"Andrea, did you hear me?" Austin's voice pierces my thoughts. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Hm?"
"I was asking you if you think you're ready to go see iTronics. Do you think you'll go tomorrow?"
"I...I don't know. I hadn't thought about it."
It's mid-afternoon, and I'm sitting with him in the kitchen. We've been lingering over cups of green tea that the house gave us when we asked for coffee.
I was supposed to accompany Rupert to iTronics headquarters the day after we arrived in New Rome. But that was weeks ago and I've been putting him off ever since.
The truth is, I've already thought about it and have already resolved against going tomorrow. My reluctance is borne of the nausea I feel every time I think of dealing with my father's corporation. I've inwardly resolved to go when the feeling finally passes.
We're sitting at the gracefully sloping marble bar of the kitchen across from a double wide fridge. It's equipped with computer systems in possession of more processing capacity than a decade old desktop FlexScreen and is disguised as dark cabinetry.
We are getting used to the feeling of ordering up dinner with a vocal command and having mounds of steaming Chicken Korma deposited on the counter from machines unseen. There is a dining room at our disposal, but its grandeur makes it feel unapproachable.
Rupert told us that it's mainly for guests and that when he was at home, Donald had preferred to eat in his study.
"Well, we've been here for a couple weeks. Don't you think it's time?"
I'm silent a moment. How can I explain my reluctance?
"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do there."
"I'm sure someone will explain it to you," he says. "Have you asked Rupert about it?"
"Well, no. But it's not that. I still...I just don't get it. What am I doing here, Austin? I'm a teacher."
"Yes, you were a teacher. But you were also written into Donald Anderson's will. Do you really think he would have done that if he thought you were completely incompetent?"
"He never even knew me."
I take a sip of my tea to distract myself from the tears that threaten at the thought of the father I never met.
Austin gazes at me in silence. The whirring of computer fans rush in to fill the absence of speech. He puts his cup down on its saucer.
"That's true," he says and my shoulders slump. I feel his arm go around them. "But I know you. And I know you can do it. You have to at least try. And if you think you can't -- I can help you."
I take a deep breath and glance up at him from lowered eyes. "Really?"
"Of course." He smiles and clasps me to him. "Besides, what the hell else am I going to do?"
The comment makes me laugh despite myself. "I should be insulted by that."
"So be insulted. It's not going to stop me from helping you."
I tuck my head into his shoulder and we just sit and say nothing. I'm so glad that I have him back, I can't speak. And so we just sit, and just be.
"So what do you think?" he asks at last. "Is tomorrow the day?"
#
Weak, red sunlight glints off the domes of the other neighbourhoods. They sit on the shoreline of the Hellas Basin like pearls brought in by the surf.
The great inland sea stretches across the horizon like a glimmering, subtropical mimic of Lake Ontario back home. Under other domes, sprawling estates make inroads on the foot of the mountain ridge across the river. All of these neighbourhoods are linked to each other by a network of wide, covered avenues.
There are also plenty of construction projects. Dozens of them litter the landscape, surrounded by swarms of drones buzzing in the air like clouds of locusts.
The city is a patchwork of quirky artist communities, pristine townhouses and High Street shopping, gathered around the monuments and piazzas scattered between. I can see it all from here, on the highest floor of the tallest building in New Rome: iTronics headquarters.
This is the first time I've seen New Rome spread out like a blanket before me. The sun is burning off dawn dew, its light casting shadows in the streets that line the European District like river valleys between the mountainous buildings.
It's the morning after Austin and I decided I should start work. I stand facing the windows. I arrived first, earlier than anyone else in the office. There is no reason to be early and it works on my stomach as I try to calm myself with the view of the city.
I hear the glass doors of the conference room swoosh open behind me and glance over my shoulder. Rupert enters, examining and poking at a FlexScreen.
"Rupert," I say as I turn full on him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Ms. Anderson," he replies in his formal manner.
He rolls he Flexscreen and tucks it into the inside breast pocket of his tweed sports jacket. As he approaches the long bank of windows that run the entire room, I look to the street below.
"Why me?" I ask quietly.
"Why did he pick you, you mean?"
"Yeah. I just can't help feeling like someone from the company would have been better."
