Dyson's Drop by Paul Collins

is over. Detailed briefings on the forthcoming changes are being downloaded to your desks. I suggest you jack in and study them. Good day!’
    Rench rose sharply and left the room by a rear door. Black waited till everyone, still grumbling, had left, then he approached the door and knocked.
    A voice barked, ‘Come in, Black!’
    Maximus stepped inside. The commander’s ready room, a meet-and-greet chamber with lounges and refreshments, led directly to Rench’s new office. Rench was pouring a Ruvian coffee. He handed one to Black and poured another for himself then motioned for Black to sit down in a self-moulding armchair.
    ‘I’ve had my eye on you for a while, Black. Those fools Viktus and Ferren did not value your talents highly enough. I won’t make their mistake.’
    Black sat stiffly on the armchair, as became a sublieutenant in the presence of the High Commander, and barely sipped his cup-heated coffee whilst Rench guzzled greedily. ‘Thank you, sir.’
    Rench waved that away. ‘I’m not doing you any favours, Black. But I can’t abide resources being wasted. I know that feeling only too well.’
    So. Rench felt himself unjustly treated by the service. Sidelined. A short man who believed he was capable of great things. Mika’s profile of him was on the nose. Which made him all that easier to manipulate.
    ‘May I ask, sir, what brought me to your attention?’ Black watched the man carefully, pretending to be nervously surprised by what was being offered to him. But he had to know if Rench suspected that he, Black, was the man’s ‘benefactor’ - if a double edged blade could be called a benefactor.
    Rench showed no sign of such knowledge and Black doubted the man had the capacity to hide it. ‘Your work on the Task Force, though doomed to failure by those above you, was exemplary. Outstanding, perhaps.’ He locked eyes with Black.
    ‘You see, I make it my business to recognise talent when I see it, especially when others don’t.’
    ‘Permission to ask a question, sir.’
    ‘Of course. As my attache and adviser, Captain, it will be your duty to speak up when you believe it is necessary.’
    ‘Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. Do you believe then, sir, that the Combine Cartel has formed or is forming a Majoris Corporata?’
    Rench raised an eyebrow. ‘Straight to the point. I like that. And no, I am not convinced of it. Nor would I necessarily be against such a concentration of resources. I’m not for one minute supporting such a notion, mind you,’ he hastened to add, ‘but unlike my predecessors, I believe that the Cartel members act from the best and most predictable of motives: profit. And as such, it is in their interest to promote and maintain peace. I do believe therefore that if a Majoris Corporata were to exist, we could do business with it. Does that answer your question?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘But really, Black, I ask you, what is the likelihood of such a combination? The Cartel members can barely agree on carbon nanotube tariffs. No, I think the idea of an MC is alluring to the young, but in cold hard reality such a thing is never likely to be.’
    Rench waved a hand imperiously. ‘Take the rest of the day off to shake down, Captain. Move into your new quarters and report here in the morning. If I’m not mistaken, you have a bright future ahead of you.’
    Black kept one eye on the netclock as he injected three ampoules into the intravenous feed dripping the transmogrifier virus into the arm of an unwilling and unsuspecting volunteer. Right about now, Black mused, Kilroy’s hit team would be annihilating Fat Fraddo’s squalid empire of crooks and contrabandists.
    Fat Fraddo had made the mistake of aiding and abetting Anneke Longshadow on her journey to Reema’s End in the Cygnus Sector a year ago, a journey that caused Black a great deal of pain. He glanced at the two smallest fingers of his aching left hand, now pink and regrown via gene therapies. He had taken the opportunity to