Sean brought his attention back to the monitor once again, frowning at the half-finished abstract he'd been typing up for Dawn. Filing reports wasn't much fun. In fact, it sucked, which only strengthened his resolve never to work for a corporation. Is this what his parents did at work all day? No wonder they were at each other's throats. Julia could go recruit her new office minions somewhere else, for all he cared. So long as she proved useful to Sean's long term plans. It was nearly time to head home anyway. Mrs. Lambert - his ride - had texted promising not to forget him. He stepped out of his cubicle to stretch and nearly ran into Julia Thornton.

"Urk," Sean stumbled back, trying not to knock down the CEO on his first day.

"Graceful as ever, Sean," Julia seemed amused but distracted, "Zack tells me you have Team Violet's analysis reports? Dawn has left for the airport and there's one case I need finalized today."

"Um... which one, Mrs. Thornton?" Sean gestured at the folders strewn across his desk.

"The African theatre. Republic of Rqombia, formerly known by the mouthful British South West African Protectorate" Julia's hand hovered like a vulture's claw, landing on the folder like it was an especially juicy carcass, "Time to milk this baby."

Sean winced at the weird metaphor, "That one doesn't have a summary yet."

"A payoff matrix will do," Julia pulled out a printed sheet and held it to the light briefly, "yes... I remember this one."

"Cereborg drones to be deployed at Rqombia's southern border," Sean observed.

"You've read it already? I didn't realize you were that bored," Julia paused, "One and half billion dollar price tag. Per year. Like Christmas came early for Fuller Dynamics. But yes, that's the cheap option to keep Rqombia in check."

"But not the cheapest," Sean muttered.

"Are you implying the analysis is wrong?" Julia gave him a hard stare.

"No, not at all, Mrs. Thornton," Sean shook his head, "the game theory is flawless."

"But?" Julia gestured.

"It's just the way the problem is framed," Sean's gaze grew distant, "the payoff matrix shows the cheapest way to dissuade Rqombia from a land grab. But it doesn't ask why Rqombia wants to go to war."

"Rqombia has always been at war since its independence," Julia waved dismissively, "Its the old story of colonial rulers ignoring tribal allegiances when drawing up borders. Blood feuds run deep in that part of the world."

"Rqombia's democratic coalition was recently overthrown by military coup," Sean tapped a footnote, "but the payoff matrix hasn't been updated to account for that."

"I'm not sure how that helps," Julia frowned.

"The payoff matrix shows that Zero Sum negotiated with Rqombia's former government on behalf of our client," Sean tapped the report again, "Unfortunately, offer of foreign aid in exchange for peace was turned down."

"They wanted two billion dollars a year," Julia barked, "can you believe it? Cheaper to send in Fuller's drones."

"Why not make a cheaper offer to Marshal Dingane?" Sean suggested, "He might be more accomodating than the former regime."

"Are you crazy?" Julia exclaimed, "Marshal Dingane is a brutal military dictator. He's even more belligerent about war."

"Perhaps," Sean shrugged, "but his goals for waging war will be different."

"You can't possibly know that," Julia stared.

"I've been thinking of human incentives lately," Sean explained, "about what makes people tick. History makes a lot more sense once I understood that the biggest incentive for any leader is to stay in power. Since no leader can rule alone, he needs a critical mass of supporters to put him in power and carry out his bidding. Call them the selectorate. I see it as the fundamental rule of any human regime, democracy or tyranny. Only the size of the selectorate varies."

Seen through the lens of incentive vectors all noble attributions faded from history. Selfish incentives were the sincerest, from the scale of school soccer to the scale of nations.

"An interesting perspective, Sean," Julia nodded slowly, "but what's that got to do with anything?"

"I used to wonder why so many dictators are corrupt," Sean smiled grimly, "And why the most resource-rich dictatorships tend to be the most oppresive."

"Most people would say it's because power corrupts," Julia smiled back.

"Perhaps," Sean shook his head, "but there's a simpler explanation: that's the stable equilibrium. The selectorate needs to be paid to follow orders. And the money has to come from somewhere. Dictators with access to natural resources can simply pay a small elite selectorate to keep the masses in line. A democracy on the other hand has a large enough selectorate that it is forced to atleast pay lip service to appease the masses. Elected leaders must claim a public benefit for decaring war and their military objectives tend to be much bigger. Dictators need only grab enough wealth to keep their army and police chiefs happy. What's Marshall Dingane's most likely military objective?"

"Selinda Gold Mine," Julia sounded oddly subdued, "with an annual profit of just under one billion dollars."

"There you go," Sean grinned, "if our client makes a matching offer of foreign aid, there's no longer an incentive for Marshal Dingane to bother going to war. And that's cheaper than Fuller's annual price tag."