"Mere lackeys." He smiles. "You are his heir, Andrea, his daughter. I would be very much surprised if you didn't turn out to be something of a leader. Now come, this is where you are and this is who you are. You'd best embrace it, hm?"
Just then, a small cluster of men burst through the automatic door, all chattering at once. They are all middle aged or older.
All of them laugh at a joke someone just cracked. Behind them is a silver bot with a wide base, jointed arms and a white monitor where its face should be.
The bot heads towards the table and its base opens to reveal trays of pastries that look like Danishes, but in pastel and bright colors like sky blue and orange. The machine deposits the tray on the center of the oblong conference table.
The men spot Rupert and I near the windows. They wind their way around the table to greet me. I try to smile at them.
"Andrea, this is the Vincent Palmore, your Chief Operating Officer; Safra Li, your Chief Financial Officer and Anton Salvino, the Secretary-Treasurer of iTronics," Rupert says. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Andrea Anderson."
#
"Democratic?" She asks. "With all due respect, Ms. Anderson, this is not a governmental body. It is a corporate Board of Directors. If you ask the shareholders to vote on this matter, there will be trouble."
Emma Murphy is a svelte woman past middle age whose suit jacket is nipped to show her tiny waist and whose strawberry blond waves are pulled back into a severe updo.
I met with my executives yesterday, and it went well. I wasn't required to say anything beyond a formal welcome speech, which my nerves kept short.
The rest of the meeting had been a lot of business jargon I had only half understood. But this morning I'm meeting with the Board of Directors. And it's not going well.
"The first order of business is this extra money," states Emma as she glances at the screen that has appears in the table. She is one of the four members of the Board, which includes myself as Chairwoman.
Chairwoman of the Board. Chief Executive Officer. President and Majority Owner of the iTronics Group. I can't think of my titles now. They are too many, too surreal. I'll let it all sink in later. Right now, there's work to be done.
"The proposal is that the money go either back to the shareholders or to R&D."
"I..." I begin.
"Is there something you want to say?" Murphy, as they call her, looks up over her glasses at me.
There are only two others in the room. Both of them aging, both of them looking at me with severely furrowed brows. They are Donald's closest business allies.
There is Jill Epstein, a rotund little thing with dark hair cut short and perfunctory. And then there's Gabriel Santiago, a fellow with a deep olive complexion and graying hair. He wears a sport coat and a massive ruby settled into a chunk of gold on his right hand.
"I was just wondering, how much are we talking about?" I ask. I take a sip of the latte that the robotic cafe delivered.
"Ten billion." She doesn't blink or flinch as she says the number. But I nearly choke.
"Ten? Ten billion? That's not much, is it?" I ask sarcastically.
"Not compared to your net worth. Not compared to the net worth of the company. Now, to get back to the question of what to do with it --"
"I'm sorry," I interject. "I'm not sure I understand what's going on. So what you're saying is that we're about to take this money -- this ten billion -- and what? Just decide what to do with it? Right here in this room -- right now?"
"We have every intention of taking executive proposals into consideration," she explains. "Indeed, we will probably take their suggestion. But essentially, yes, we will make the decision here in this room. Although perhaps not today."
"But..." I look between each of their faces. "I'm the majority owner, right? But there are other owners -- stockholders? Don't they get to vote on major stuff in the company?"
"I'd hardly call this major --"
"You are well versed in matters of business for a former schoolteacher, no?" Santiago asks from across the table.
"I like to be prepared," I offer as a retort.
"But you do not know enough to see that stockholders vote only on major changes. Not on day-to-day functions of the company."
"And this is one of those -- a day-to-day function? Just like that? Just ten billion dollars, here today and gone tomorrow?"
"Now you see." He leans back in his chair.
"Don't you think that's a bit undemocratic?" I ask of the table. That's when things get really ugly.
"What would have us do?" Asks Epstein. "Open every decision about the company to a shareholder vote? We'd get nothing done. The stockholders can vote on major decisions only. And we reserve that for the annual meeting."
"I see what this is about." Murphy turns from Epstein to me. "You just need more time. Why don't you spend some time familiarizing yourself with how things work around here. To get you up to speed."
She places her hand over mine as she speaks. Startled by the gesture, I stare at her hand. "And then, perhaps, we can have a real talk about what to do with the money."
(Continued in Chapter 73...)