The New Guardians

By Alan Spade

During the board meeting of the prestigious smartphone company Bluenak, a senior executive, filmed by one of his peers, rushes at one of his colleagues and tries to strangle him, as if possessed. It will take seven men to subdue him before he dies of a heart attack.

 

On his way to California to investigate a biotech company, Vick Lempereur has no idea that he will have to face the most formidable opponent that has ever crossed his path, nor that this trail will finally lead him to Bluenak. In order to survive, physical and supernatural help will not be too much to ask for—that of the New Guardians, and their very special skills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Spade
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393467588

Alan Spade

Alan Spade worked for eight years for the press, reviewing video games. In his youth, he acquainted himself with the classic French authors, while immersing himself in the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Isaac Asimov, J. R. R. Tolkien and Stephen King. That wide range of influences is reflected in his style, simultaneously approachable, visually evocative and imaginative. Alan likes to say that "a good book is like a good old pair of shoes: you feel at ease inside, comfortable." The Breath of Aoles is his third book: previously, he wrote a fantasy novel for two years, between 2001 and 2003, but after submitting it to publishers, he decided the story wasn't good enough. He didn't try to publish it anymore. Then he wrote a Science Fiction short stories collection, and then, for six years, The Breath of Aoles.

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Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Dawn Lewis for her so precious help with the book.

*****

1. Broadway Reception

The Chevrolet Camaro made the roar of its V8 engine heard as it snuck into the Golden City’s traffic. Such a sporty model was obviously anything but suitable for driving in a city like San Francisco, but Ryan Cochrane had always demanded a response—both from toys like the car under his control and from his subordinates. Overlooking Broadway, Allen’s villa was located in one of the few green spaces on Russian Hill, near Ina Coolbrith Park. The parking valets took turns to take care of the vehicles.

Be careful, Ryan said to the black man with a slender figure and effeminate features, to whom he handed over the ignition key along with a fifty-dollar bill. The man in the braid-trimmed livery reacted by smiling and then tilting his head.

Projectors were sweeping across the facade of the building, as if it wanted to claim that it was the center of San Francisco that night. Standing in front of the colorful porch, Ryan gazed at the Victorian-style facade flanked on the right side by its round tower, radiant with whiteness. It was cold in this month of December, but relatively dry. The wind intermittently stirred the large palm leaves. Cheerful conversations were coming from couples in evening wear, like him, entering the reception hall with an enthusiastic step. He could not get rid of a feeling of unease. The week of a senior executive of a smartphone company like Bluenak, whose capitalization exceeded $150 billion, was mostly hectic, and this one had proved to be particularly feverish—and nerve-wracking. Nevertheless, the fact that he could not remember when he had met Allen in the middle of all his other appointments troubled him. His friend’s words, however, had remained engraved in his memory. I know you’re going to be in trouble very soon. I’m having a little reception on Friday night on Broadway. Come and see me. It was only when he received confirmation of the invitation to this evening by email that the scene came back to his mind. Despite all his efforts, the exact chronology of this interview request escaped him, and that was what was bothering him.

Ryan made the marble hall resonate with his thousand-dollar-plus Valentino shoes. Typical of Allen the politician, to invite him to this kind of festivity to make contact. His position, combined with his fortune—his father had built an empire in oil—made him an extremely influential man. He had eyes and ears everywhere, but he also knew he was being watched. If Allen Fortiler, a federal judge at the Department of Justice, had openly received Ryan Cochrane, Bluenak’s import-export manager, their common past—their studies at Harvard, during which they had met—would not have had much impact on an observer’s mind. Conflict of interest could not have been ignored as Silicon Valley companies such as Bluenak were supposed to be closely monitored by the government. The rise of the big four tech companies, the GAFA, but also the latest presidential elections, had amply demonstrated that the real high stakes of power had shifted to the digital world.

