Napoleon Syndrome

Napoleon Syndrone Part 1

Napoleon Syndrome

Asheah Catori

The casual opulence of Cayman Fisher's estate was overwhelming.

I suppose that I shouldn't have been surprised by it: he was a rich man in his own right. Now that he was an elected leader, he lived in an official residence-luxurious as a matter of national pride, in the dignified of way of an affluent government.

The gilded, moving walkway carried us effortlessly to his office for a rare-and treasured-face-to-face meeting.

I thought back to the last time I'd attended a meeting in person. It had been with Karen, of course-the politician I worked for. Physical meetings were generally out of reach for the average person. It was just too dangerous: the cost of security needed to make them even remotely safe was prohibitive. Still, the people at this meeting risked all they had to attend. They were desperate to plead their case-having lost their loved ones to the increasing violence that could now erupt anywhere, even in their physical homes.

I closed my eyes, but the image of the Suzukis still haunted me. They'd lost their daughter, Caroline.

A disgruntled young man from the cyber-school she had attended had released full scale war on as many of the students he could. He bought a replicator and programmed it to construct the newest explosive device available-nicknamed the "Annihilator." The Annihilator, when activated, and linked with the computer, could target any number of people online the operator chose. In a rapid firing order, it configured the devices being used into effective lethal bombs. Caroline was doing her school work online...then there was a short sharp blast, and she lay on the floor in a pool of blood-dead.

You could defend your family from strangers or criminals who might want to break into your physical home, or even from specific people that you didn't want in your lives online. But your children-just by logging into class-could now be the targets of any deranged madman who could hack their location.

And so, Caroline-the young vibrant woman who had been so alive, whose everyday presence had filled her parents' lives with indescribable beauty and love-was gone. The shock on the Suzukis faces was still evident.

"Get those Annihilators out of the hands of sick people! Restrict their use or get rid of them altogether!" Mitch Suzuki had yelled before breaking down.

He could barely get his words out. "All we want... is for it to never to happen again to anyone else again."

His words echoed in my mind, as Cayman Fischer's doors opened and we rode in on the walkway. We stepped off and the path disappeared into the plush carpet.

It felt like we were standing on air. Between that and the delicate gold edging on the muted white walls, the whole office felt otherworldly.

And for a moment, a thought intruded: how did they do it? How did Cayman Fischer and his people not lose the use of their muscles when they never walked or even stepped on a solid surface? Others who had done the same sometimes went into frantic rehabilitation-trying desperately to build their weakening muscles. Of course, they could exercise-but somehow, I didn't think so.

His Traditionalist sentiments were expressed less in an interest in the physical world, and more in the portraits of the former rulers that lined the far wall. Each was outlined in dark wood, reminiscent of a former age, the silent faces staring out in rugged grandeur. Even Cayman Fischer's desk-graced with the most modern technology available-had a rugged yet refined look. He was a man of the modern era, but one who appreciated the simple, rough, unsophisticated past. (Provided that it didn't demand any physical exertion.)