Julia stood in contemplative silence for a while, "I don't see any obvious flaws in your reasoning, Mr. Cook. I'll suggest to the client that we make an offer to Marshal Dingane... Tell me now, were you motivated to find a solution that deprives Fuller of a contract?"

"No idea what you are talking about," Sean's face was deadpan.

"Of course you don't, Mr. Cook," Julia laughed, "But there's something else I want to discuss. Walk with me."

The building was emptying rapidly as office workers left for the day. They came to Julia's office. The waters of Long Island Sound shimmered crimson through the glass wall behind her desk. They weren't far from the waterfront. Sean fidgeted as Julia took her swivel seat behind the desk.

"I didn't expect you to prove your worth to Zero Sum on your very first day," Julia's eyes studied Sean, her fingers steepled.

"Then will you use your academic contacts to protect me from Richard Fuller's clout?" Sean blurted after a surprised pause, "I have this ongoing... vendetta with Jason, his son. Richard threatened to mess with my college plans if I didn't take their shit lying down."

"I am a woman of my word," Julia's eyes narrowed, "You'll have my signed recommenation on Friday. My endowments to Ivy League schools rivals Fuller's. So does my influence. You need have no anxiety in that regard, so long as you avoid anymore illegal shit. But as an older woman, let me offer some life advice. Get some closure. Settle whatever feuds you have running. You have better things to do."

Sean's phone dinged. He glanced at it, "Uh, my ride is here. Can I go?"

"Not yet," Julia pulled out a file folder from her desk, "There are some details of the South Caucasus assignment you need to know. In exchange for the Doomtrooper demo drone, the SCR leadership is handing over a prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Sean frowned confused, "Who?"

"David Leonidze," Julia flipped the folder open to reveal a photo of a dark-haired atheletic looking young man, " Uncle Sam is covering the cost of the demo drone."

"Never heard of him," Sean's confusion deepened, "is he important?"

"Not really," Julia shook her head, slide aside the photo to uncover another, this one of a balding bespectaled middle-aged man,"But his father was. Dr. Eduard Leonidze one of the leading experts on magnetic resonance imagining technology. He left his Massachusetts residence a few years ago to work for the SCR regime in his homeland. Since then he has either defected to or was kidnapped by GORGON. And when the son flew back to find out what happened, the SCR arrested him instead. There's reason to believe his son was familiar with Dr. Leonidze's work for the SCR goverment. And the State Department really wants to know why GORGON wants the tech. Or so they tell me."

"Magnetic resonance?" Sean scratched his head, "as in brain scans?"

"I suspect SCR was developing mind reading technology to interrogate spies," Julia smiled, "but that's not my business, as long as the deal goes smoothly. Dawn's trip is actually to ensure they are handing over the real David Leonidze and not some duplicate."

"That's why the State Department is willing to overlook ITAR," Sean nodded, "But why would Dawn know the difference between the real David Leonidze and a fake?"

"She's his fiancee," Julia pulled out a photo of Dawn and David Leonidze posing in loving embrace, that made Sean insanely jealous, "they met at Harvard. Dawn has a personal stake in the mission. If only all my employees were as willing to risk their lives."

"Risk her life?" Sean croaked.

"There's always a chance that the SCR high command will take her hostage," Julia looked intently at Sean, "They may try to coerce you to handover the drone without keeping their end of their bargain. You won't let them, even if they torture Dawn, you understand? Unless Dawn's boyfriend gets on the chopper, you are ordered to destroy the drone. The State Department is very insistent on that."

"Destroy it?" Sean demanded, "Does it come with a self destruct?"

"Not exactly," Julia smiled her ghastly smile, "but the drone will decode SCR's SADM missiles. That's the entire purpose of the demo. You will arm the missile and guide it back towards yourself, the Doomtrooper I mean, in case they doublecross."

"I won't let Dawn be tortured," Sean's voice rose, "Why pick me to pilot the drone? And don't give that bullshit about needing my teen reflexes."

Julia got up and walked around the desk, stopping to stare into Sean's eyes, "You are one of my most promising interns. But I need to know if you have what it takes to rise to the top. To pursue objectives without regard for any single girl, any single person. This isn't a game, Sean. Nations hire our services because they know our solutions minimize the body count. By a few million give or take. So, do you have the grit to stay on track even with Dawn screaming in your audio feed, begging you to save her? Hmm? Go home now. Sleep on it."

Sean flinched as Julia patted his shoulder reassuringly. He felt like throwing up on the plush carpet. Julia on the other hand looked excited, thrilled.