For all his friend’s influence, Ryan might not have responded to the invitation if Cheryl Clark hadn’t warned him the day before, with a pinched look, that there would be an extraordinary meeting of the Board of Directors as soon as the following Monday. The tone used, and even worse, the lack of explanation from the Human Resources Director, had raised an alarm in his mind. That alarm had only increased with the responses of the other board members—his distinguished colleagues had been surprised, or pretended not to know more than he did. The footsteps Ryan had thought he had heard on Monday evening, at a time when he thought Bluenak’s offices were deserted, had been gnawing at him ever since.

He had screwed up. He had screwed up pretty bad that night, and they were going to present him with the bill. Maybe even earlier than Monday. Maybe even in the next few hours. Allen may well have been a friend, but it all smelled bad.

Ryan squinted and tightened his lips, as he did when he was about to play a particularly delicate billiard move—a fleeting expression, which he immediately replaced with a casual, suitable look. There was a lacquered wooden desk at the reception area, in front of which the guests presented their smartphones. Ryan took out his, and opened the email with the flashcode. Smiling, an employee with graying hair pointed to the scanner. Once the operation was completed, the man glanced at his terminal before taking Ryan’s coat and putting it in the cloakroom. Ryan was already walking towards the corridor where the lights of candleholders were shining when a man built like a tank appeared in front of him. The individual must have been watching out for him for a while.

Please wait, I beg you, said the bodyguard as he pulled out his phone. He turned aside, and Ryan, who had a keen ear, heard a ringing sound despite the ambient noise. Soon, the fellow with quarterback-sized shoulders whispered: He has arrived… All right. Then, turning towards Ryan: Please follow me, sir. Mr. Fortiler is waiting for you.

Ryan lifted his eyebrows. With Allen being most of the time in Washington, they had only met twice since their studies. However, never during their brief meetings had his friend put him before all his other appointments. While Bluenak had grown in importance with the rise of its share price on Wall Street, Ryan was only the import-export manager and not the CEO. There was something unusual about this, and only the non-verbal communication training he had received three weeks earlier prevented his hand from adjusting his tie knot. The guard took him up a marble staircase, the center of which was covered with a thick garnet-colored carpet. Judging by the curved walls, the staircase must have been in the wide tower of the building. Ryan had his hypothesis confirmed when the sturdy man with his hair cut short on his fat neck introduced him to an oval room, whose window overlooked the street in front of the main entrance. The security guard had probably received instructions, as he immediately withdrew, leaving Ryan alone in the semi-darkness of the room lit by a single table lamp. The mahogany writing desk on which it was perched showed rather flashy gilding. The lamp itself was of questionable taste, with its chubby cherub sounding a trumpet along the stem. The floor was covered with a carpet, with patterns that were not very visible.

Ryan felt a tightness in his stomach, which was never a good sign. If his friend was behind the side door to the right of the desk, as he suspected, why didn’t he come to greet him? He was getting ready to call him, when a chilling breeze passed through the area, making him shiver while further hardening his stomach. His legs suddenly like jelly, Ryan blinked, trying to understand what had eluded him during those few fractions of a second.

The man who had materialized had a thicker face than his own, and was also sturdier, where the import-export manager had a thin silhouette. His tendency to gain weight was already quite marked, but his features, wide eyes, and deep dimples behind his smile, were those of a thirty-year-old in all the radiance of his success. His curly, white hair, despite his youth, gave him a certain charm among the female population, as well as his apparent kindness and joie de vivre. He was indeed the man that he knew, so when Allen reached out a hand in his direction, Ryan quickly grabbed it—or tried to grab it.

His hand only encountered a void.

You were one of Krabinay’s agents, but now you have to become more than that.

Allen Fortiler’s face changed. The darkness of his pupils extended to the entire eye area. They grew closer, became bigger, expanded in an impossible way, to blend into a shadow which surrounded Ryan. The shadow took the form of a demonic mask caught in a perverse hilarity. To want to know the cause of this obscene gaiety, to simply try to understand it, was to sink into the depths of dementia. Ryan’s consciousness faded, cornered in the depths of his being. As he staggered, his eyes rolled back and his body was taken over by a spasm. His knees bent and he dropped to his stomach. Drool began to pour from the corner of his lips. His features froze in an expression of pain, and he remained like that, inert. By the time Ryan’s body finally straightened up, his face had become neutral again. No spark shone in his eyes and his walk was forced, grotesque, as if the thing that dwelt in him had known only imperfectly how to control his extremities. On the stairs, he only avoided falling by hanging on to the banister. His steps, however, gradually strengthened, and when he went back to the guests and staff at the reception, he did not arouse any particular emotion except for a few intrigued looks.

