Vol. III Chapter 1 “The day today is March fourteenth, twenty seventy. This is GNR.”
Chapter 1 "The day today is March fourteenth, twenty seventy. This is GNR."
The ringing of an antique phone woke Burton from the silk and Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled over to the other side of the luxurious king size, four poster bed and answered. "Hello?" He sounded hoarse. One too many cigars, and two too many whiskey sours the night before.
"Good morning Mr Blake, it's Clara at the front desk with your wake up call." Burton smiled, that's why he loved The Grand. Old world class. The personal touch, not a bot. An odd preference for the former director of Robco Industries R and D. "Would you like your usual breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you." Burton always liked routine.
"Very good Mr Blake." Clara's tone sounded anything but professional, reminding him how good she looked naked. Another thing he loved about The Grand. His handpicked staff of moonlighting high end working girls.
Ex-wife number four fought tooth and nail to keep this place. Thinking the ever at the lab Burton cared nothing for the reclaimed and restored piece of nineteen twenties architecture. She never looked deeper than the surface. He doubted she ever knew about the infamous first resident of the opulent penthouse he now lived in. Boots Drecker, miner turned bootlegger kingpin. A man smart enough to build a series of tunnels that ran for miles around. Ex-wife number four had always been shallow, Burton thought to himself, or was it number three.
Burton threw on a soft, white robe. Impressed with the comfort of something made from recycled plastic. He stopped to admire himself in the mirror above the dual marble sinks. Washing his thick beard, combing the long, dark hair from his face. Still in good shape for a man pushing fifty. He couldn't wait to call a barber, but he needed this image a little longer. Knowing how much it would grate on the four star this and brigadier that. Currently waking in their complementary suites below.
Today he needed to be the Burton Blake from the tabloids and gossip mags. The man pictured staggering out of casinos while tossing fistful's chips to strangers, supermodels on each arm. All this would rile up the high and tight haircuts, putting them off balance. Then just at the right moment he'd reveal his asking price, and they'd jump at it.
The military gets shiny new tech and another doomsday fantasy to waste money on. He'd get the resources needed to leave this infested rock behind. Before the people he'd help arm for decades turned their fantasies into grim reality. He smiled as he showered. If it went well today, he'd make the Old Man's lunar colony look like a second rate Nuka World.
Burton found his breakfast waiting under a silver dome. Freshly squeezed blood orange juice. Hash browns on the right side of burnt. Bacon from the genetically modified pigs and double yolk eggs over easy. He clicked the antique style radio on, sitting on the plush leather couch.
"The day today is March fourteenth, twenty seventy. This is GNR. The headlines this hour. Tensions are high in the South China sea as naval escor—" Burton clicked the radio off. He needed to focus on today, not the sabre rattling of empires. At least not empires that weren't his.
Burton dressed in his casual attire a took a walk to clear his mind. He heard the Old Man's voice as he left the plates and unmade bed behind. 'Burton, a man of intelligence should not waste his time on menial tasks. Let the dullards handle dull.' Arrogant snob. Although the joys of living in a hotel might be the last thing they agreed on. Of course Burton left his penthouse everyday. Even in the pouring rain, just to spite the shut in.
He sat under the imported oak trees in the square outside The Grand. The month long soft reopening meant most of the activity moved around him. Builders starting work on the apartment blocks. The row of boutique shops opened opposite. Buses collected the day shift for a nearby factory. All owned by Burton Blake.
Burton spent every penny he had. Leveraged every asset to the hilt. Then used every trick he knew to buy up the land in the Green Valley. Most of it in the company name, a few shell corporations. Bribing politicians with jobs in their districts instead of automating his factories. He'd make it back ten fold on the patents alone if today went well. Or he'd start his new career in hotel management.
Spring rain pattered on the new green leaves, prompting people to rush with today's gazette held over their heads. Not Burton, he ambled around the square. Admiring this year's Corvega coupe and chatting with the owner.
"Mr Blake." Clara came from behind the round reception desk as he entered. Blonde hair in a tight bun. Navy blue suit with a pencil skirt and modest heels. Every inch the professional night manager, unlike the last time he saw her. "You have a message." She handed him the folded note on headed paper.
"Fuck." Not a good start.
"Did someone's Icelandic supermodel cancel on them." Clara recognised the name, assuming he'd been blown out by an old flame. Burton selected this particular Nordic beauty for a reason.
"Clara, it's business, and I need your help." He let her see his worry, asking a woman to be a second choice felt rude. "You'll have to sign a non-disclosure."
