The Director

2409

Director Meyer awoke, instantly alert, any trace of sleep already gone from his mind. He sat bolt upright in bed, disorientated. His head pounded briefly with the after effects of overindulgence from the previous evening, before the pain receded to a dull throb somewhere between his eyes. Out of habit he groped briefly for his glasses before remembering, not for the first time, that he no longer needed them. He cast his eyes around the darkened space.

Moonlight pooled on the marble floor, a milky luminescence reflected around the room. It caught the pale shoulder of an anonymous girl, unconscious in the bed besides him, almost lost amongst the sheets and pillows and the black tresses of her own hair. One of Roux's girls, unless that had been the night before last. A few empty tox sacs littered the bed, and he brushed them away with a sweep of his hands.

The far reaches of his expansive chambers remained in formless shadow but for the dark wood of sumptuous furnishings that loomed out of it, solid and reassuring. Nothing stirred there. All was still except the curtains that rippled on the cool breeze that drifted in from the open balcony doors. His heartbeat slowly settled. What had disturbed him?

Meyer lay back down, willing himself back to sleep. It would not do to put off his scheduled appearance in the Conurbation again, and it was hard enough dealing with the horrible racket and stench of the place without also being tired and hungover. Meyer firmly believed that ordinary people, with their dumb, dead eyes, grasping hands and endless bovine moaning were a completely different species. They didn't deserve his time.

He screwed his eyes tight in frustration. Images of black-clad assassins skulked unbidden through his mind. He was being paranoid, he told himself - the new palace was a veritable fortress. The guards would apprehend anyone before they could even get within a kilometre of the place. But he couldn't shake the feeling of a foreign presence. A chill shock of fear coursed through him when he saw the man.

A tall figure hunched over the balustrade straightened himself and turned, heading inside, slender form briefly silhouetted against the curtain. Meyer's heart was beating harder now - he was sure the intruder must hear it. He pulled the covers up and consciously tried to slow his breathing. The interloper padded softly into the room, but not in a way that would suggest caution - the gait sounded quite casual. Was this it? Was he about to die? He cringed in anticipation. But there was no gunshot, just a voice.

'Director.' He felt his body tense up as they addressed him. 'Director, get up,' the intruder repeated. There was something about that voice. He was sure he recognised it.

Meyer marshalled his reserves of courage and steadied his own voice. 'Lights,' he uttered, sitting up in bed. The lamp on the bedside table came on. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. A tall, gaunt man clad entirely in black stood at the end of his bed. Dark, watchful eyes regarded him coolly. 'Vash?'

'Good morning, Director.' Vash's voice was slow and measured. It somehow managed to sound like the voice of someone much older than the fifty years his appearance suggested, old enough to make the Director Meyer feel suddenly young in comparison. It chilled him. The blind animal panic was replaced by a deeper sense of unease. The fact that Meyer recognised the man did nothing to settle his nerves. This man shouldn't be here, not now at this absurdly early hour. Not here alone in his private quarters without invitation.

'Vash,' he repeated again, more authoritatively than he felt, stalling for time. The man ignored him and busied himself by pulling a chair up, sitting and leaning forwards.

Meyer had always considered Vash disrespectful of authority, as though he followed the protocols simply because it cost him so little, because he cared so little for them. But this was something else, this was inexcusable.