The valet’s smile froze when he asked for his vehicle. The employee rushed to pick it up, anxious not to stay a moment longer than necessary in the company of a man who seemed to lower the temperature by his presence alone. Once behind the wheel of the Camaro, the man who had been Ryan seemed to become more human again. Part of the personality of Bluenak’s import-export manager could have been discerned in his driving style. However, the effect was only temporary. As soon as he reached the executive’s duplex, the man began to act strangely. With all the lights off, without a look through the large bay windows at the magnificent view of the San Francisco harbor, he opened his laptop and turned it on. With his head tilted to one side, he waited a few moments, as if listening to specific instructions or information. His eyes, animated by a malevolent glow, narrowed. He tapped away on the keyboard, moved the mouse hesitantly at first, then more confidently. If the Ryan reduced to his simplest expression, huddled in a corner of his consciousness, had realized what the other was doing, he would probably have tried to oppose it with all his might. This Ryan, however, had no more strength than a larva, and the only emotion he was still able to feel was terror.

The fingers stopped, the computer shut down. In the luxurious apartment, nothing was moving now. For the next two days and nights, the being who occupied Ryan’s body remained in the dark. Most of the time frozen, he nevertheless alternated between sitting and standing positions for the sole purpose of maintaining a certain dynamism in this receptacle and satisfying its basic needs. He did not answer any call and ignored the pleas of the carnal envelope, which first called for food, then to lie down and close his eyelids. He hardly allowed himself to drink a glass of water twice during that weekend.

On Monday morning, pedestrians in San Francisco, as well as motorists stuck in the traffic, could have seen, if they had paid attention, a man with a cadaveric complexion in his powerful Camaro. His eyes were reddened by lack of sleep and he wore a three-day beard. The hostess of Bluenak’s skyscraper, if she had not immediately turned away, disturbed by the strangely fixed gaze, would have discerned the glow of madness dancing deep in his eyes. Ryan’s few collaborators who met or greeted him were intrigued by his absence of a response, and some even felt disturbed by his pale skin and distorted face. Something, however, an indefinable feeling of unease, prevented them from inquiring about his condition. They, too, preferred to turn away and go about their business as soon as they had the opportunity.

The phone in Ryan’s jacket pocket emitted a nice jingle, without provoking any reaction from the SMS recipient. The man with the stiff gait had just entered his office. He only considered for a moment the four ultra-flat screens and the comfortable, ergonomic seat. His head bowed in a way so characteristic of the new occupant of this body. Not without abruptness, he turned around and came back out. He passed several offices before stopping sharply in front of Edward Holder’s. He opened the door with a swift gesture, startling a young blonde woman. His host’s memory informed him that she was Edward’s secretary. The seat of the senior vice president of industrial design, one of Ryan’s main competitors in the company, was empty.

No one warned you? said the secretary in a voice that badly concealed her trouble. The meeting of the Board of Directors has been brought forward. She frowned as she watched Ryan lean sideways, wondering if he had put drops in his ear. But he suddenly straightened up and left without a word, with a mechanical gait. He walked the corridors, took an elevator again, then new corridors. The security guard outside the door of the Eisenhower room recognized him and let him in. They were all there, Bluenak’s thinking heads.

You are the last one, said the leader of the group in a gruff tone. Chad Ecker wore a gray Italian-cut suit, had a shaved head, and the profile of a bird of prey. Please take a seat.

There were exchanges of knowing glances in front of the untidy face of the import-export manager. The interested party did not seem to notice them, went around the vast oval table and sat in his place, stony-faced. As the indictment began, he scrutinized the various speakers.

