowled. "I want the rules tightened up. Adrian let us get away with murder," he grunted. "I won't make the same mistake."
"I agree," said Madeline. "However," she added, "I suggest that we improve material conditions for anyone Level Two or above. Housing upgrades and enhanced expense allowances, all across the board." At his questioning look, she explained, "We need to reassure experienced personnel that they made the right decision in supporting us."
"What about those who didn't?"
"Some, we can remobilize to less desirable locations. Others, we'll need to purge."
"Mmm." He frowned. "How badly is that going to make us bleed?"
She shrugged. "We'll manage. With a little creative resource allocation, we can achieve full quotas in most departments within ninety days. The main exception is with the field operatives. I recommend implementation of an accelerated recruitment program over the next several quarters." He nodded, and she added, "Fortunately, we'll have Charles to manage tactical, and his experience will help compensate for some of the shortages."
"Ah. Yes. Charles." Paul turned to stare out the window. "When you first married him, I was skeptical. But you were right. It did turn out to be a good idea." He turned back to look at her, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. "The marriage has served its purpose now. There's no real reason to keep it up."
Wasn't there? She blinked in surprise. Perhaps not. After all, she had married Charles for eminently practical reasons, not the least of which was her belief that it might persuade him to side with them during a crisis. And she'd been right: he had, just when it counted the most. Goal achieved -- and that should have been that.
Why, then, did the suggestion that she end her marriage -- that she discard it like the empty promise she knew it was -- sting her with a sharp prick of resentment? For that matter, if her motives were as purely pragmatic as she liked to believe, why had she been so desperate to keep Charles away from Section One -- away from where he could be useful, but also away from where he'd be in danger -- on the day of the coup?
So far, she'd avoided asking herself that question. Now that Paul posed it for her, the answer was actually rather simple. It was because she liked coming home to Charles. Liked it more than she ever would have anticipated.
Her relationship with Paul might be more passionate. It was more everything, in fact -- and perhaps that was the very problem. Paul was like Section itself: rapacious, all-consuming to the point where, unless she held something back, unless she drew a circle and stood inside its boundaries, declaring "This is where I exist," he would demand everything. Or Section would demand everything. Or both of them would, now that they were one and the same.
Her marriage was that circle of independent existence. And Charles? She might not feel a burning desire for him, but what did that matter? Romantic love, after all, was irrational and destructive. Stability, warmth, mutual respect, affection: those were the things Charles offered. Those were good things. Things worth having. There was no shame in choosing them.
Her resentment faded, replaced by resolve. She looked at Paul steadily. "Married life suits me," she said. "I find it helps me focus on my work."
Section was insatiable, and Paul voracious. She understood that. She accepted it. She'd gladly give them everything she possessed -- except this one thing.
This one thing would be hers, and hers alone. She didn't think that was too much to ask.
***
Life at Center was everything Lisa could have asked for. She had her own residential suite, with a big-screen TV and a stereophonic home entertainment system, an exercise room, and a sauna. So that she didn't have to be bothered expending any effort to take care of herself, she had a cook, a maid, an assistant, a personal trainer, and a masseuse. She knew they were all spying on her and reporting to Jones, but she was nice to them anyway, because hey, what choice did they have? At the IT center she was now in charge of, she had a virtually unlimited budget to buy equipment so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet, plus an entire staff of hand-selected programmers to do her bidding. They were all terrified of her because she was the boss, so she was nice to them, too. No one shot at her anymore, and as far as she could tell no one ever would again; instead, she got to sit in front of a computer terminal all day long, working at the job of her dreams.
Life at Center, however, was nothing Lisa wanted. Because now she knew she'd never leave.
Center was a prison, in actuality, and she had a life sentence. It was all thanks to Veytoss. In order to create it -- or him, as she and her staff kept falling into the uncomfortable habit of saying -- she'd been given access to every single piece of data possessed by Center, as well as by Oversight and the Sections. As a result, she held the same security clearance as Jones himself. He, however, was the "philosopher king" and she the mere servant: while he could therefore come and go as he wished, she was confined to the premises.
