Anarchy of the Mice

PART THREE

Pre-Anarchy, Quaid Rafferty had enjoyed air travel. He liked hearing what Carly from Minneapolis thought about driverless cars, or giving Len from Pensacola his spiel on why you always, always, order the chef's special at restaurants. He hadn't even minded delays or layovers, which just gave life more chances to plant wildflowers in your path.

Post-Anarchy, he enjoyed it less.

The flight into Davos showed an Arrival Window of 3:13 to 5:43. Boarding, Quaid tipped his head to the pilots, who were conversing out the cockpit window with the F-16 pilot escorting them to Davos.

Quaid pressed through to their seats, followed by Molly, Durwood, and a thinner looking Sue-Ann. Flight attendants helped passengers jam bags into overhead bins—checked luggage was almost unheard of, nobody in their right mind willing to hand over a bag to some stranger. Backs hunched. Eye avoided eye. Adults transferred guns from duffel bags into jacket pockets.

Quaid's boarding pass read 37-A, window, but a large, mulletted man was there.

"Excuse me," Quaid said. "I believe we need to switcheroo."

The man gestured to his camo-pattern rucksack, wedged tightly underneath the seat in front, and closed his eyes.

"I'm sure assistance is available moving your bag," Quaid said. "What seat did they give you? Could be you got one of those fake tickets."

The man raised his middle finger without opening his eyes.

Quaid had scarcely registered the gesture when Durwood shot past and seized the man's knobby finger in his fist.

"Ow!" he cried. "Hey, what're you—"

He stopped when he saw not Quaid's accommodating face, but the drum-tight glare of Durwood Oak Jones. Before he could protest or start to comply, Durwood yanked the rucksack out from under the seat—jerking the man's knee unnaturally—and slammed the bag into his gut.

"G'on," said the ex-marine. "Find your right place."

The man looked at Durwood, then at Quaid, Molly, and the coonhound, then seemed to decide that whatever this motley crew was about, he wanted no part.

He moved across the aisle.

Once tray tables were up and anti-missile plating affixed to the plane's exterior, Quaid perused the magazines in his seat-back pocket. Somebody had left a Maxim, and as luck would have it, the cover featured none other than the woman they were on their way to see.

"We Cook The Books With Fabienne Rivard," read the headline, across a shot of the French heiress-CEO straddling a boardroom chair.

Fabienne was the daughter of the great Henri Rivard, founder of Rivard LLC. Henri had built Rivard into a titan, dominating commerce across the Continent, defying United States sanctions to form lucrative partnerships with Mideast dictators, trading in murky industries—weapons, various "professional services"—that others shied from.

When Fabienne had taken the reigns six years earlier amid reports of her father's deteriorating health, there had been speculation she would bring a feminine touch to the organization. She'd grown up in the media glare, spilling out of Hollywood clubs with famous actors at fifteen, briefly hosting a reality show.

Might she begin a charity arm to fight Third World disease? Finally apologize for, or at least address, the allegations of atrocities committed by Rivard's combattantes de contrat?

She did nothing of the sort. Although it was said she imposed merciless gender equalization policies among Rivard management, nothing about the company's outward engagement with the world changed.