The Luxury IPO has nothing to do with the filthy, bureaucratic lines of public listing centers, where the commoners sell kidneys to pay rent. That is a butcher shop. This here? This is the "Formula 1" of biology. An elegant mix of opera, horse racing, and slave auction, watered with four-digit alcohol.
The Conservatory's Grand Hall smelled of almond liqueur and old money. Down below, on a stage lit by a single focus of surgical light, the nineteen-year-old Asian boy curved over a stainless steel cello. The brushed metal of the instrument shone, cold, contrasting with the musician's pale, sweaty skin.
He played the Adagio from the Symphony in B Minor. The notes from the steel rose through the acoustic galleries, clearer and sharper than any wood, vibrating in the chests of the eight hundred shareholders present like a promise of dividends.
I rested my hand on the red velvet-lined railing of my private box. The texture was rich, deep. Beside me, Lord Vane peeled an orbital truffle with a silver penknife, bored.
"It was risky bringing him straight from Kyoto without the sleep quarantine," I commented, sliding my finger across the holographic screen projected on the box's glass. "Getting out of there is difficult; the trip took its toll. Look at the Cognitive Efficiency: dropped 0.7% in the last two hours. His cortex is frying."
"Irrelevant, Valerian. You are looking at the brain, I am looking at the mechanics." Vane popped a piece of truffle into his mouth. "Look at the Physical Stamina. Up 0.25%. The time zone stress activated survival adrenaline. He is playing on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The market loves that tension."
"The risk is high," I countered, raising the Baccarat crystal goblet. A cherry-colored pinot noir from a pre-collapse vintage drew an oily arc against the light. "If he has a muscle spasm, the insurer goes bankrupt. He is a luxury asset, not a human being."
"Details." Vane wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief. "By the way, did you hear about the Rochefort merger? The youngest daughter married the CEO of BioTech. The pre-nup includes 40% of her lymphatic system as collateral."
I was about to answer, twirling the heavy crystal between my fingers, when the universe failed.
There was no warning. My right hand was caressing the soft velvet of the railing. In the blink of an eye, the sensation of noble fabric vanished. My fingers scratched against something hard. Rough. Cold. Porous concrete and peeling paint. I jerked my hand back as if shocked, looking at the railing. The red velvet was there, intact. But the tactile memory in my fingers screamed that I had just touched the wall of a filthy service corridor.
"Valerian?" Vane's voice sounded strange. Muffled. Distorted and far away, as if he were speaking underwater.
"Nothing," I murmured, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together. Static, I thought. Neural micro-discharge.
I tried to compose myself. I brought the crystal goblet to my mouth. The weight of the cut glass was the only physical certainty of my status in that moment. I needed that contact. But the second the rim of the glass touched my lips, reality broke again. The crystal vanished. Suddenly, I was holding something soft. Hot. Porous. Damp cardboard. The sensation was so repugnant, so contradictory to what my eyes saw, that my brain short-circuited. I saw diamonds, but touched trash. My fingers sank into the soft surface of the phantom cup. I almost dropped the goblet, certain it would disintegrate in my hand and spill cheap coffee on my pants.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
"You are pale..." Vane's voice was now a low-pitched noise, in slow motion, stretched like an old cassette tape.
I swallowed the wine in one gulp, seeking the warmth of the alcohol to reboot the system. Fatal error. The liquid went down burning, but it wasn't grapes. The floral, noble taste was obliterated. My mouth filled with a metallic, industrial flavor. The taste of ozone, of a dirty air conditioning filter and... fear. A chemical taste of pure cortisol on the tongue. I gagged violently, coughing up the dry air that suddenly invaded my lungs. The smell of almond liqueur in the hall vanished, replaced by an unbearable stench of burnt fat and sulfur.
The cellist kept playing Debussy. But for me, the music ended. The limpid notes coming from the steel box distorted, turning into a metallic screech, sharp and painful. The sound of metal being ground. The roar of heavy machinery operating at maximum capacity.
I needed to get out of there. My biosensors vibrated: Arrhythmia Detected. High Blood Pressure. Real panic hit. Not of dying. Of falling. If I fainted there, in front of Vane, in front of the board... the trading algorithms would detect my biological weakness, and before my knees even hit the floor, my positions would be liquidated. The market prices vulnerability in real-time. I could not tremble.
"I need... air," my own voice sounded duplicated, like an echo in an empty warehouse.
I stumbled to the large panoramic glass at the back of the box. Outside, the City wept acid rain over the skyscrapers. The blue and purple neon lights ran down the glass. I needed that visual cold. I needed to see the rain to remember I was on top of the world.
I looked at the dark glass. I saw my ghostly reflection. I looked sick. I brought my hand to my face, touching my nose to check sensitivity, praying it wasn't a hemorrhagic stroke. The other option, any level of hacking, would be my end.
That was when the rain caught fire.
It wasn't a metaphor. The city's blue lights were swallowed by a violent orange. The cold glass before me disappeared, replaced by the gaping maw of an industrial furnace roaring meters away. I saw fire licking the air where buildings should be.
And then, my gaze lowered to the reflection in the glass. I expected to see the impeccable cut of my Italian suit. But I saw arms covered in a grey, cheap, filthy fabric.
And in my lap... In my lap was a black, damp, melted box. The lid was open. Inside, a mass of grey flesh, "peeled" like a rotten fruit, with the skull bone exposed. I didn't understand what it was. My brain refused the information. But the smell—the cloying smell of rotting protein cooking—was too real. I was cradling a mutilated corpse.
Bile rose in my throat. And then, the final attack came. It wasn't a vision. It was pure sensation. I wasn't in the box anymore. I wasn't anywhere. I was tied down. Immobile. A high-pitched whine pierced my ear. A laser. I felt the heat approaching my eye. "No..." I tried to scream, but there was a gag in my mouth. Then, the pain. I felt my face being torn. I felt the skin coming loose from my facial bones with a wet, obscene sound, like Velcro being slowly ripped off. I felt the freezing air hit raw, bloody, exposed flesh.
I didn't know who I was. I didn't know why they were torturing me. I just knew my skin was going away and I was going to die... ugly.
The phantom pain was so absolute that my real hand, in the box, spasmed. The Baccarat goblet flew from my fingers. It spun in slow motion, scattering amber drops, before exploding on the marble floor.
The sound of breaking glass cut the hallucination. The vision of fire vanished. The severed head vanished. I was back in luxury. But the smell... the smell of rotting meat was impregnated in my taste buds. I still felt the skin of my face loose, hanging.
"Mr. Kross!" My aides rushed in, urgent voices, blocking the public's view. "Sir, sit down!"
I backed away, frantically feeling my face, expecting to find blood and exposed bone. I found smooth skin. Expensive skin. But I knew. I knew I was contaminated. If they examined me, if they saw my biometric data now, I would be interdicted. I would be deleted from the corporate board.
"Get out..." I gagged, bile burning.
"Sir? We will call the corporate doctor."
I took a breath to scream, and tasted barbecue and metal.
"NO!" The scream tore through my throat, shrill, terrified. The doctor would see the madness. "GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!"
Transaction Complete. ?