Forever.
Jones warned her that if she ever contacted anyone outside Center, for whatever reason, he'd have that person killed. She believed him, and so she didn't even try. She confined her human interaction to her household staff, who were really her jailers, and her professional staff, who were really her prisoners. She spent her days constantly talking to people, and yet it was still a form of solitary confinement.
The world outside Center existed only on television or through the lens of a surveillance camera. Sometimes she turned on random feeds while she worked, like airport security networks or even traffic monitoring systems, just so she could feel like she'd gone somewhere. Mostly, however, she found herself tapping into Section One's surveillance -- she was homesick, and Section, oddly enough, felt a lot like home. Once, she spent an entire day trailing Walter as he went about his work. She ached to do something to get his attention, maybe to signal "hello" in Morse Code via flickering lights, but then she remembered Jones's warning and stopped herself. Jones had told her she was dead to the Section, and it was true. She was a ghost, omnipresent and invisible, able to watch and listen at will, but unable to come to life.
The other thing that Jones made very clear was that if she involved herself in any way in the lives of her sons -- to help them, protect them, or God forbid free them -- he'd have them killed, too. Her part in the experiment may have been over, but theirs would continue -- and no interference by her would be tolerated.
She could, however, watch over them. She could witness their lives from a distance, through status reports and surveillance footage. She could take pride in their triumphs and celebrate their moments of happiness. And if any harm ever befell either one of them, she could take revenge against whoever was responsible. Slow, meticulous, relentless, pitiless revenge. A revenge so subtle that the victim wouldn't recognize what was happening, but so thorough that there could be no escape. She might be a ghost, but thanks to Veytoss -- with his power over careers, over finances, over lives -- she could still reach out from the grave and bestow a curse.
That, however, was the future, something that might never come to pass. There was also the past to account for: wrongs already committed that cried out for justice. A man who treated her family as his plaything. A man who thought he was a god, or at least a king. She'd bring that man back down to earth and remind him he was a mortal, just like her -- that like all mortals, he could be judged and face retribution.
She couldn't kill him. Nothing so blatant or obvious. He had her watched day and night, and she'd never get the chance. Nor could she take a sledgehammer and smash Veytoss to bits, which was her second impulse. Jones would just cancel her and start all over again with another programmer.
So she thought about it. Obsessed over it. Ran through the options in her mind while she exercised on her treadmill, while she played old movies on the big-screen TV, while she scarfed down banana splits served to her in bed, while she walked through her state-of-the-art IT center at midnight and watched everyone work. And it finally came to her. The cruelest, most fitting punishment would be to give him exactly what he thought he wanted.
He wanted Veytoss to give him the answers to everything. He wanted to create a utopia led by a genetically-endowed elite. She'd give him both those things. Except that since he thought it was morally acceptable to enslave her children in the process, why, the same standard would apply to his family, too.
Her security clearance gave her access to everything -- including information about his daughters. One of them was already a prisoner, more or less -- coddled and spoiled and pampered, to be sure, but just as much a captive as Lisa. But there was another: a daughter who had her freedom. Not a false, provisional, we-can-yank-it-away-in-an-instant pseudo-freedom like Jason had, but the real thing.
It wasn't fair. So Veytoss -- as programmed by Lisa -- would put an end to that. Veytoss was going to proclaim this girl the savior and the chosen one, and if Jones truly believed in his own fucked-up philosophy, he'd have no choice but to do as Veytoss demanded. This girl would be recruited, and then Jones -- just like Lisa -- would have to sit by helplessly and watch, prohibited from intervening, while his own child was "tested" for genetic worthiness. All because Veytoss said so, and because Jones was madman enough to follow the dictates of silicon prophet.
Veytoss was power. Veytoss was also karma.
