Acts of Conscience by William Barton

other ab initio holder of original-issue B-VEI stock, each holding amounting to no more than 0.1 percent of said issue. Here were several hundred pro-forma date stamps, representing the interests of other people’s AI trade managers.
    So what the fuck does it think it’s going to achieve, other than maybe getting me in a lot of hot water? Christ, I’ll have to pay point of sale taxes on every fucking transaction, complete with late filing fees and... A gentle touch in the back of my mind, like being brushed all over by infinitely soft feathers, then the household composite whispered, You have a visitor Mr. du Cheyne.
    Visitor. Not a familiar word, I... The apartment said, Mr. Hoseah Rothman, representing the L1(SE) legal offices for the Eighth Ray Scientific-Industrial Enterprise. He wishes to discuss a personal matter with you.
    Personal. Oh, fuck. There are no really secure channel locks on the vidnet. Not for the likes of me and thee, dear stock trading algorithm. I finished my drink and ordered up another, listing to the icemaker tinkle. Took a sip from my fresh, cold glass, and croaked, “Show him in.”
    The door slid open, admitting a moment of corridor bustle. Slid closed again. Waiting right outside , for Christ’s sake! Rothman stood there, a quiet thing in a pale gray jumpsuit, very handsome, black of skin, black of eyes, with a tight skullcap of curly black hair and an expression on his face like he was in the presence of a bad smell.
    He said, “How do you do, Mr. du Cheyne.”
    I think I managed some kind of fatuous grin or another. “Want a drink?” Rattling my glass of ice and fizz up at him.
    Rothman’s stinkface twisted a little tighter. “No thank you.”
    “Sit down then.”
    A long, snotty look around at my apartment. Neat as a pin, the household saw to that. Nothing wrong but my shoes in the middle of the floor, half buried in vidnet imagery...
    When did the AI start channel surfing? Did it shut off my stock options when this little shit came through the door? What’s playing now? An old episode of Planets for Man . The one about the terraforming project on Mimir’s Well, Eta Cassiopiae A4ii, some nineteen-point...
    He said, “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. du Cheyne.”
    I felt a hard moment of freezing dread, imagining God knows what, but I smirked and said, “Please do.”
    A quirk of distaste on his lips. “Mr. du Cheyne, I am empowered to offer you a par trade in ERSIE Prime stock for your static options on Berens-Vataro Enterprises.”
    Par. A little stab of annoyance now, fueled, I suppose, by the gin, as I put down the fourth empty glass. “A hundred-twenty shares? Man, you can just take a flying...”
    Voice very sharp: “Static at closure.”
    Twelve thousand. I popped open a little window and checked. Felt a slight shock. ERSIE stock was being steadily traded up by the current furor and... “Eight hundred thousand livres?” My voice sounded a lot higher than normal.
    “Correct.”
    Blink. “Is this because of my...” a wave at the little window.
    A chopped look of contempt. “Your little suit hasn’t got the proverbial snowball’s chance, du Cheyne. In fact, if you lodge it, you run the risk of being slapped with a frivolous legal action fine.”
    “Then why...”
    Look of contempt deepening. “If you can’t figure that out...” A slow headshake. “Just take the offer, boy.”
    I sat staring at him, looking at that arrogant little asshole lawclerk face of his, face sneering at me, face full of superiority, feeling my anger sizzle. Because I can figure it out, you see. Shithead. Sooner or later, the Trade Regents will vote. If ERSIE wins, it owns B-VEI. If B-VEI wins... ERSIE will want to hold a big enough chunk of stock options to claim a seat on the B-VEI board of directors and...
    I said, “I don’t know, Mr. Rothman. I... I’d like to think it over.”
    He smiled. “Go ahead. Take as long as you want. Just remember: The Board vote will not be announced