Ray Sullivan SciFi Zone: Project: Evil - Another Bloody Friday Meeting part 1

‘Anything else?’ asked O’Feld in a bored voice, picking at the red plastic hem on his replica lederhosen shorts. ‘I’m fed up of wearing this stupid false Charlie Chaplin moustache just because it’s dress down Friday,’ he complained.

‘It’s a Hitler moustache,’ said Daw, shuffling the agenda papers before adding, ‘and it’s not false.’ A cloud passed over O’Feld’s face as he pulled at the moustache.

‘So,’ he barked in his Irish brogue, ‘how’s that evil super weapon project coming along?’ he asked, staring at Brian.

‘Well, so far we’ve had fifty project meetings and thirty Friday meetings,’ Brian reported. O’Feld stared at him.

‘Is that it?’ he asked. Brian rocked back – he couldn’t fit another meeting in if he’d wanted to.

‘Were you expecting anything else?’ he asked, fumbling with his shirt to check the bullet proof vest was secure.

‘How about an evil super weapon?’ challenged O’Feld. Daw quietly reached out and pulled the crossbow lying on the table out of O’Feld’s reach. He didn’t have any issues with wanton murder and indiscriminate killings, he just didn’t want to have to recruit another executive team again, this close to Christmas.

‘Well, there have been a few logistical problems along the way, but nothing that can’t be fixed,’ he said, hoping the grilling wouldn’t be too severe. He’d had to replace his suit after the last one, thanks to the scorch marks.

‘What sort of problems?’ asked O’Feld, absently patting his jacket for weapons. Brian wasn’t too happy about the way this was going.

‘Well, the Uninhabited South Sea Island you sourced, there isn’t an airstrip on it to fly components in,’ he said, pretending to read from his project pad. O’Feld glowered.

‘There’s quite a few airstrips near Basildon,’ volunteered the Head of Facilities, preparing to reel them off using the fingers on his hand. O’Feld ignored the interruption, but considered arranging to have the fingers removed later, one by one.

‘Then ship the parts in, ship an airstrip in if it helps,’ he said, roughly.

‘There isn’t a port, either,’ said Brian, meekly.

‘There’s a port in Basildon,’ said the Head of Facilities. ‘Several, actually.’

‘I think we’ve drowned senior managers in some of them,’ said Daw, silencing the Head of Facilities.

‘So how did the uninhabitants get to the island if there’s no airstrip or ports?’ challenged O’Feld.

‘They were born there,’ answered Brian. O’Feld considered the point briefly before dismissing it.

‘Minor problems; bring me options this time next week. Anything else?’

‘We can’t get any antimatter,’ answered Brian. O’Feld glowered at Daw.

‘Did you know this?’ he asked. Daw looked at his watch slowly before answering.

‘Brian mentioned it briefly, I assumed he was lying as per company protocol,’ he said. O’Feld seemed to be pleased by this.

‘Never trust a truthful manager, that’s my motto,’ he said. Daw gave O’Feld the look.

‘It’s not your motto, it belongs to the British Gas sales team, you stole it,’ he pointed out. O’Feld shrugged; he was leading by example, good management techniques.

‘So, how come they can’t provide us with antimatter?’

‘They claim they thought we said antipasti, they had Italian cooks working around the clock to satisfy my contract,’ replied Brian, recalling the difficult meeting he’d had the previous day with Bill Watkins. O’Feld looked fit to explode.

‘What about the window frames, are they reneging on them too?’ he asked.

‘No, thank God,’ replied Brian, hoping O’Feld didn’t remember the window frames hadn’t actually been required until they’d contracted with NoDangerStyle UK. He’d had the design of the mission control changed to include glassless windows to accommodate the window frames being supplied, increasing the project costs by another five percent. He’d had to trim back on the klaxon budget to pay for them.

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