And karma was about to meet a girl named Nikita.
***
A steady ant trail of workers trudged in and out of Madeline's new office. Some carried boxes; others arranged furniture; still others installed fixtures. Doing her best to ignore the background noise, Kathleen, the senior administrator of Recruiting, spread out several files across the coffee table. The top one bore the label, "Samuelle, M."
"We followed your search parameters and identified twenty-three potential recruits," said Kathleen. "But I've looked over the files and, honestly, I don't think any of them are going to work out."
"We'll see." Madeline leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and examined the other woman carefully. Kathleen, Madeline suspected, didn't fully understand Madeline's new criteria. She hadn't yet adapted from Adrian's way of doing things. She'd better adjust quickly if she wanted to keep her job. They were short-staffed, certainly, but everyone was still expendable.
Kathleen began to clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap, as if uncomfortable being the subject of such intense scrutiny. She and Madeline never got along particularly well. Once, in fact, shortly after Madeline married Charles, Kathleen had made a snide remark about Madeline sleeping her way to the top. Madeline hadn't forgotten it. Neither had Kathleen, judging by the way she now squirmed in her seat at the prospect of Madeline being second-in-command.
Madeline wouldn't hold it against her. As powerful as the temptation might be, she wouldn't allow herself to indulge in petty grudges. She was stronger than that, she told herself, and that's why she deserved to wield the power she now held.
Still, she couldn't help but derive a certain enjoyment from seeing how nervous Kathleen seemed. There was no point setting her mind at ease, at least not immediately. She'd let the anxiety intensify a while longer before she revealed herself to be the gracious victor, and then Kathleen would be all the more in her debt.
It was always useful to hold a debt. Madeline was starting to collect them.
"I think that's all for now," she said, polite but cold. "Thank you, Kathleen."
Kathleen departed as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run, the relief on her face apparent. Madeline gathered the files and placed them on her desk for later review. Despite Kathleen's doubts, Madeline hoped she could salvage a few decent prospects out of the collection.
However, while additional recruits would help in the long term, they needed short-term solutions as well. They'd done the best they could to restructure with the resources they had. Thanks to some imaginative personnel reassignments, they'd managed to keep most departments running without major disruptions. But Madeline still felt as if they were only one step ahead of disaster -- that a badly-timed death or illness or just a simple mistake could bring missions to a standstill.
The biggest headache was Systems. There weren't actually many Adrian loyalists there to purge. That would have been easier to deal with. The real problem was far more entrenched: a culture of laziness, of doing just the minimum necessary to get by, of cutting corners and finding ways to shift the blame. It was the sort of thing that couldn't be remedied by replacing marginal performers here and there -- their entire approach to work had to be relearned. Perhaps from scratch.
Madeline had anticipated commencing that process by putting Lisa -- an outsider -- in charge. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. She'd have to keep Jules on, for now.
But maybe not too much longer.
Lisa's son -- that boy up on Level 16 -- had shown himself to be a genuine prodigy: the kind that existed in fiction but one never expected to meet in real life. He'd planted those fake financial records so perfectly that the Council's data forensics team had been completely fooled. It was remarkable. And if he could do that -- with hardly any effort, it had seemed -- what miracles might he accomplish if she turned him loose in Systems?
That might just be the answer. She'd have to test him out in stages, of course. She couldn't just place a 12-year-old in charge of a mission-critical department. So she'd retain Jules and assign this boy -- what was his name again? Seymour? -- small projects here and there, just to see how he handled them. If he did well, if he had the kind of potential that Madeline believed he did, then in a few more years, who knew? Jules might wind up working for him instead of the other way around.
Was it crossing an ethical line to put a child -- however brilliant -- to work? Probably. There was also the promise she'd made to Lisa to find a way to set Seymour free. She'd meant it at the time, but, well, that was before she knew what he was capable of. As nice a gesture to Lisa's memory as it might be, throwing away a resource like that would be foolish. Besides, what meaning did a promise to the dead have, anyway? It wasn't like Lisa was still around to be grateful.
