Free Hostile Takeover by Patrick E. McLean Page A

with a quiet, official grace.
    Edwin stood behind his desk at the far end of the office, arms behind his back, and stared out into the savage winter night as if it were a vicious pet he kept on the other side of the glass. The mass of people were keeping a respectful distance from Edwin's desk as if held back by some kind of force field. Topper shoved knees out of the way until he was able to make his way to the front of the room. "Make a hole, President of Vice coming through."
    "Sir, the satellite feed is coming up now," said one of the Adjustors, as the monitor came to life.
    Edwin turned from his contemplation of the darkness. He nodded at Topper, "Nice of you to join us."
    "What the hell is going on, E?"
    "I'm not sure," Edwin said, and indicated the screen. "Daniel is on his way there with an assessment team. They think they have a security feed." The images on screen were broken and choppy, clearly from an outdated security system. The screen was black, then white. Then black again.
    "Where is this?" Topper asked.
    "United Motors Factory in Detroit," said Daniel.
    "We insure them, right?" Topper asked. The grim look on everyone's face answered the question for him. Liability hung thick in the air. Topper checked the room. So many people torn from their beds on a cold winter night. What the hell was wrong with these people? He knew them: they had families and lives and kids. They were civilians, not professionals like Topper. Then he remembered. It was in the manual. They had to come when called.
    "Is this is only feed we have on site?" Edwin asked quietly.
    "Working," answered one of the Adjustors.
    Suddenly the feed went dead. "God damn it Jerry!" someone snapped. Jerry, the World's Worst Adjustor was sprawled on the floor, having just tripped over the power cord. He got up, ducked his head and moved quickly to the back of the crowd.
    For a moment, all eyes were on Jerry. The glances were a reprimand, of course, but beneath the reprimand was the collective relief that somebody else screwed up and it wasn't them. As the video feed flickered back on, Jerry was forgotten.
    On screen, bolts of lightning struck the wall of the factory and huge chunks of concrete were vaporized. A flash revealed a figure with his hands raised. It was still impossible to see any detail. More lightning, more destruction.
    Behind him Topper heard someone say, "Isn't that their brand-new, zero-waste-to-landfill plant?" The person continued babbling on about United Motors green initiatives, the geothermal cooling system they installed in the ground, state-of-the-art this and the bullshit that, but all Topper heard was, "Expensive, expensive, expensive."

    They all watched as a force of nature, somehow wielded by a man, systematically demolished the plant. From time to time they looked to Edwin. The tall man sat motionless with his elbows on his desk, thumbs underneath his chin, and index fingers forming a triangle in front of his cold, motionless lips.
    Topper can see the sadness upon him. The pointlessness of it all. So many times has he heard his friend hold forth on the same subject that now Edwin doesn't even need to speak. On screen is a man capable of generating a tremendous amount of power—something on the order of a million volts per meter. This power could be harnessed in so many more profitable ways. And it is being used for simple destruction. Even though the tall man's lips aren't moving, Topper can hear him sing the refrain, "Is no one else even thinking? Am I the only sane man in the world?" At the end of the argument, in the very pit of Edwin's soul, this is why he must take over the world. It is simply too badly managed.
    What Topper does not know is that this time it is different. It is not mere analysis. Right now a new idea is crystalizing within Edwin's mind. His anger is cold, but his realization is clear—now he has the resources to indulge his wrath. And what's more, now he has a business case for doing so. A new