Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

My principal settles comfortably and waves us off, indicating we should exit and close the door. We’re just by that door when all our proximity alerts shriek. As one, we spin about and rush to protect him. After all, if he dies, we don’t get paid – and quite possibly don’t get another job: losing the person you’re meant to be protecting never looks good on a resume.
A missile enters at the wrong angle for a solid hit, skips off his personal defensive forcefield, then lands a solid hit on the front woman of my team.
I come round lying under a section of ceiling. Rolling my eyes I see it was prevented from crushing me by a partially collapsed wall.
Movement: cautious, careful, and I’m convinced also very dangerous.
Right now I couldn’t defend myself against a curious moth, so I switch to headware battery, breathe out, stop my heart, and settle to listen. Catching the perpetrator from evidence I provide will compensate for having a dead principal on my resume.
“My apologies, Baron Noeblen. I hadn’t allowed for your security team being quite this efficient.”
There’s a cough.
“I’ve no idea who you are, but surely my security isn’t efficient, because they’re dead. I don’t suppose you’d accept a higher offer to let me live?”
There’s a tinkling laugh.
“If I were tasked to kill you, I wouldn’t. As I’m not, accepting would be fraudulent. Suffice to say today is a warning. Your security were efficient because they made it back quick enough for my missile to hit one of them. It should have exploded against the rear wall, where you’d have been protected from the blast by your forcefields and the back of your chair. However, as you won’t die from your injuries, I will accept this as success by luck.”
More coughing.
“What is this warning about?”
“The Stellar Seven merger. Noeblen Holdings should not participate.”
“How much to be told which of my rivals is paying you?”
“Nothing. I am acting on behalf of an affected government. They have seen what your sort of investment and industrialisation results in, and have no wish to condemn their populations to it. With Noeblen out of the merger, they feel they can arrange matters more to their satisfaction.”
Not sure if that’s a cough or clipped laugh in reply.
“Back off the gangsters to cow the businessmen. That’s a bold strategy.”
“Baron Noeblen, I am permitted to inform you that while my organisation specialises in near-miss negotiations of this sort, we are quite capable of being deadly accurate, and also believe assassination is most effective when entire bloodlines cease to exist.”
The silence that follows lets me hear the tell-tale sounds of late-stage mass panic from beyond this wrecked private viewing room. It’ll be at least five minutes before any response reaches us.
Finally, my principal speaks.
“Noeblen Holdings will not be part of the Stellar Seven Consortium.”
“Thank you for your agreement.”
I hear footsteps.
“Now the formalities are over, might I ask something?”
The footsteps stop.
“You may.”
“Could you recommend me a replacement security team?”
The tinkling laugh comes again.
“You don’t need one. Just get Benedict sufficient medical attention and he’ll rebuild you an effective team.”
They spotted I’m alive. That’s alien tech levels of detection.
“I want better.”
Understandable.
“To protect yourself from my organisation, you need my organisation. We are unique. Benedict and those chosen by him will protect you from any lesser threats, and we’ll not meet again. Warnings are only given once.”
The footsteps recede. The implicit threat lingers.