It was settled, then. She would go ahead and use him. Curiously, she didn't feel any guilt at the prospect. Once, she might have felt a twinge -- a compulsion to justify herself, to rationalize away the actions that left her morally uncomfortable. Now, she reached inside -- and felt nothing. She had no more doubts, and thus felt no more need to persuade or reassure herself. She knew her place in the world, knew her purpose in life, knew the significance of her identity -- and knew exactly what she was and wasn't willing to do. There were no more unresolved choices, and thus no more questions to ask -- only work to do and action to take.
Somewhere along the way, she'd crossed a threshold. She wasn't sure where, and she wasn't sure when, but she knew there was no going back. Maybe that was a kind of freedom. Or maybe it was a kind of death.
It didn't matter. She'd died so many times already; what was once more?
***The End***
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
When George arrived, he found Paul pacing impatiently in Section One's conference area. George glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late, just as he planned. He'd considered making it thirty, but that would have been too obvious. No, twenty was perfect, judging by the angry flush in Paul's cheeks.
George could have demanded that Paul come to Oversight's newly-opened offices. He decided, instead, that the symbolism was better at Section One. Meeting here served as a reminder to Paul that Section was George's territory, not Paul's. A reminder that Paul was a caretaker, not an owner, and that he held his privileges only at George's sufferance.
George went to stand -- quite deliberately -- a little too close to Paul. It was intended as another territorial encroachment, one meant to force Paul to step backwards in an acknowledgement of his subordination. Paul, however, remained resolutely in place, staring at George with those pallid eyes that always seemed so vacant of anything but self-absorption. Alas, once George adopted his stance he could hardly reverse himself, so they were stuck in place, inches away from each other's faces, trapped in nauseating proximity to each other.
"I'll be forwarding Oversight's new protocols within the week," said George. "You'll be expected to conform to them to the letter."
"Of course."
"You will submit weekly reports on all activities. In addition, once a month, you'll attend a Committee meeting at Oversight with the other Section heads."
"Understood."
George leaned in even closer, so close he could barely stand it. "There will be no black ops," he growled, "no secret projects, no off-the-book accounts -- and absolutely no deviation from my instructions."
"Whatever you say." Paul didn't change expression in the slightest, but he still managed to convey the impression that he was smirking -- as if delighting in the prospect of violating every single instruction George had just given.
"I'm glad that's clear," George said, but he wasn't glad at all. In fact, the veins in his temple were starting to throb.
Being caught between Phillip and Paul was like being consigned to one of the inner circles of hell. A fitting punishment, he supposed, for his treachery. Except that it wasn't treachery. Adrian had been on a path of self-destruction. If things had taken their natural course -- if George hadn't intervened to ease her out in a controlled fashion -- she might very well have wound up dead instead of retired in splendor on her plush country estate. He'd saved her life. He'd saved the very organizations that she held so dear. He'd done the right thing, really, and he deserved accolades, not punishment.
In any event, Paul's ascension at Section One was just a temporary setback. One that George would now bring to an end. Or at least he could take the first step in that direction.
He took a step backwards to put Paul at ease. "Now that's all settled, I'd like to address a more sensitive matter."
"Yes?"
"It's about Charles Sand."
"Really?" Paul's forehead creased in surprise.
"There is a source," said George, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, "who I'm afraid must remain confidential. He claims that Charles has been passing intel to Red Cell."
It was a complete fabrication, and not even a very believable one. But it didn't have to be: it was mere bait to dangle in front of Paul. Would he bite?
Paul looked dubious. "Charles? Working with Red Cell?"
George shrugged. "There's no real proof. In fact, I don't find it credible in the least. However...."
Paul raised his eyebrows.
