Twenty-Three Minutes, Fourteen Seconds
"There are hardly any
excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a
normal, kindly family man that comes in to work every day and has a job to do.
A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people."
Terry Pratchett, Small
Gods
There is an elevator in a Los Angeles skyscraper, climbing
its way laboriously through the sixty-seventh floor. Within it stands a man,
dressed casually in a spotless Armani suit and carefully holding an expensive
briefcase in his left hand. His name is Mr. Plekhanov. And he is – as he notes
with pride, without even bothering to check his watch – exactly three minutes,
twelve seconds early for his meeting.
And now the elevator comes to a smooth
halt; the door slides open without a sound. Mr. Plekhanov steps out into a
carpeted, expensively furnished office. Specifically, the room features a
spotless desk, a single leather chair that looks extraordinarily comfortable,
and, through the unmarked glass walls facing the desk, an excellent view of the
city below, only moderately obscured by smog today.
However, the room, with the exception of
the recently arrived Mr. Plekhanov, lacks an occupant. Mr. Plekhanov, to his
credit, does not register a single sign of annoyance. He stands in front of the
desk and waits, his left hand thumb silently tapping out the seconds on the
briefcase handle.
Exactly ten minutes and nineteen seconds
pass.
At ten minutes, twenty seconds, a door
directly on Mr. Plekhanov's left. A short, fat bull of man stomps his way into
the room. He does not request Mr. Plekhanov's forgiveness for his unpunctual
nature, nor does he do so much as glance with his permanently angry eyes in Mr.
Plekhanov's direction as he crosses behind the desk and falls into his massive
chair. He doesn't even bother to notice the well-dressed aide that follows his
every step (though, to be fair, neither does Mr. Plekhanov).
This is Mr. Stockton. And Mr. Plekhanov
is very glad that Mr. Stockton is his superior. Which isn't to say (as Mr. Plekhanov
notes the lifeblood of an oyster gracing Mr. Stockton's tie) that Mr. Plekhanov
would not strangle his employer with his bare hands, given a respectable
motivation.
(Mr. Stockton abruptly begins to cough.
His aide appears quickly by his side, displaying the expected level of
concern.)
Yet there are many individuals in Mr.
Plekhanov's life that would already be dead, were it not for reason's deciding
influence.
Mr. Stockton recovers control of his
airways. He waves away the aide with one arm, and cleans ingested tomato sauce
off of his chin. Now – now he looks up, exactly eight minutes twenty-nine
seconds after the scheduled time.
"What ya got for me ?"
"An interesting development," says Mr.
Plekhanov.
Mr. Stockton glares at his employee. "Interesting
development, meaning drek we're screwed or damn, we're rich ?"
(And it should be noted here that while
Mr. Plekhanov indeed considers his employer egotistical, crude, and
unorganized, he does see one redeeming attribute in Mr. Stockton: that being
that, despite his training as a manager, Mr. Stockton occasionally displays a
sub-standard yet undeniable intelligence. Needless to say, Mr. Plekhanov has
lived long enough to value this quality in an employer).
"At this point, the possibility for either
remains." Mr. Plekhanov places his briefcase on the desk. "Though I believe we
are ahead of the competition in the acquisition of this information."
"Bottom line," Mr. Stockton growls.
"What's in it for us ?"
"A possible boon to research and
development. Specifically concerning the SMD immunization project."
Mr. Stockton now seems interested, if
not particularly impressed.
"Thought we were ahead on that
one."
"We are," says Mr. Plekhanov. "This is
more of an accident than a breakthrough. In Britain."
Mr. Stockton's small eyes flick up.
"Britain. Not London."
"Yes."
"Britain. As in, Falkland Islands
Britain."
"Yes." Mr. Plekhanov clicks open the
briefcase.
"As in,
hasn't-done-a-damn-thing-for-a-century Britain."
"The same." From the case, Mr. Plekhanov
withdraws a carefully labeled file and holds it in his hand. "Are you familiar
with the name of Thomas Riddle ?"
"Name sounds familiar." Mr. Stockton
shuts one eye. "Tried to kill a SMD survivor back in the eighties. Goes by some
nom de whatever or another."
"Voldemort, sir," chimes in the aide.
"Yeah. Got himself killed in the
process, right ?"
Mr. Plekhanov nods. "Until this last
June. He managed to reincarnate himself."
"I'm impressed," says Mr. Stockton,
whose tone indicates that he is anything but. "I'm not hearing anything worth
missing lunch for, Georgi."
"Voldemort used a basic regeneration
sequence to recreate his body," Mr. Plekhanov says calmly.
"Nothing we can't match."
