...
The city sprawled out below them, a steel expanse interspersed with groves of green. The drones moved about on foot below, countless numbers of them, some carrying suitcases or purses or the like as they went in and out of the subway. Cyclists rode on forth in the distance, far outnumbering the motorists. Colorful signs and billboards littered the streets below. One of them depicted a rather enticing bowl of oranges from New Nairobi, and advertised a new genetic enhancement procedure to reduce the number of hours one needed to sleep. There were buzzing lights, loudspeakers spitting out the news, and somewhere out of view there were market stalls with boisterous vendors selling kebabs, hot dogs, nem, sambosas, and fruit. The evening moon shined above it all. It was hard to imagine that Antanarivo, or "Tana," the Shining City of Madagascar, was once a war-torn battleground.
Some would look at Tana and think of words like "Industry," "Progress," or maybe "Neo-slavery." Some would apply moralistic judgements, or speak of "corporate debauchery." Some would be in fear or awe. But Amélie looked upon the Shining City and thought of only two words:
My empire.
It was a vast one, to be sure. Malagasy Enterprises possessed territories on three continents and political influence in all of them. Company constituents numbered at over a hundred and fifty million bodies, and that number was increasing. Trade was prosperous as ever; Franco-Iberia, the Hungarian League, the United Arab States, the USHR... Great nations all over the world were eager to get their hands on Malagasy goods. There was always room for improvement, but the state of the Megacorporation was good.
Of course, CEO Amélie Rakotomalala wouldn't have taken the wheel of the Corporate Empire if she was willing to settle for "Good."
The CEO pushed herself away from the large, bulletproof window from which she'd been staring down at the world below. She marched past the huge aquarium where she kept her one hundred and one fish, past the marble statues flanking the ebony bookshelf decorated with ivory. She brushed her finger across the surface of her desk where the button to activate the security shutters was kept, smiled up at the tiny holes in the ceiling from which hidden cameras watched everything. She glanced down at the floor, where her last would-be assassin had died not two weeks ago, and wondered how the amateur felt as his brain was assaulted with neurotoxins. Amélie would never know: the pills she took each week protected her from the gas.
CEO Rakotomalala pushed open the doors leading out of her office and started on down the hall. Her secretary looked up from her desk and noted casually, "The Peacekeepers requested that I relay information on the present conflict in the Congo to you, Chairwoman."
Amélie liked being called Chairwoman. It sounded so much better than "ma'am" or "miss" and reminded others she was more than just a figurehead for the company. Yet another reason to keep this secretary around.
"And?" Amélie looked down at the girl. She was young - twenty two years old - but was very canny, very keen-minded. She was of foreign blood, mostly Indian with some European in there as well, and so was much paler than Amélie herself. She had martial arts training and used to be the designated marksman in her platoon before she was transferred to Amélie's office. She was a perfect replacement for the secretary that died in that last assassination attempt. "You've gone over the information?" the CEO asked.
"Yes, Chairwoman," said the secretary - Ms. Kulkarni, that's her name - "It boils down to the maintenance of status quo with slightly higher than normal casualties. I've already sent the files to your computer for you to peruse at your discretion along with a summary of the data."
"Thank you, Ms. Kulkarni," Amélie answered with a smile. "Inform any callers that I'm out of the office presently. And remind the Peacekeepers that any routine notices of this nature are to be directed to the CMO who in turn will report them to me. They're supposed to use their private channel for important communications only. Remind them also that wasting my time is ill-advised."
"Yes, Chairwoman." The Indian girl began typing immediately, eager to please. Perhaps she needed a raise.
Amélie stepped past the next door where her two bodyguards stood on either side: one of them a pure-blooded Frenchman and the other of Swahili descent. They were genetically modified, of course, and were both incredibly strong despite being roughly 5'6" each. Both wore combat vests underneath their suits and carried machine pistols in their coats. Nobody would think them to be the highly dangerous men they were.
They left the building, taking the private elevator down to the bottom floor and walking past the different security checkpoints manned by the comparatively giant security guards. (Some were, in fact, ogres.) They went down the stairs flanking the huge fountain which served as a memorial of the War of Unification: every soldier who died fighting for Malagasy Enterprises in that war had their name etched in silver upon the black stone surrounding the fountain with water running across their names. Of course, there were some soldiers whose names weren't etched into the stone. A great many of the dead couldn't be identified.
Finally, Amélie reached her car. It was, of course, an armored van. Some civilians stared as the Chairwoman got inside with her guards, but they quickly moved on when security looked at the gawkers a second time. Amelia couldn't blame them, though: it wasn't often they got to see their boss face-to-face.
"How long until we reach our destination?" she asked the man sitting beside driver as she settled in.
"Thirty minutes tops," he answered in his gruff voice. That was Security Chief Henri Simon. Good man. There was also good blackmail available in case he ever stopped being a good man.
"Good. And the stage is set for the speech today?"
"Completed ahead of schedule. On-site security has already informed me they've positioned covert units among the crowd."
"Excellent." Amélie relaxed into her seat, reaching into the compartment where the drinks in the car were kept. As the vehicle sped off, she popped the cork off of her bottle of French wine and took a long sniff. It was a gift from the Franco-Iberian President, Attias. She knew her wines.
"Let's build some good PR," CEO Amélie Rakotomalala said before taking a sip.