"It's somewhat inconvenient for there to be suspicion cast on someone -- how do I put this -- so intimately connected to Section's leadership," said George. "Especially so soon after the recent upheavals. An investigation -- no matter how it turned out -- would reflect badly on everyone and might undermine the Council's confidence in the new leadership structure."
"I see." Paul nodded gravely. He'd bitten, just as George hoped. Now all that remained to be seen was whether the hook would catch or not.
"It might be better," George said, "if the issue could be resolved informally, without the Council having to be involved."
"I agree."
"Then I trust you'll take care of it."
"I'll make it my top priority."
And so the hook caught. Charles, of course, was utterly finished. Which he thoroughly deserved, as far as George was concerned. George had virtually pressed a gun into the man's hand and pasted a target on Paul's chest, and what had Charles done? Saved Paul's life. The idiot. He could have solved all their problems so very neatly, but instead he threw that opportunity away. George didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.
However, eliminating Charles wasn't the point, in and of itself. Rather, the aim was to undermine Paul. Aside from Paul himself and perhaps Madeline, Charles was Section One's most experienced field operative, and during this latest fiasco he'd shown himself willing to be loyal to Paul despite having every reason to hate the man. That made Charles an asset: one that Paul was too much of an egotist to appreciate, and that George would therefore take away from him -- chipping away at Section's foundation, bit by bit, until it began to crumble out from under Paul's feet. The fact that George had maneuvered Paul into sabotaging himself only made things all the more satisfying. It might also -- or at least George hoped -- drive a wedge between Paul and Madeline. The day that happened, George was quite certain, would be the day Paul's reign would come to a crashing demise.
"Very well then," said George. "I'll contact you to schedule the first Committee meeting sometime in the next fortnight." He gathered up his overcoat to take his leave. As he made his way to the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "It slipped my mind until now, but I suppose I should extend my congratulations on your promotion."
"I could say the same to you."
Indeed he could. George smiled. The game had begun.
***
Madeline found Adrian's office -- no, Paul's office, she reminded herself -- completely empty. It had been stripped of all furniture, decorations, equipment -- even the floors appeared scrubbed clean, as if somehow that would banish Adrian's shade from within the walls. It didn't work. In fact, the cleansing only seemed to draw more attention to her absence.
Paul stood by the window ledge, watching through the glass at the activities on the floor below. When Madeline joined him, he looked up and smiled.
After all their plotting, all their struggles, they were victorious. It shocked her how good it felt: a dizzy euphoria gripped her, and the scope of the risk they'd faced only made it more exquisite. The feeling would fade, she knew, and then they'd have to seek out another challenge, like high-stakes gamblers addicted to beating the odds. But for now, it was glorious.
Eventually, Paul broke the spell. "Have you reviewed the protocols from Oversight?" he asked.
She nodded. "They're completely unworkable."
He rolled his eyes. "Then we'll have to ignore them."
"While appearing to comply, of course."
"Of course."
They shared a smile of silent understanding.
"We'll have to draw up our own internal regulations as well," he said.
"I've begun that process already."
"Good." He scowled. "I want the rules tightened up. Adrian let us get away with murder," he grunted. "I won't make the same mistake."
"I agree," said Madeline. "However," she added, "I suggest that we improve material conditions for anyone Level Two or above. Housing upgrades and enhanced expense allowances, all across the board." At his questioning look, she explained, "We need to reassure experienced personnel that they made the right decision in supporting us."
"What about those who didn't?"
"Some, we can remobilize to less desirable locations. Others, we'll need to purge."
"Mmm." He frowned. "How badly is that going to make us bleed?"
She shrugged. "We'll manage. With a little creative resource allocation, we can achieve full quotas in most departments within ninety days. The main exception is with the field operatives. I recommend implementation of an accelerated recruitment program over the next several quarters." He nodded, and she added, "Fortunately, we'll have Charles to manage tactical, and his experience will help compensate for some of the shortages."
