Glorax was far too large an operation for any single being to hold authority over. Instead, there was a Board. The Board members did not know each other's names, races, sexes, genders, at least they weren't supposed to. That was the rule. That didn't mean everyone followed the rule, but that is a story for another day. Of course, no matter how much work and responsibility and power were distributed, it was a simple fact of life that in any pecking order, there can only be one at the top. That was the Throne.

  Physically, the Throne was in his cushy undersea mansion on Limitless, but the Board meeting was arranged through a virtual reality room time synced for all the members spread out across the Diaspora using the same techniques that facilitated faster than light travel.

  It said something about the kind of people the Board were that their digital meeting room could've looked like literally anything they could imagine, and it was a dingy blue black grotto with an obsidian slab forming a table between them. Equally black stone seats flanked the table. A Board member occupied each seat, glitching virtual masks hiding the faces. All except the Listener. He was a Tripod, and sat patiently, projected into a corner of the room where he could take notes in peace, knowing he'd never need to risk actually opening his mouth. The Throne sat at the centre of their virtual table atop a massive seat of simulated crystal.

  He hadn't wanted to call this meeting, but sometimes, if you wanted to stay ahead you had to do things you didn't want to. There was no way he could broach the loss of assets without appearing weak, and the only way to counter weakness was a show of power. What was lost wasn't even something small he could sweep under the rug. Sums of money, the Throne could push aside, he could pretend he didn't wince at every credit the company lost, but this was something bigger. Something that put the entire existence of Glorax at stake. Confidence was the right move. They couldn't be disappointed in him if he was already angry with them.

  “Four samples from Planet 5674-P,” the Throne started without preamble, voice choppy behind the masker program. “We have not one, not two, not three, four rogue specimens out of containment. That's why I called this meeting. Now does somebody want to tell me how they propose solving this pretty little catastrophe?”

  A blurred out humanoid tilted its head and raised its hand. The Throne was tempted to smack him across the head. If they’d existed in the same physical space, he would have.

  “Speak.”

  The humanoid, likely the youngest of the Board, hastily pulled down its arm. “Sir… if I may inquire, how do we even know they're alive out there? Isn't it a waste of resources to go chasing after four samples when we have hundreds of planets under our control?”

  From the safety of his luxurious home in his luxurious garden at the bottom of his beautiful ocean, the Throne pulled off his headset and pushed a series of buttons to make it clear to the right people that the newest member of the Board was not fit for his role and should be relieved of it at soon as possible.

  He scanned his sterile white room, resting his slit eyes and his spongy brain for a moment.

  Pulling the headset back down over his head, he surveyed the table once more. The young humanoid was still watching expectantly.

  “A waste of resources,” the Throne explained calmly. “Would be to allow potential competitors to find and study escaped samples from our research project. Allow us to say, just for the sake of argument, that all four humans are dead. Their DNA is still there to be analyzed and recreated by our competitors, their anatomy is still there, their clothes, our property is just laying there waiting to be harvested by parasites and scavengers? I fail to see what part of that isn't a problem. And that's if they're all dead. If even one is alive, it could go public to the Diaspora at large and tell them everything it knows about our business practices, which might I remind you, are not completely one-hundred percent above board. A human on the reels at just the wrong time could be exactly what those bleeding hearts need to turn the general public against us. Do you see where our resources would be going now? Do you see that I'd actually quite like for this company to have a future?”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The humanoid nodded dumbly. “Understood, I won't fail you again.”

  Even through the masker, the shame in his voice was audible.

  The Throne allowed himself something as close to a sneer as his anatomy would allow, but his translator simply rendered a tone of sharp condescension.

  “You're right. You won't fail me again.”

  Through the humanoids microphone, the sound of hammering on a door filtered into the virtual meeting.

  The voice shifted in an instant from shame to panic. “Wait! What is this?”

  The Throne said nothing.

  “Please! I'm still learning! It was only a question. I'll be better! I promise! I'll be better! I have a family!”

  The hammering grew louder. The Throne just watched with mild, dispassionate amusement.

  “Please, I have a brood! I have a little brood. They need their parent. Please, they need me. They need-”

  The hammering climaxed in the crash of a wooden door giving way.

  “Please- no… put that down… stop, we can talk…”

  Several crisp bursts of plasma fire picked up on the mic, and the humanoid popped out of existence in the virtual interface. Presence was only facilitated by neural activity.

  The rest of the Board were silent. A few of the avatars took on their stiff idle postures, no doubt their owners had taken off their headsets to breathe or recover. Good. He’d made the right decision. It drowned two stones with one tentacle. He'd both built his platform of fear and respect with his remaining members and chopped off some useless chaff that had somehow worked its way to the top.

  The strong survived. It was the nature of life, and the nature of business. One day, a stronger, younger being would kill him and take the throne, and when it happened, he would accept his fate with grace, but that didn't mean he was in any hurry for it to happen. If someone wanted to overthrow him, they'd need to earn it.

  Relaxing in his seat, the Throne leaned back. “Would anyone else like to contribute?”

  A hexapod of some kind hesitantly put up their forelimb.

  “Yes?”

  “These are Earthlings that have gone missing, correct?” they rasped.

  The Throne considered having the hexapod killed too for asking such a stupid question, but fear and respect were fussy little things. Too little violence and people saw you as weak. Too much and they'd be too frightened and reckless to respect the power structures that made society tick. Two Board members in one meeting would be too much.

  “Yes. If you wish to use the name they give themselves then yes, that is correct.”

  The hexapod nervously fiddled with their many legs. “Would the wisest motion not be to send our asset most familiar with Earthlings to repossess them, then?”

  The Throne cocked his head. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I was just… well… sir… I was just suggesting that we bring Project Wayback out of trial and test it in the field. All of the reports have been favorable. The children are more likely to trust him than us. If we're lucky he might even be able to resolve the problem without having to resort to violence.”

  The Throne paused. “Your plan, is that in order to retrieve our property, we send out more of our untested property, so that it too can be pilfered and rummaged through by our enemies.”

  His button pushing fingers were itching.

  The hexapod raised a limb to stop him from doing anything. “Not quite. Wayback has been tested extensively. The only thing he hasn't been allowed is an opportunity to prove himself in the field.”

  The Throne still didn't like it, but he had to admit, he couldn't think of much better. “What do the rest of you think?”

  Carefully, afraid of retaliation for the wrong choice, one by one, every member of the Board nodded, waved, pulsed or otherwise indicated assent.

  The Throne reminded himself to keep an eye on this clever hexapod, in case he needed to whisper its name to anyone any time soon. He didn't like unanimous support behind anyone but himself.

  To the Board he simply said. “It would appear we are unanimous. Prepare Project Wayback.”