#

Mrs. Lambert raced through the evening commute with suicidal recklessness. Suburbs flashed by in a blur turning more upscale as they left New Haven. Sean gripped his phone a bit too hard, scrolling over an unfashionably short list of contacts. Julia was right about one thing. He needed closure with Judith, before he could escalate with Jason. He paused over one of the names, his finger paralyzed with indecision. Dialing...

I didn't actually mean to dial... stupid touchscreen.

"The Fuller residence," the woman's voice was crisp and unfamiliar, probably one of the staff.

"Um... I'd like to speak to Judith's... I mean, Mrs. Fuller please," Sean licked his lips.

"Who is this?" the voice was flat with disinterest.

"A friend of Judith," Sean lied with the implication that Judith would still call him a friend, "name is Sean."

"Mrs. Fuller is not available at the moment, can I take a message?" the voice might have belonged to an answering machine for all the emotion it dsplayed, "... who is it Edna?" A more familar voice in the background.

Half a minute passed with ambient noise crackling through the speaker. Then Susan Fuller sounded in Sean's ear, as cold as winter, "The only reason I'm even talking to you, Sean, is because my butler supposedly steered Judith's doctors towards a diagnosis. As ludicrous as that sounds. Based on your brilliant deductions, I'm told." The sarcasm came through clearly.

"Er... thanks," Sean swallowed, "How's Judith?"

"She'll... live," Susan's voice choked up slightly, whether from grief or rage Sean couldn't tell, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to Judith," Sean ventured cautiously, "wait... hear me out. I won't cause trouble. I just want to tell her I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" there was a dangerous edge to Susan's response, "What are you confessing to?"

"Nothing," Sean said hurriedly, "Without admitting to any wrongdoing, I want to apologize for not being upfront about my... distaste for Jason. And say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Susan asked with an odd note.

"I'm guessing Judith won't be coming back to Cardiff," Sean couldn't keep the regret from his voice, "if your butler has anything to say about it. Am I wrong?"

"No, you aren't mistaken," Susan sighed, after a pause, "Elliot has threatened to quit if we send Susan back to Cardiff. He wants Jason pulled out as well, but my son's football aspirations take precedence. But none of this is reason why I should let you speak with Judith. You came into my home under false pretenses, as a thief, whether you legally admit it or not."

"You know what they say about people in glass houses, Mrs. Fuller," Sean sounded amused, "I've read the annual report that your firm puts out. You systematically underestimate investment risks to your richest clients to keep the money rolling in. That makes you every bit as crooked ethically if not legally."

"You don't know what you are talking about, young man," Susan said coldly, "This conversation is ov..."

"Your risk model is derived from Black-Scholes," Sean continued inexorably, "which assumes normal Gaussian distributions."

"Your point?" Susan gave an incredulous snort after a pause, as if unwilling to cut the phone despite her better judgement.

"The stock market isn't a normal distribution, is it?" Sean asked reasonably, "One feature of a normal distribution is that no single sample can drastically alter the result. Like height distribution within a population. But the stock market isn't like that. You only need to remove the top ten most volatile days of Dow Jones over the past fifty years to see the averages change dramatically. Market price movements are scale invariant. It's a fractal distribution. The standard deviations that your analysts use are meaningless in such domains."

"The industry doesn't have the mathematical tools to assess risk with fractals," Susan sounded strangely defensive, "the complexity alone..."

"So you solve the wrong problem because it's easier?" Sean demanded, "I wonder what your investors will say to that. Heck, I wonder what your highschool math teacher would say to that."

"You've made your point, Sean," Susan snarled, "no need to rub it in. Very well... I'll permit you to meet my daughter one last time, after she has recovered a bit."

"Thank you," Sean closed his eyes, letting out his breath with a shudder, ending the call.

Mrs. Lambert was giving him odd glances, as she drove towards Portsmouth.

#

Susan Fuller softly padded around her daughter's bed, taking care not to knock over the IV stand and other hospital equipment arrayed about the room. Judith was swathed in bandages that covered most of her arms and parts of her face where the mutating virus had feasted on. Daylight filtering through curtains illuminated exposed parts of skin that still showed evidence of her ordeal. Judith had sunk into exhausted sleep after a restless night, watched over by the shift nurse. It was barely a week on her daughter's road to recovery, though it felt like a lifetime to Susan. The fear that coiled around Susan's heart like barbed wire loosened its grip each day, even as guilt flooded in its place. Why, oh why, had she let Judith play with fire? The monitor displays hovering over Judith beeped accusingly at Susan, the LEDs blinking their implacable verdict on how badly Susan had failed her daughter. Even the soliticous faces of the orderlies seemed accusing to Susan. Watching the doctors fuss around debating experimental treatment options while the nurses worked in frantic haste, Susan had wanted to scream. She hadn't felt this helpless even during GORGON's abortive attack at the factory.

