(Here is some more writing fresh out of my imagination, but not before copyrighting it. Here we meet the chairman of the world, Richard William Wilcox, and get hints at his rocky relations with Prince Stephan. Image is also copyrighted.)
He drove his short, and rather desk jockey, finger into the document in front of him, pushing it some over his neo-bedermayer desk, “What in the hell is this?”
Indeed, World Chairman, Richard William Wilcox, was one pissed off world dictator at that moment. Really pissed off.
He leaned over his desk and yelled, “Why in the bloody hell does this report say that there is minimal feedback from Stephan Coburg’s brain?”
“Ah sir, we don’t know exactly why we’re not getting a clear signal from Prince Stephan’s brain inputs. We believe that there is some sort of interference with the signals. We can locate his exact whereabouts most of the time, except for when we see him climb into a certain car. Then we lose all signals. We can only track him visually from our satellites when he’s in that car.” Dr. Embleton answered.
“What? Couldn’t be. Our population matrix survey is failsafe.”
“PMS should be failsafe, sir, but you should see this. Here are the satellite images of him just before getting into that car, and here you see we can read his location, his heartbeat, his blood pressure, but not his thoughts or words. Once in this black car, all signals down.”
Wilcox studied the images, “Nice car. Looks like some sort of Lamborghini or something. Definitely from a different era. Looks like it burns a petroleum product or ethanol. Might as well climb into horse and buggy! Why the fucking relic Lambo?”
“We don’t know. But it apparently showed up on his estate suddenly. We have no satellite images of it arriving on any roads.”
“Stephan must have built it then. A replica perhaps. He's mad about machines, especially race cars, Lambos and Ferraris, and all sorts of other tech too. He certainly builds things, that’s a fact. He’s always been mechanical, that boy.”
Chairman Wilcox sat back into his big minimalist chair, and slowly played with his pen, thinking. He indeed had that famed frown on, but his eyes were still that same look of socially inept and insecure. The doctor noted that, while remaining expressionless.
Suddenly the World Chairman boomed, “God damn it, we got to regain signals on Prince Stephan’s thoughts, and at least record his words. If we can’t monitor his thoughts, I want him brought back in. That son of a bitch is trouble. This is beyond just our personal dealings now. He’s got something brewing, something big.”
“Yessir. My team is on it as we speak. We’re trying to scan any scramble programs and jammers.”
“Good. I’d hate to bring him in, because every time I do that, it’s a scene or it draws too much public attention. That bastard is way too popular. But God dammit, we have to keep that man chipped, monitored and under control!”
“Indeed, Mr. Chairman. We’re trying to figure out how in the hell he managed to block his signals. He has somehow overridden our chips at an atomic level. Almost quantum, actually.”
Wilcox made an odd chortle, and quipped, “Shit, if I knew any better, I’d blame it on some bloody aliens.”
The Doctor made a little smile at the old often repeated joke. For some weird reason, that old joke was still funny.
Chairman Wilcox then said, “What the hell, bring in Prince Stephan. Shit. I wouldn’t mind seeing the boy again. I rather dread the scene he’ll make, and the risk, but I do enjoy seeing him. Care for some tea, doctor?”
The doctor obliged, and looked on as Wilcox buzzed for their tea. The Chairman had a strange little smile, and a look of pleasure in his eyes. It smacked of scandal. The researcher dared not gaze upon the Chairman too much, and shuffled his feet, looking at some garish award on the wall behind Wilcox.
“Perhaps we can make some new modifications to the Prince. We got some new generation bio-metrics and brain implants ready to prototype, haven’t we?” Wilcox said, still with that odd smile.
“Indeed we do.”
“Funny thing that he is studying engineering - and we’re on the cusp of turning him damned near into a fucking machine. Isn’t irony perfect. Ah, here is our tea…”
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