"I already did." Clara agreed to help him with a wink.
"Yeah, but this one covers state secrets."
Burton led her across the square to the fashionable boutique. Finding only the Saturday girl behind the counter and a stack of textbooks. "Good morning, my name is…" He trailed off as she realised who had strolled in.
"Yes, good morning Mr Blake. How can I help you?" She looked nervous, Burton enjoyed the modicum of fame he'd cultivated here. The billionaire investor from out of town, come to solve all their problems. A damn sight better than the nameless code monkey the old man made him.
"Tell me…" He held out a hand, walking her round the counter like he was about to take her dancing. Not that he had that kind interest in a girl of eighteen, judging by the maths books.
"Suzette, Mr Blake." His charm took effect, he could see her wanting to make the extra effort.
"Tell me Suzette, are you too young to have seen 'The Officer's Mistress'?"
"No, Mr Blake, it's my mother's favourite film." She blushed slightly and pushed the lock of dark hair behind her ear.
"And do you remember who played the Mistress, and the outfit she wore in the opening scene?" There wasn't a man in uniform who wouldn't have Bridgette De Silva for their own mistress. "This is Clara, she needs a new outfit." Clara rolled her eyes and Suzette started grabbing clothes.
Burton flipped the sign to closed and found himself unable to resist correcting Suzette's trigonometry homework. Suzette blushed as she came from the changing room and he talked her through the error.
"So, did you apply to a university yet?" Burton asked, seeing a bright young mind.
"Yes Mr Blake, I'm short listed for a scholarship at C.I.T." Suzette had a nervous pride, Burton smiled.
"That's where I went." Burton had graduated from the Commonwealth Institute of Technology by the time he was her age. His own scholarship provided by the Old Man. He'd stopped feeling grateful after he realised how much the old man made off his ideas in the first three years of his employment. "What do you want to do there?"
"Structural engineering. I want to build things." Suzette looked down at her shoes, almost embarrassed that a shop girl had such lofty ambition. Burton raised her chin with his hand.
"The world will always need engineers. I'll make a few calls, when you graduate come find me. I'll have need of talented people." Or I'll be a hotel manager, he thought.
"Well, what do you think?" Clara emerged looking like a movie starlet. Pinstripe skirt, the slit long enough to show a glimpse of stocking and bare thigh. Matching blazer, cinched tight around the waist, and blouse unbuttoned just enough.
"Perfect, you'll knock 'em dead." Burton winked to Suzette and followed Clara back into the changing room. "Do you have any cash on you?" Clara threw him an amused glance.
"You're making me pay for my own outfit? What kind of billionaire are you?" The broke kind, he thought.
"Don't you know anything about us lot, carrying cash is what poor people do." Burton played it off with his blue eyes and easy smile. "The outfit will go on the account, I want to leave a tip." Clara liked that. She took her designer clutch from the bench and opened it. Burton snatched the wad of cash and strode off to the shop girl before Clara could object.
"Thank you Suzette, this is for you." He put the cash in her hand.
"Mr Blake, there must be thousands here, I can't accept this." Burton always liked to throw money around, especially to those getting paid by the hour, as he'd once been. It added to his reputation
"You can and you will. A year from now, when you're up to your eyes in textbooks, you will say thank you Burton Blake, I'm glad I had some fun." He turned, opening the door for Clara.
"That was very sweet." Clara took his arm as they crossed the square, dressed in her new outfit.
"I'll pay you back." Somehow. "Will you take stock options?"
"Yeah, I'll call my broker." Burton missed the sarcasm.
He talked Clara through her role for the day. Eye candy and misdirection, she understood. He slipped into the bathroom, starting by putting in the contact lenses. He laid his left arm flat next to the marble sink. Then began to lacquer on the thin fibre optic control wires. Flexing his hand as the glue dried, and wiping the gold alloy connecting pins.
Finally he flicked open the steel case. revealing the prototype jet black pipboy he'd designed. Once clipped over his forearm, he powered it up. The Blake Technical logo illuminated by nano organic light emitting diodes. He pinched his finger and thumb together, cycling through the still basic system. He'd need access to the kind of super computers civilians didn't know about to finish it. Today was his chance to get it.
"You look sharp boss." Clara fused at the Italian suit, making sure he looked just scruffy enough and taking the silk tie off completely. "Knock 'em dead." She left him at the door of the conference room on the fourth floor. The one with the best view of the links out back.
Burton took a deep breath, reviewed the stolen personnel files displayed in his eyes, and swung open the double doors.