Richard stood staring out the window, silhoutted against the glare of curtains. Despair no longer haunted his face, even if the past few days had added years to it. His Savile Row suit looked rumpled and slept-in. Susan knew her husband blamed himself for what happened to Judith, unreasonable as the notion was. Richard hadn't left his daughter's side and corporate matters that required his sign-off were brought to him in person. Susan had spotted a couple of vice presidents waiting in the hospital lobby. Richard turned at her hand on his shoulder and followed her when she indicated they should step outside. The two bodyguards Elliot had placed straightened as Susan and Richard emerged from the suite. The stoic Englishman had wanted to station an entire sqaud on this floor, but Susan's wiser counsel had prevailed.

"Dr. Compton thinks Judith can go home in three days," relief diffused through Susan's voice, "Dr. Sinclair concurs."

Richard merely nodded and Susan continued with a hint of reproach, "I've spoken to the prinicipals at Greenwich Academy, Portsmouth Sacred Heart and also the Japanese School. They have expressed eagerness to receive Judith once we make our selection. But I don't think you should move her. She'll throw a fit. Most of her friends are at Cardiff, you know."

"Enemies too, it would seem," Richard nodded grimly.

"Oh, Richard," Susan sighed, "surely you don't believe every potential threat Elliot suspects. That's his SAS background talking. The man is a treasure, but also a paranoid nut. Judith's condition has hit him hard even if he acts all professional. He dotes on her."

"That's what I thought too," Richard growled, "until I saw the evidence."

"All I saw were close-up shots of broken lab equipment," Susan's grimace was skeptical, "Look... I know how tempting it is to blame this on anyone... anything except ourselves. Do you realize how paranoid Elliot sounds? We'll get laughed out of court."

"The law is the last thing whoever did this needs to worry about when I get my hands on them," Richard clenched his fist, "You heard what the Cook boy reportedly claimed when Elliot paid him a visit. A visit I didn't authorize, by the way."

"Sean Cook," Susan muttered shaking her head, "He thinks someone sabotaged Judith's science project to hurt her. I still can't believe his wild speculation actually helped in Judith's treatment. Since when did a highschool junior become an expert on virology? You don't think..."

"Nah," Richard looked distracted, "the boy may be a thief but he's no killer."

"I got a call from Sean a few days ago, did I tell you that?" Susan stopped, looking down from the encircling balcony far above the spacious lobby.

"What?" Richard whipped around in surprise, his face twitching, "How dare... what the heck for?"

"He wants to see Judith one last time," Susan looked troubled, "since she won't be returning to Cardiff. To make amends, he says."

"No," Richard spat, "Jason will throw a fit."

"Jason will behave himself," Susan's voice chilled. They stood there in silence for a minute, watching the bustle of the hospital below. Jason had always been heartwarmingly protective towards Judith. But a supervirus was something her brother couldn't do much about. Jason had taken out his frustration on convenient targets, and after Principal Stuart had politely called them about the third or fourth incident of the week, Susan had threatened to pull Jason out from varisty football.

"I think we were too harsh on Sean," Susan broke the lull, "on the night of Judith's birthday. He was probably in a lot of pain. We should have been more forgiving, even if he tried to break into my bloody office. And Jason punching him just made it worse."

"We were all on edge after the incident at the plant," Richard sighed, "And I shouldn't have made threats regarding his education."

"He didn't sound that scared on the phone last night," Susan frowned mildly puzzled. Sean had been respectful but defiant. Not like the broken shell she remembered when he and his mom had left Pelican's Nest.

"Maybe it's because Julia Thornton is backing him now," Richard had an odd expression, "It seems the Cook boy served as an intern at Zero Sum last week. Some highschool outreach program or whatever."

"What did the old witch want?" it was Susan's turn to look surprised.

"Ostensibly to enquire after Judith," Richard winced, "but really to let me know that the West African deal is a no go. She found a cheaper solution."

"Major contract?" Susan bit her lip sympathetically.

"Not really," Richard shook his head, "Third world militaries are stingy on what they can afford. But Julia mentioned something odd in passing."

"Does that woman say anything that isn't odd?" Susan snorted.

"Apparently it's the Cook boy who came up with the cheaper alternative," Richard sounded bemused, "the one that cost me the contract. I don't believe it though, the old girl is just messing with me."

"I'm not so sure about that," Susan said slowly.

"Whose the skeptic now?" Richard gestured in challenge, "What, I'm supposed to believe the Cook kid is a prodigy in virology and international security? Gimme a break."

"It's a message," Susan laughed incredulously, "telling us to piss off."

"From Julia?" Richard looked surprised.

"From Sean Cook," Susan smiled sourly.

END OF CHAPTER