I have long wondered, said Steve Perkins, vice president of hardware engineering, why Ryan wanted his computer to be exclusively connected to Bluenak’s most powerful server. It was only recently, after having had an interview with Edward, that I decided to investigate the matter further. As it happens, our friend has installed an extremely resource-intensive encryption program in his system, coupled with an IP address jammer and random relocation.

What is the purpose of this device, exactly? asked the Bluenak president.

To avoid any identification or geolocation. During a video conversation, for example, it becomes impossible for an intelligence service or spyware to trace the source of the signal transmission.

So tell us what your interview with Edward was about.

He made a very surprising revelation to me. I think it’s better if he explains this to you himself.

Edward, who was three seats away from Ryan, stirred his white mane and adjusted his wide rectangular glasses, ill at ease in front of Ryan’s gaze. The head of design had trouble recognizing Ryan Cochrane when he entered the meeting room. His gait different, his stance other than the one he was familiar with, he didn’t seem like the same man anymore. We know that Bluenak has been accused by some TV news reports of promoting corruption in the Democratic Republic of Calango. In order to continue to benefit from the advantageous prices on the rare minerals of Calango, and to escape the media pressure, you instructed us, Mr. President, to keep a low profile and make as few waves as possible. Last Monday, I worked later than usual on the Bluenak XII. As I walked down the hall, thinking I was alone, I was surprised to see that our import-export manager’s office was still lit. I opened the door to greet him, but I stopped when I saw that he was in the middle of a video conversation. I regret to have to inform you, but I heard him say that ‘N’Kanlo should no longer be a problem’, and that his interlocutor ‘should take care of him’. I couldn’t see who he was talking to, because the angle of his office didn’t allow it, but then there was talk of a $2 million payment.

Payment that was made the very next day by one of our offshore companies in the Caymans, said Nick Janssen, the financial director.

I was so shocked that I left without any further ado, said Edward. I couldn’t believe what I heard.

And that’s why you didn’t open up to me, or to Steve, until after N’Kanlo’s murder. The president stared at the other members of the board. For those who are wondering, he added, N’Kanlo is the main political opponent of our friend, President Koudrisse. Or rather, was.

Edward was preparing to nod when the chair on which Ryan Cochrane was sitting rolled backwards. Before it even had time to bounce off the glass wall, Ryan had rushed to Edward, squeezing his throat with both hands.

The first to react was the senior manager directly in front of Edward. He grabbed his smartphone and started filming, which no one noticed in the general confusion.

Cheryl Clark, the Human Resources Director, was a nervous and dry little woman. Seated right next to Edward, she was probably the one who saved his life that day. She had taken self-defense classes, and her knee kick in Ryan’s genitals, if it didn’t make him completely let go, forced him to loosen his grip. Perhaps ashamed to see a woman react before them, the closest executives in turn threw themselves at Ryan, amidst the appalled screams and desperate calls from Chad Ecker, the president, for security. Dragged by Ryan, Edward found himself on the floor. A grotesque mound of five men was piled up on Ryan, without any of them succeeding in making him let go. It was not until two guards, each weighing more than a quintal, intervened that the madman’s hands were finally removed. Edward’s throat had turned blue.

Ryan’s inhuman rattle then gave goose bumps to everyone who was watching the scene. The gigantic effort he made rejected two of the senior managers from his side, but the others, encouraged by the presence of the guards, were still clinging to him. At that moment, the glow of madness disappeared from the eyes of the import-export manager. His expression had become that of a man in the grip of terror. It wasn’t me, he panted. He hiccupped as he sought his breath, and managed to release one of his hands, which he pressed against his heart. The sigh he then gave was the last.

Among those present, many later claimed to have seen a blurred silhouette emerge from Ryan’s body before disappearing. Everyone agreed that a chilling draft had passed through the room.

