Titanomachy

"So what do we do?"

The question hung amongst the smoke of the dim boardroom. It had come from someone Mark Yale didn't know. Nobody knew everyone on the board, after all.

"Well, we can't do anything." Mark Yale didn't know this man either, but hated him instantly. "Two ventures in, two disasters out. Sure, we picked them up for cheap afterwards, but its not like we can do anything with them."

"We have to do something." This was Elizabeth Mills, VP of Urban Development. She was technically not on the board, but she was sitting in the seat of someone who was. They couldn't be here on account of a fall from the top of a skyscraper. She'd been happy to accept the promotion.

"We can't sit idle." Her voice was sharp. Yale couldn't see her, but could imagine the tight set of her jaw. "There are too many opportunities. We have room for -"

"We don't, that's the problem. Those damn freaks are in the way, thinking they own everything and that they make the rules. Nobody can go there whilst those people are alive."

Yale began to tune out. Nobody was saying anything new. Nobody had a solution. It irritated him beyond all belief.

It was, as always, a question of a Second Beanstalk. Yale didn't know where or when it had started, but it had become the gospel of the Consortium. The first beanstalk, the perfectly good space elevator they had in New Angeles, was not enough. They needed a Second Beanstalk. The Sub-Saharan League were building a Second Beanstalk. When was the Second Beanstalk?

It was a terrible name and he hated it. He wanted this all over and done with. He wanted to go home and drink his whiskey and think of advertising slogans and new ways to make stupid people give him their money. He didn't want to hear the words "Second Beanstalk" or "Kobber" or "we have to do something" ever again. But here he was.

"Any ideas, Yale?"

They hated him because he'd funded Jenkins on her own wild goose chase. But he'd only given her the money. She'd been the one to spend it like an idiot. And where was she now? Nobody knew. Well, he didn't.

They were looking at him. He thought frantically.

"...We have four corporations that can't go into the other world," he said. An idea was dancing towards him. "They're all using technology from the same benefactor. That means we've done the same thing twice. The feds don't know we're doing any of this. But the man on the street doesn't know either, right?"

"Only what Runners might leak out, and not even then sometimes."

Mark didn't know that voice either, but he didn't care. He had the idea. "That means, to them, we can say anything. We don't have to tell them anything about the Kobbers or the past attempts. If they know nothing, and none of us can apparently do anything, then whatever we do makes us the first. It doesn't matter that there have been two failed attempts. We can do whatever we like."

"Like what?"

Yale turned to look at Elizabeth. "Miss Mills, you visited that place once. What's it like?"

Elizabeth blinked. "Uhm, it's tropical. The air's unfiltered, it's like the simulations but more real - "

Mark Yale snapped his fingers, pointed at her and grinned.

---

Mister Stone lit a cigarette. under the cover of the awning. Old habits died hard. Around him, people and androids bustled. He could smell kebabs and oil. He looked up at the scant few real ads left in this part of New Angeles - most people had moved on to the eye implants now, implants he couldn't risk having. He missed billboards.

One of them caught his eye. It was a tropical beach. A man and woman had taken off their rebreather masks and were smiling in the sun. The colors were impossible. The advert said:

"KUWAHAWI
It's More Real"

Mister Stone sighed. The things they tried to sell you, nowadays.