"Ah. Yes. Charles." Paul turned to stare out the window. "When you first married him, I was skeptical. But you were right. It did turn out to be a good idea." He turned back to look at her, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. "The marriage has served its purpose now. There's no real reason to keep it up."
Wasn't there? She blinked in surprise. Perhaps not. After all, she had married Charles for eminently practical reasons, not the least of which was her belief that it might persuade him to side with them during a crisis. And she'd been right: he had, just when it counted the most. Goal achieved -- and that should have been that.
Why, then, did the suggestion that she end her marriage -- that she discard it like the empty promise she knew it was -- sting her with a sharp prick of resentment? For that matter, if her motives were as purely pragmatic as she liked to believe, why had she been so desperate to keep Charles away from Section One -- away from where he could be useful, but also away from where he'd be in danger -- on the day of the coup?
So far, she'd avoided asking herself that question. Now that Paul posed it for her, the answer was actually rather simple. It was because she liked coming home to Charles. Liked it more than she ever would have anticipated.
Her relationship with Paul might be more passionate. It was more everything, in fact -- and perhaps that was the very problem. Paul was like Section itself: rapacious, all-consuming to the point where, unless she held something back, unless she drew a circle and stood inside its boundaries, declaring "This is where I exist," he would demand everything. Or Section would demand everything. Or both of them would, now that they were one and the same.
Her marriage was that circle of independent existence. And Charles? She might not feel a burning desire for him, but what did that matter? Romantic love, after all, was irrational and destructive. Stability, warmth, mutual respect, affection: those were the things Charles offered. Those were good things. Things worth having. There was no shame in choosing them.
Her resentment faded, replaced by resolve. She looked at Paul steadily. "Married life suits me," she said. "I find it helps me focus on my work."
Section was insatiable, and Paul voracious. She understood that. She accepted it. She'd gladly give them everything she possessed -- except this one thing.
This one thing would be hers, and hers alone. She didn't think that was too much to ask.
***
Life at Center was everything Lisa could have asked for. She had her own residential suite, with a big-screen TV and a stereophonic home entertainment system, an exercise room, and a sauna. So that she didn't have to be bothered expending any effort to take care of herself, she had a cook, a maid, an assistant, a personal trainer, and a masseuse. She knew they were all spying on her and reporting to Jones, but she was nice to them anyway, because hey, what choice did they have? At the IT center she was now in charge of, she had a virtually unlimited budget to buy equipment so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet, plus an entire staff of hand-selected programmers to do her bidding. They were all terrified of her because she was the boss, so she was nice to them, too. No one shot at her anymore, and as far as she could tell no one ever would again; instead, she got to sit in front of a computer terminal all day long, working at the job of her dreams.
Life at Center, however, was nothing Lisa wanted. Because now she knew she'd never leave.
Center was a prison, in actuality, and she had a life sentence. It was all thanks to Veytoss. In order to create it -- or him, as she and her staff kept falling into the uncomfortable habit of saying -- she'd been given access to every single piece of data possessed by Center, as well as by Oversight and the Sections. As a result, she held the same security clearance as Jones himself. He, however, was the "philosopher king" and she the mere servant: while he could therefore come and go as he wished, she was confined to the premises.
Forever.
Jones warned her that if she ever contacted anyone outside Center, for whatever reason, he'd have that person killed. She believed him, and so she didn't even try. She confined her human interaction to her household staff, who were really her jailers, and her professional staff, who were really her prisoners. She spent her days constantly talking to people, and yet it was still a form of solitary confinement.
The world outside Center existed only on television or through the lens of a surveillance camera. Sometimes she turned on random feeds while she worked, like airport security networks or even traffic monitoring systems, just so she could feel like she'd gone somewhere. Mostly, however, she found herself tapping into Section One's surveillance -- she was homesick, and Section, oddly enough, felt a lot like home. Once, she spent an entire day trailing Walter as he went about his work. She ached to do something to get his attention, maybe to signal "hello" in Morse Code via flickering lights, but then she remembered Jones's warning and stopped herself. Jones had told her she was dead to the Section, and it was true. She was a ghost, omnipresent and invisible, able to watch and listen at will, but unable to come to life.