2. Seventh Heaven

Vick Lempereur had not inherited his mother’s skin tone or red hair. He had brown hair and a face without freckles. Why he was standing next to her having a picnic near a lake, he couldn’t have said. She smiled as she ruffled his hair. The gesture reminded him of something. It was so far back in a happy time that Vick thought he had forgotten it. His mother’s joy, the sheen of her radiant face, the brightness in her clear eyes were unbearable. She sent back a frisbee in a carefree gesture and burst out laughing when it landed in the lake, splashing the man in charge of receiving it. She was young, lively, alert. Her smile lit up the world, her laughter made it dance. More than any other, Vick cherished those intimate moments when, in the evening, she would tuck him in, tenderly replace a strand of hair falling on his childhood eyes, grab a storybook and begin to tell him a story with her voice that often went into the high notes.

The setting remained the same—his childhood bedroom—but the joy in Vick’s heart had given way to diffuse anxiety. Shouts. His parents were bickering. For some time now, his father had been coming home late at night, and Vick couldn’t understand why his mother was blaming him for drinking. Drinking was natural, wasn’t it? And then, one night, Vick heard a thud in the bathroom. Mom? he called. She was there, he was sure, but she hadn’t answered. As he stepped into the hallway, his father’s figure was quickly moving away. He had entered the bathroom and got scared when he saw his mother lying on the floor, trying to get back on her feet. Blood running from her mouth. I… I slipped, she explained in a hoarse voice that he hadn’t recognized.

Months later, Vick had realized what it meant to be drinking in his father’s case. His swaying gait, his breath smelling of cheap wine. His blows. Vick had collected his share, but his mother…

And now she was standing there, in front of him, begging him to do something, to help her. Her face, year after year, had lost its radiance, irremediably tarnished. Her arms, calves, thighs marbled with blue stains. The spark of hope and life had vanished from her eyes, extinguished by the oppression of everyday life. Fear had become the permanent resident of that maternal face, the eyelids too often squinting, the shoulders arched under the blows. The terrible, relentless, unpredictable violence had made his mother a fearful being. And the feeling of revolt, always growing stronger, had taken root in the hollow of Vick’s stomach.

He woke up with a lump in his throat. It was not a ghost he had just met, unless they also manifest themselves in nightmares. The very prospect of one day being confronted with his mother’s spirit, who would not have found rest because of her violent death, made Vick deeply uncomfortable. It makes you pissed off, he articulated in a rocky voice as he sat on his bed. He had never really thought about it since the time when this gift, or this curse, had been imposed on him in Africa—the possibility of feeling the dead, of discovering through them certain past episodes. The danger, too, of suddenly being invaded, possessed by one of them, subjected to its slightest whims.

Bare-chested, Vick went into the bathroom to relieve his bladder, wash his hands, and do his ablutions. He wondered, as he looked at the decrepit walls of his shabby apartment, whether that nightmare was not linked to an underlying anguish. Even if the rent was rather low here—Ivry-sur-Seine was far from being the most upscale suburb of Paris, and this apartment was clearly not the Ritz—his job as a private detective had its ups and downs, as did most freelance jobs. At that point, he was in a period of lows. He would have to update his ads on the net and with local merchants, a prospect that hardly smiled at him, judging by the gloomy look on his face in the mirror above the sink. His hands still wet, he smoothed his brown hair, streaked with a white line. His square jaw revealed his energetic character, but Vick now knew that the most wonderful energy could be swallowed up in the slump of an everyday life that was too routine. He avoided alcohol, took care of his body, and even got a few adrenaline rushes while kickboxing, but it seemed artificial compared to some episodes in his past.

He grabbed the shaving cream, smeared it on his face and began to use his razor with dexterity. The brightest torches, he knew, were the ones that burned the shortest. He could have been one of those torches if life had not taught him something else. This did not mean, however, that one should indulge in mediocrity.

