Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirty-Six

Fabienne Rivard strutted onstage before a wall of high definition monitors, a fifty by fifty grid of synchronized LCDs showing the Rivard logo—the muscular, sanserif R—superimposed over a spinning globe. Microphones carried the clack of her stilettos to every corner of the auditorium.

The sight of her made my stomach slide.

Fabienne was everything I'd heard: hollow-cheeked and plump-lipped as a supermodel, powerful in the thrust of her hips. She strode forth from the wall of crystalline screens and seemed part technology herself—cyborg or augmented human.

I tried focusing on the heiress's feet, which in heels looked veiny and impossibly long, not cute and compact as men have complimented mine in the past.

Didn't help.

In Fabienne's wake, a panel of eleven women and one older man—very French-looking with frizzy white hair—sat in folding chairs, a hemispheric frame about their leader.

"Welcome, leaders of industry, to Davos," Fabienne began in her smoky accent. "I have been asked to speak of the French perspective on this new world in which one finds herself. But I fear there is nothing French in what I will say today. This anarchy, all face equally. All must stand with strength."

I bustled between reporters and cameramen to see. Quaid had mined his diplomatic connections for a choice seat up front—better even than Jim Steed's—and Durwood, I knew, was patrolling the perimeter.

Fabienne continued, "The time for glossing over has passed. Now we must reshape our institutions—as CEOs, reshape our product offerings—to fit this new reality. The reality of chaos. It can be managed, I promise you. And the correct place for this management is the private sector."

Slim fingers gliding up and down a presentation clicker, she laid out a stark vision for the future. Governments had proved incapable of protecting their peoples and peoples' property, too focused on assigning blame and finagling votes. If corporations did not fill this leadership vacuum, criminals would.

"In this spirit, Rivard LLC is pleased to announce a new initiative." She pressed the clicker with a vermilion nail, and the digital wall erupted with images of armored vehicles and rifle-sighting commandos. "For some time, we have partnered with Forceworthy Services, the global leaders in personal and municipal security. Today, Forceworthy joins the Rivard family as a wholly owned and operated brand. We plan to expand the division aggressively—bringing peace to communities small and large, to homes, to schools, to all seven continents."

The wall of monitors now switched to videos of neighborhood pool parties, men in leisure suits and women in sun dresses, pouring wine as fires raged in the far distance, safely separated by razor wire and rows of Rivard/Forceworthy soldiers.

Listening, I got the same sensation I felt stepping over a dirty sidewalk panel and realizing—with a weak gag—that I wasn't actually looking at dirt, but an ant swarm.

I glanced up front to see how Quaid was reacting to the speech. His eyes were laser-locked on Fabienne Rivard, his mouth cocked in a dreamy smile.

Well, what else did you expect?

He had done it before, gone chasing the next shiny thing once the thrill wore off. What was Einstein's definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.

I refused to be jealous. Already I'd let the green goblin get me—back in Jim Steed's hotel room when I'd volunteered to "turn" Piper Jackson. Quaid had been gaping at that magazine during the flight...then he and Steed talking about the operation like I was some subhuman pawn...it had burned me. I was the one putting my life on the line, assuming the big risks.