"Naturally. The only interesting part of
the matter is that the required blood of the enemy was contributed by
Voldemort's attempted victim."
"The SMD survivor."
"Harry Potter," Mr. Plekhanov confirms.
Now he slides the folder across the desk. "Age fifteen. Saved by mother's
death. Presently attending a popular boarding school in Scotland. Otherwise
lives with relatives in southern England."
Mr. Stockton takes the folder. "So
what's the punchline ?"
"Voldemort believes that, as a result of
the transfer, he has the mother's death protection."
Perhaps Mr. Stockton slightly leans
forward in his comfortable chair. "And ?"
"I arranged for an non-invasive test
last night. Results are promising."
"How promising ?"
"Voldemort survived a long-range curse
from the Sisters. Furthermore, he didn't so much as notice the attack."
Now Mr. Stockton leaps from his chair.
His nostrils flare. The folder drops to his feet.
"Who knows about this ?" His voice is
uncharacteristically quiet, almost a whisper.
"The Sisters," says Mr. Plekhanov. "Dr.
Palmer in Research and Development."
"No one else ? None of the other
corps've heard this ?"
"The probability is low."
Mr. Stockton throws his head around.
"You," he barks to the aide. "Down to the basement. Dispose of yourself
immediately."
"Yes, sir," says the aide promptly.
Mr. Stockton does not speak again until
the aide, having spat his tongue into the wastebasket, enters the elevator. As
the door closes, he again fixes Mr. Plekhanov with a glare.
"So what do we do ?" he hisses.
"I recommend removal of the victim,"
says Mr. Plekhanov.
"The Potter kid."
"Yes. Voldemort is considered a powerful
figure in Britain. His disappearance might upset local conditions."
"Can we do it without risking our stuff
in London ?"
"Voldemort is the leader of a
revolutionary group," said Mr. Plekhanov. "Magical fascists, essentially.
Directly at odds with the governing magical authority. The authorities
presently have Potter under their protection."
"None of these people know a thing about
us."
"No." Mr. Plekhanov crosses around the
desk and scoops the folder from the floor. "I believe we might be able to play
the two forces against one another without revealing ourselves." He hands the
file to his employer.
Mr. Stockton turns the folder nervously
in his hands. "We'll need free agents. No way can we get directly involved."
"I already have a possibility in mind.
Last page in the file."
Mr. Stockton opens the file. He looks at
the page for a moment. Then recognition dawns in his beady eyes. "I know these
two," he says.
"We've made use of their services in the
past," says Mr. Plekhanov. "Expensive, but well worth the price."
"Will they leave London for us ?" asks
Mr. Stockton.
"I've already contacted them. They are
quite willing, provided the price meets their standards."
Mr. Stockton shuts both eyes.
He seems somewhat out of breath. He
flips to the front of the binder, and with a pen from his desk, scribbles down
his name in a vivid red ink.
"I'll get this on Mr. Iago's desk by
tonight," he says. "For the time being, take as much from the department budget
as you need."
The binder shuts with a snap. Stockton
grips it tightly with both hands, like a starving man guarding his last meal.
"You've always come through, Georgi." Mr. Stockton's eyes are
glittering, like dimes fresh from the mint. "This might be the future of the
company right here. I want to see this kid down in r-and-d before the other
corps hear his frigging name."
"Three months," says Mr. Plekhanov. He
closes his briefcase and enters the elevator.
Twenty-three minutes, fourteen seconds,
he thinks as the elevator begins its descent. A short meeting, for Mr.
Stockton. Even if he was late.
Maybe I'll have time for Starbucks.
In a house on a street called Privet
Drive, Harry Potter sleeps in his room. He does not dream. He does not wake.
**
Review,
please. Should this be continued ?
Responses
to the Reviews Thus Far:
First, my thanks to any readers this story has
attracted – these and others.
I went through a period of writing fanfic about
four years ago. Then I stopped, and went original.
So why am I back here ? I've been writing plays,
for the most part, pretty much ever since I stopped writing fanfic. This is
generally an exercise in prose – stretching muscles I haven't used for a while.
Anyway, whether I continue in this vein
or not really depends on two things: first, the response I get to the story
(which has been positive thus far, thank you everyone). Second, whether or not
I have the energy to make a prolonged project out of it. If I do, I should warn
you that it will get fairly experimental. From present tense to past tense, for
example. There's no way of telling how each part will come out.
In any case, bear with me – maybe I can
put something together.
To
'muggle genius' – Don't worry. Used 'SMD' to be enigmatic.
To
'Madman' Magic – Grin. How'd you guess, chummer ?
To
Analise Drabble, Nora, and all the rest: Thanks for your time. Like I said,
I'll try my best.