After his bodybuilding and jogging sessions, Vick returned to his apartment and turned on his laptop, heading for the Great Dump of the Internet. A fluctuating mess, which his files and bookmarks struggled to organize. No job was showing up, and his phone was desperately silent. As for his messaging service, it was limited to automatically sending spam back to the unwanted folder. Vick decided to visit the news sites, as he often did in his moments of uncertainty. In addition to its utilitarian function, surfing the Internet could become for him another journey, a new wandering. He found himself on the CNN website. The video before him, in high definition, must have put the smartphone’s image stabilizer under torture, as it was so swaying. It showed a dynamic young executive trying to strangle another individual in a suit and tie. There was a glimmer of madness in the young executive’s eyes, but the rest of his face was cold and calm. The man acted methodically, unwavering in his resolution. An expression of pain suddenly appeared on his face, then different people—men—threw themselves at him, and the video turned into a confused melee. The discrepancy with the solemnity of the places and costumes was both unusual and comical. According to the presenter, while the victim of this madness, Edward Holder, escaped with a hospitalization for tracheal crushing, Ryan Cochrane, the attacker, had died from cardiac arrest. Just before freaking out, this Ryan had been accused by the board of directors of having commanded the execution of a political opponent of the Calango president named…

The doddery ringing of the doorbell suddenly resounded. Vick got up and went to open the door. Those green, pretty, sparkling eyes belonged to Valerie Bastel—none other than the heiress of the Dactel group, who had been able to take over the reins of her father’s company thanks to a monstrous mistake made by her progenitor. Her two thousand euro heeled shoes were probably not used to treading on the floor of a slum like his own, and yet the princess quickly stepped in, an ironic smile on her thin lips. Without taking offense at the ambient disorder, she handed him her long coat with a synthetic fur collar, along with her handbag.

Vick gave her an appraising glance. The young woman’s auburn hair, for once loose, fell back on her suit, and her shimmering miniskirt highlighted the curve of her perfectly proportioned legs. By the time he had laid the coat on top of his couch and put the bag down, Valerie had already turned to his computer.

Are you watching CNN? she wondered. And you understand?

Hello, he replied with annoyance. I’m glad to see you too.

Hello, hello, she said. I know you’ve never been very adept at polite formulas.

Still. We need a minimum of them.

I like it when you’re grumpy, she said, sticking an index finger to his lips. You don’t seem overworked right now, do you?

Vick composed an impassive face. Apart from my four appointments by the end of the day, you mean? He smiled as he saw her put her hands on her hips, looking surprised. What brings you to my palace? he asked.

When did you learn English?

Valerie knew him. She was aware that his schooling had been cut short. That he had left one day, still a teenager, on roads from which few had returned.

When traveling, it’s better to know English, he replied. Especially when you go to the Internet cafés, and you plug into the local news. Or when you try to make yourself understood because you don’t speak the local dialect. As he spoke these words, images of Mauritania, and one of the longest trains in the world, came back before his eyes. He had acquired some basic knowledge of several languages, including Wolof, but English was often an essential crutch.

Interesting, she commented. Do you have anything for me to drink?

Without answering, Vick moved into the cubbyhole that was used as a kitchen. He opened a cupboard, from which he took out a bottle of vodka, and brought two glasses.

To the good times, Valerie said, with a broad smile.

They drank, and Vick let the liquid fire go down his throat, a lava flow that made him forget for a moment the wintry drafts of his poorly insulated apartment. What brings you here? he insisted.

Later, she said as she approached him. Her subtle perfume was almost as intoxicating as the vodka, and her eyes riveted to his own were globes of unrelenting magnetism. She put her glass down, then placed her hands on Vick’s hips, pulling him to herself.

He put his own hands on Valerie’s shoulders, and pushed her away. You can’t do that, he said.

What?

Coming here, and just… having fun with me. I’m not your sex toy!

She took her hands off but kept the same distance, only a few centimeters from Vick’s lips. Because you’ve never done that before? Had fun with a passing woman you’ve never seen again?

Yes, but… He stopped, looking for an argument.

But you’re the alpha male, and you want to master the rules of the game.

It’s a bit like that, yes, he conceded. I don’t like to be led around by the nose. Vick knew Valerie had married her company. As long as she was so committed to it, he could only play the role of a spare part in the life of the prestigious heiress.

Or by something else, she said, laying her hand squarely on his crotch. And why don’t you just enjoy the moment? Are you afraid I’ll break your heart?