The other thing that Jones made very clear was that if she involved herself in any way in the lives of her sons -- to help them, protect them, or God forbid free them -- he'd have them killed, too. Her part in the experiment may have been over, but theirs would continue -- and no interference by her would be tolerated.
She could, however, watch over them. She could witness their lives from a distance, through status reports and surveillance footage. She could take pride in their triumphs and celebrate their moments of happiness. And if any harm ever befell either one of them, she could take revenge against whoever was responsible. Slow, meticulous, relentless, pitiless revenge. A revenge so subtle that the victim wouldn't recognize what was happening, but so thorough that there could be no escape. She might be a ghost, but thanks to Veytoss -- with his power over careers, over finances, over lives -- she could still reach out from the grave and bestow a curse.
That, however, was the future, something that might never come to pass. There was also the past to account for: wrongs already committed that cried out for justice. A man who treated her family as his plaything. A man who thought he was a god, or at least a king. She'd bring that man back down to earth and remind him he was a mortal, just like her -- that like all mortals, he could be judged and face retribution.
She couldn't kill him. Nothing so blatant or obvious. He had her watched day and night, and she'd never get the chance. Nor could she take a sledgehammer and smash Veytoss to bits, which was her second impulse. Jones would just cancel her and start all over again with another programmer.
So she thought about it. Obsessed over it. Ran through the options in her mind while she exercised on her treadmill, while she played old movies on the big-screen TV, while she scarfed down banana splits served to her in bed, while she walked through her state-of-the-art IT center at midnight and watched everyone work. And it finally came to her. The cruelest, most fitting punishment would be to give him exactly what he thought he wanted.
He wanted Veytoss to give him the answers to everything. He wanted to create a utopia led by a genetically-endowed elite. She'd give him both those things. Except that since he thought it was morally acceptable to enslave her children in the process, why, the same standard would apply to his family, too.
Her security clearance gave her access to everything -- including information about his daughters. One of them was already a prisoner, more or less -- coddled and spoiled and pampered, to be sure, but just as much a captive as Lisa. But there was another: a daughter who had her freedom. Not a false, provisional, we-can-yank-it-away-in-an-instant pseudo-freedom like Jason had, but the real thing.
It wasn't fair. So Veytoss -- as programmed by Lisa -- would put an end to that. Veytoss was going to proclaim this girl the savior and the chosen one, and if Jones truly believed in his own fucked-up philosophy, he'd have no choice but to do as Veytoss demanded. This girl would be recruited, and then Jones -- just like Lisa -- would have to sit by helplessly and watch, prohibited from intervening, while his own child was "tested" for genetic worthiness. All because Veytoss said so, and because Jones was madman enough to follow the dictates of silicon prophet.
Veytoss was power. Veytoss was also karma.
And karma was about to meet a girl named Nikita.
***
A steady ant trail of workers trudged in and out of Madeline's new office. Some carried boxes; others arranged furniture; still others installed fixtures. Doing her best to ignore the background noise, Kathleen, the senior administrator of Recruiting, spread out several files across the coffee table. The top one bore the label, "Samuelle, M."
"We followed your search parameters and identified twenty-three potential recruits," said Kathleen. "But I've looked over the files and, honestly, I don't think any of them are going to work out."
"We'll see." Madeline leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and examined the other woman carefully. Kathleen, Madeline suspected, didn't fully understand Madeline's new criteria. She hadn't yet adapted from Adrian's way of doing things. She'd better adjust quickly if she wanted to keep her job. They were short-staffed, certainly, but everyone was still expendable.
