Welcome to Percotran -Part IX

By Richard Davidson

“Twelve trillion on Red 7,” said the portly man with the eye patch.

The dealer, a muscular elderly man, looked annoyed, in his attempt to hide the panic.

“Sir, the House can’t cover that bet.”

“The House?” roared the rotund customer, “The House?”

He grabbed the dealer by the throat, and give him a medium-mild head butt.

“Don’t tell me about the house, old man!” he screamed in his face.

He was already in the crosshairs of thirty seven different security drones, any one of which only need merely twitch, and he would be a smoking pile of dust, but McDermott signaled the all clear, and walked over to the insane customer, and embraced him like a brother.

“It’s good to see you, McDermott,” said the man.

“It is good to see you, too, Mr. Badson.”

Eldridge Badson was one of Bogotron Affiliated’s biggest shareholders. When an elite powerbroker such as Badson came to your casino, you let the disgusting little freak have his way. Besides, Red 7 is a sucker bet, reasoned McDermott.

“I’ll cover that bet,” he laughed, and the mirth in his voice fell flat in the carpeted gloom, and then the wheel was in motion.

“Double zero,” announced the dealer, and McDermott breathed again. Twelve trillion dollars was a lot of money, and he signaled several waitresses to come pay close attention to Mr. Badson.

“Get these tramps away from me, McDermott, I knew what I was doing,” huffed Badson, never a man to take well to being patronized.

On the walls all around them, were thousands of monitors; some showing sporting events; some showing executions; some showing movies; music; -far more information than any human could possibly absorb, and then they all went to one channel.

In place of the music and machines, and droning crowd, there were sirens, and the screens all formed together into one big screen, covered by the words, “PIRATE ATTACK!!”

There was footage of the attack on the L-4 Complex at Haiihu Kuwana, where a wave of two thousand pirates killed all seven of the men stationed there, before being annihilated by waves of energy that were pulsed through them by Percotran International’s Automated Defense Grid, causing their heads to explode. This was being portrayed in graphic full color on the entire wall of the casino, and Badson was panting like a one eyed fish, and then they cut to the attack on Percotran International’s Southwestern Division, where Captain Pearson’s men, and the entire Red Brigade were wiped out by a Security Robot, and Badson screamed, “bring me a drink!”

As a top Bogotron shareholder, Eldridge Badson had several telephone receivers implanted in his brain, and suddenly, all lines were ringing at once. He answered thirty four of them, and put the rest on “message.”

His brain almost overloaded several times as he tried to carry on all of these simultaneous conversations, and he spilled quite a few drinks, so the bartender set up a portable a few feet away, and several waitresses continuously re-stocked Mr. Badson.

In the three and a half minutes Eldridge Badson was on the phones, he had re-invested 30% of his portfolio; made back the twelve trillion dollars he had gambled away moments ago; fired the Saharan Sector Development staff; restructured the entire Accounting Department; and had six men killed.

He’d also learned that the Pirates had been attacking Percotran International in a meticulously crafted plan to exploit the giant corporation’s weaknesses, which wouldn’t remain weaknesses much longer. He called a board meeting, and was told twenty three other executives had already called one, so he decided he would simply attend that one.

“McDermott, get me out of this,” he bellowed. The casino had gone to emergency mode, and all customers were surrounded by energy grids made up of high intensity laser beams, that would easily cut your arm off.

McDermott was frantically entering numbers into a keypad, and Badson was practically frothing at the mouth, when onto the giant screen came a big head.

It was Supreme God and Chief Executive Officer J. Lazwell Thurgood, who most Bogotronians had never even seen before.

“We are in a state of emergency,” Thurgood’s voice thundered through the casino.

“All Executives will proceed to the nearest Transchamber, and all other employees will make way.”

With that announcement, several Security Troopers fired into the air, and the citizen/employees of Bogotron Affiliated stepped to the side, leaving a long corridor that led to the elevators. McDermott still hadn’t gotten the lasers turned off, however, surrounding Badson, and several nearby citizen/employees.

“Badson!” screamed Thurgood.

“What are you doing down there? Playing around?”

The lasers disappeared.

“Now get your ass into that elevator, you loathsome idiot.”

With that, the screens all went back to their regularly scheduled programming, and Mr. Badson ran for the elevators, as Security Troopers began rounding up citizen/employees and separating them by Security Clearance Level.

“Is the company under attack?” asked a Level II Accounts Manager.

“Just get in line,” shouted the Trooper, shoving him roughly towards the other Level II citizen/employees.

Badson ran into the boardroom, out of breath, and soaked in perspiration. He had never seen so many of the company’s top brass in one place before. Some of the higher executives, he had only spoken with through viewscreens, but here they were; everyone with controlling shares, except for Thurgood, of course, who was always in a secret location, but whose holographic image flickered menacingly in the center of the room.

“About time you got here, Badson.” he scowled.

“I’m going to be brief, and I’m going to be frank,” he said, puffing on a huge cigar. “That Pirate attack on Percotran International is the break we’ve been waiting for. We’ve got an entire workforce of citizen/employees who are afraid of being attacked by immoral killers, and we’re turning every single one of them into soldiers immediately.”

“My God!” howled Senor Dennison, Vice President of Marketing and Weapons, “are the Pirates moving on us already?”

“Shut up!:” barked Thurgood. “Let’s have no more of these interruptions. No, you stupid trained pet, NO the Pirates are not attacking us. Think, will you? They just had three of their best divisions wiped out by Percotran International’s Security Devices, and can either retreat, or attack the weaknesses they’ve exploited with reserves.”

“So we’re in no danger?” interrupted Franklin C. Muthworthy, wishing he hadn’t.

“I told you to shut up, damn it!” One hundred and forty volts ebbed softly through Muthworthy’s body, and he convulsed ever so slightly.

“I can see I have to spell it out for you worthless children. Our profits have been declining for two centuries. Whole sectors lie barren, with no citizen/employees, no operative machinery, and no production whatsoever. Percotran International has too big a share of the world economy, and what we haven’t been losing to them, we’ve been losing to the GOD DAMN PIRATES,” he pounded on his desk, but his hologram simply pounded on thin air.

“We have a rare opportunity before us, one that will not be open for long. We can wipe out these accursed pirates once and for all. And we can solve our problems with Percotran International, at the same time!”

Now the room was buzzing as all the executives began murmuring, and each received one hundred and eighty volts. Several of the weaker men fell to the floor, and the rest simply stood there and smoked just a little, as Thurgood continued.

“What we are about to do, has not been done for millennium. We will all be much better off once our task is complete.”

“Any questions?” he roared.

“So are we staging a hostile takeover?” came the concerned voice of Eastern Publicizing Chairman Donald Briggs.

“Only the limited minds of small men like yourselves could come up with a question like that,” Thurgood said derisively.

“Hostile takeovers are for the weak. We’re going to WAR!”

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