Vick winced, but did not try to push her away again.

We’re both beyond that now, aren’t we? she whispered in the hollow of his ear. We know where we stand. And for once, it would do you good to drop your armor. To let yourself be guided. Don’t tell me you’ve never learned to seize the opportunity in your life as an adventurer. As she said these words, her hand rubbed him expertly, and Vick felt his sex stretching, hardening.

He gave a growl and drew her against him. His kiss was so intense that their teeth clattered, and she gave a little scream as she backed her head away. Immediately afterwards, however, as he was beginning a sorry, it was she who closed his lips with hers. Their tongues brushed against each other, then touched with increasing sensual delight. Valerie’s agile fingers pulled up Vick’s sweater, pulled his shirt from his pants. Her fingers, then, silky and fresh, slid over his abdomen.

Vick was not wasting his time either. He had undertaken to unbutton the young woman’s jacket, before continuing with her blouse. Very quickly, they both found themselves naked as newborns, their hearts beating under the shared, as well as anticipated, pleasure. Vick slipped a drawer from his bedside table, but Valerie, guessing his intention, stopped him.

No need, I’m on the pill. And I have confidence.

She massaged his sex, surrounded him with a wipe removed from her handbag, cleaned him and went so far as to take him in her mouth, moving her tongue with an unspeakable sweetness. Then, Vick forgot everything, and let her do it when she pushed him back into bed, then started riding him, proud Amazon finally taking her reward. Still as supple as ever, she sucked him in and kneaded him. She made the pleasure last at least as long as the first time, bringing Vick to the brink of ecstasy on several occasions. She slowed down her movements in time, more attentive to his sensations than he would have thought at first. Vick felt like an instrument that a sorceress would have played, but he let himself be played, until he was swept away by a flood of pleasure that left them both sweaty and panting.

Wow! Vick said.

Without control, power is nothing, she said, leaning her hand on his hairy chest and stroking his face with her hair. That’s my motto. She winked at him.

Vick smiled at the reminder of an advertising slogan.

She got back up and walked to the cramped shower, displaying her smooth, muscular buttocks. Once both had been cleaned, dressed, and recovered from their emotions, Valerie tackled the object of her visit.

Did you know that Dactel has a subsidiary in the United States, specializing in meat production?

No, I didn’t know that.

I’ll tell you about it. It is Future Meat. The company is located in Silicon Valley. It produces entirely synthetic meat.

Vick raised his eyebrows.

You know, meat in vitro, from stem cells. At the cutting edge of technology. At least in principle, she sighed.

I thought you wanted to go organic.

One does not preclude the other. Let’s just say it’s a different way of approaching the problem. I wouldn’t tell you anything new if I told you that Americans are avid meat eaters. The concern is that the way they raise livestock—the intensive way—tends to concentrate methane.

Cattle farts, Vick interrupted. Yeah, I’ve heard of it. It is said to be one of the causes of global warming.

Or at least an aggravating factor. However, our cousins in America are not going to change habits that go back several centuries in an instant. The best way is to adapt, by offering them a product that is in line with their habits, but that limits emissions into the atmosphere.

And that’s where Future Meat comes in.

That’s right! The concern is obviously to create the same texture and taste from muscle stem cells—I’ll spare you the details.

Thank you.

It’s still very expensive, and there are quite a few tests to pass before moving on to mass production. The problem is that, for some time now, work has been stalled in this subsidiary. We are standing still, and as a result, we are falling behind schedule.

Would you like me to investigate that? Vick understood why Valerie usually tied her hair in a ponytail. Thus detached, she lost the perfectly strict look of the CEO of one of the largest agri-food groups in France, one of the very rare women at the head of a CAC 40 company. She was becoming, this other side of herself, a sexy creature.

I studied the explanations given to me closely, she said, and found inconsistencies. We have the best specialists, and yet we are being overtaken by our competitors in Holland. There’s something very wrong there.

What will my pay be?

Five thousand euros per month, all expenses paid.

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