Kathleen began to clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap, as if uncomfortable being the subject of such intense scrutiny. She and Madeline never got along particularly well. Once, in fact, shortly after Madeline married Charles, Kathleen had made a snide remark about Madeline sleeping her way to the top. Madeline hadn't forgotten it. Neither had Kathleen, judging by the way she now squirmed in her seat at the prospect of Madeline being second-in-command.
Madeline wouldn't hold it against her. As powerful as the temptation might be, she wouldn't allow herself to indulge in petty grudges. She was stronger than that, she told herself, and that's why she deserved to wield the power she now held.
Still, she couldn't help but derive a certain enjoyment from seeing how nervous Kathleen seemed. There was no point setting her mind at ease, at least not immediately. She'd let the anxiety intensify a while longer before she revealed herself to be the gracious victor, and then Kathleen would be all the more in her debt.
It was always useful to hold a debt. Madeline was starting to collect them.
"I think that's all for now," she said, polite but cold. "Thank you, Kathleen."
Kathleen departed as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run, the relief on her face apparent. Madeline gathered the files and placed them on her desk for later review. Despite Kathleen's doubts, Madeline hoped she could salvage a few decent prospects out of the collection.
However, while additional recruits would help in the long term, they needed short-term solutions as well. They'd done the best they could to restructure with the resources they had. Thanks to some imaginative personnel reassignments, they'd managed to keep most departments running without major disruptions. But Madeline still felt as if they were only one step ahead of disaster -- that a badly-timed death or illness or just a simple mistake could bring missions to a standstill.
The biggest headache was Systems. There weren't actually many Adrian loyalists there to purge. That would have been easier to deal with. The real problem was far more entrenched: a culture of laziness, of doing just the minimum necessary to get by, of cutting corners and finding ways to shift the blame. It was the sort of thing that couldn't be remedied by replacing marginal performers here and there -- their entire approach to work had to be relearned. Perhaps from scratch.
Madeline had anticipated commencing that process by putting Lisa -- an outsider -- in charge. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. She'd have to keep Jules on, for now.
But maybe not too much longer.
Lisa's son -- that boy up on Level 16 -- had shown himself to be a genuine prodigy: the kind that existed in fiction but one never expected to meet in real life. He'd planted those fake financial records so perfectly that the Council's data forensics team had been completely fooled. It was remarkable. And if he could do that -- with hardly any effort, it had seemed -- what miracles might he accomplish if she turned him loose in Systems?
That might just be the answer. She'd have to test him out in stages, of course. She couldn't just place a 12-year-old in charge of a mission-critical department. So she'd retain Jules and assign this boy -- what was his name again? Seymour? -- small projects here and there, just to see how he handled them. If he did well, if he had the kind of potential that Madeline believed he did, then in a few more years, who knew? Jules might wind up working for him instead of the other way around.
Was it crossing an ethical line to put a child -- however brilliant -- to work? Probably. There was also the promise she'd made to Lisa to find a way to set Seymour free. She'd meant it at the time, but, well, that was before she knew what he was capable of. As nice a gesture to Lisa's memory as it might be, throwing away a resource like that would be foolish. Besides, what meaning did a promise to the dead have, anyway? It wasn't like Lisa was still around to be grateful.
It was settled, then. She would go ahead and use him. Curiously, she didn't feel any guilt at the prospect. Once, she might have felt a twinge -- a compulsion to justify herself, to rationalize away the actions that left her morally uncomfortable. Now, she reached inside -- and felt nothing. She had no more doubts, and thus felt no more need to persuade or reassure herself. She knew her place in the world, knew her purpose in life, knew the significance of her identity -- and knew exactly what she was and wasn't willing to do. There were no more unresolved choices, and thus no more questions to ask -- only work to do and action to take.
Somewhere along the way, she'd crossed a threshold. She wasn't sure where, and she wasn't sure when, but she knew there was no going back. Maybe that was a kind of freedom. Or maybe it was a kind of death.
It didn't matter. She'd died so many times already; what was once more?
***The End***