XLIV - The Price of Survival

General McMully's trip back from the Special Services Manager Meeting in Arabia had been hellish. Twelve hours crammed into a cargo sub filled with weapons and biotech supplies, the whole time thinking about the smirking faces of the other managers as they discussed “market optimization strategies” and “resource allocation.” His jaw clenched as he reviewed the quarterly expenditure reports, the neon-lit screen casting harsh shadows across his weathered face. The numbers didn't lie—the Special Services program was the only thing keeping their operations afloat. Without the streaming revenue from the girls, they'd be bankrupt within six months.

Six fucking months.

He stubbed out one cigar and immediately lit another, the acrid smoke filling his cramped office aboard the oil rig. Outside, the purple water crashed against the walls, a constant reminder of how tenuous their position had become since the New Order took control. Inside the temporary office, the soundscape was a relentless, claustrophobic symphony of a dying world kept barely at bay. The thin, foil-wrapped walls of the habitation module offered almost no insulation against the deep, seismic thrum-groan of the exterior extraction arms plunging into the Basin, a heavy, feeding rhythm that vibrated up through the floorplates and constantly rattled the loose metal fixtures on his desk. Above his head, the dedicated methane scrubbers worked with a high-pitched, asthmatic wheeze, periodically spitting out a wet, stuttering hiss as they choked on the ambient sulfur.

The door hissed open. A New Order Red Priest—Steve Hargrave Senior—entered without knocking, pulling two chairs over with unnecessary **** before settling into one. The man moved differently than most, with the peculiar confidence of someone who dealt in flesh instead of bullets. Not surprising for a well know individual in the medical and biotech industry.

“Already sitting,” McMully said flatly, not looking up from his papers. “What do you want?”

Hargrave's smile was predatory. “Business, General. The kind that keeps your rig from sinking.”

McMully finally met his eyes, exhaling smoke. “Cut to it.”

“The New Order needs healthcare services for your expanding operations.” Hargrave spread hands wide. “And I happen to have exactly what you need. Also I got three Special Service candidates for a new USA team—all sourced through gene-bank analytics. Two hundred percent qualified for Special Services.”

He slid three files across the desk.

McMully didn't touch them. “You don't own two of these women. Even if the profiles are solid.”

“Not yet.” Hargrave leaned forward. “But my facility in New York has a ninety-seven percent conversion rate. The third candidate; subject 234 —” he tapped Lisa's file, “—well, she's already proving the investment pays off. European arcology viewership up month-over-month. She's building bridges the New Order desperately needs.” Her stats glowing in green across the screen: 8.9 million unique views in Europe alone.

“That's one girl.” It made McMully somewhat sick. Because he knew what it cost. Knew that every like, every comment heart, every subscription was built on the bodies of girls that worked for the New Order.

“One successful girl. The market demands more. Trans-Atlantic relations depend on content flow. Your rivals in the Pacific theater are already deploying twelve new units.” Hargrave's voice dropped lower. “You're falling behind, General. Badly. USA deserves more.” Soon he left.

McMully stared at the three files Hargrave had left behind. Steve Jr—that kid had been doing exactly what his father wanted. The apartment in New York was apparently a goldmine of genetic material. Clothes left lying around, DNA traces on surfaces, all feeding into the gene-bank algorithms.

Hell of a family business....