This kicks ass. To put it into traditional, sophisticated, Illuminated language, I would say that the situation is advantageous, pleasurable, and amusing to boot- but it can be argued that none of those terms have quite the expressive meaning of the normal world's 'This kicks ass.'

I'm on a plane- not my own- to the Bavarian headquarters. This jet-helicopter hybrid is smoother and more efficient than my jet, to be sure. Although it doesn't have quite the raw maximum speed or the armament, the VTOL is much smoother with a helicopter, and when it's at its cruising speed of 3200 kph, the entire helicopter apparatus retracts- a very nice design, if I do say so myself. Sarah is leaning on my shoulder, fast asleep. Billy and Paul are taking the jet to Michael Stevenson's dwelling, who has asked- foolishly- that I physically attend a meeting with him as a representative of his sub-group, the Sons of Control. Do I decline? No. Do I go? Nope. Do I stand him up? Nope again! Instead, I send my jet with Billy in it, and now neither Michael nor the people at the party know just which one is me- so I am, effectively, in two places at once.

And of course, there's no real reason for having the party- Illuminati need about as much justification for having parties as normal college fraternities need for drunken fuckfests. In fact, it's exactly like a frat party, only much improved in all areas: the sex, the booze (for those who drink it), the drugs (Northberg has concocted some truly nasty shit- nasty for only about 12 hours, of course.), the topics, the social rules, and there's also a solid, Illuminated reason to have such a party- it gives a good opportunity to bring out the time-honored skills of, very literally, cloak and dagger. Usually, of course, no one gets impaled. Usually.

Did I mention that I love this job?

Granted, there's a lot of bullshit at these things. Plenty of it, as a matter of fact. Sub-conspiracies form (always a no-no) and random drunken arguments burst out between the controllers of the world. But all in all, that's a good thing- it means that they're not sitting at their consoles with a clenched fist for one hand and world-controlling power in the other. Shouting matches and the occasional round of fisticuffs (The engineereds don't get into those kinds of fights unless they're actively intending to kill or humiliate someone) do no damage on a global scale. Illuminati get pissed off at each other just like normals, and power and anger don't mix. Needless to say, the key phrase to these kinds of events is 'Don't take it personally.' Of course, that philosophy lends itself to practical jokes- which are relatively harmless and provide amusement. Of course, I doubt anyone's crazy enough to try those on me. I just might take it personally, after all.

The usual transportation regimen followed- the auditorium, I noticed, must have had its normal slope mechanically lowered and its seats removed (or, more likely, mechanically lowered into slots in the floor) to become a party hall.

It was the sort of thing you'd expect from world controllers. Extravagance without limit; displays of power with absolutely no restraint. Golden chandeliers, fur carpeting, soft music from speakers everywhere in the room, shadow-corners for the invisible conversations that naturally must happen, and party drinks. I noticed that the cups used to serve them looked funny- they were presumably ceramic but they didn't seem that way. On impulse, I used my full strength to try to crush it while drinking its juice contents- it would not yield an inch. You could probably take a shotgun to it and not do more than knock it across the room.. they're as indestructible as everything in my house. And the juice itself was from something I've never tasted before. Engineered fruit, probably.

The thing with being the Dominator at one of these things is that everyone tries to get close to you without getting close to you. They want to be right there so if you just start talking to someone, they'll be the target- but they're not dumb enough to start crowding you. And, more importantly, they don't want to appear that they're even trying any of that- while, of course, regarding your superior presence. My enhanced senses picked up exactly in what ways they were moving, and most of them knew it- but then again, going through the motions is part of the game. A game which none of the engineereds played- because they were all off in their own corner of the room, a corner I intended to disappear to, which was easily accomplished. No one came up to me and addressed me about some concern or other as I vanished to the other side of the room. Sarah, of course, could be anywhere.

It should be noted that Illuminati have a long-standing tradition of same-age socializing. Unless there's necessary deals to be done, the old stay with the old, the young stay with the young, and people of middle age stay with their own kind. Part of this stems from the longer-standing beliefs on children- although they might realize the basic truths on which humanity operates, making them Illuminati, their immaturity might lead them to be more easily exploited by adults. The solution is to keep them semi-segregated, and manipulation based on maturity-related issues has always been frowned upon here. Especially since children have a bad habit of growing up and taking revenge.

Now, all of this is well and good, until you realize that just about every young Illuminatus I can think of is partially engineered, making them far smarter than their normal-bred counterparts and making them a sub-conspiracy of sorts. Naturally, the politics get convoluted at times, but the general message is that the engineered youth are going to be around a hell of a lot longer than their normal-bred elders, and so they better damn well get used to it.

The group, which had been talking in a circle as befits conspirators, instantly widened and made a spot at my approach.

"So where's Billy?", a seven-year-old boy asked, looking me in the eye with a wide grin.

"For all you know, I could be Billy." The reactions were predictable- a few 'Oh, shit's, a few 'That figures', and even a 'Two places at once!'

The conversation went on and I listened much, talked little. A couple of them mentioned the advantages of applying implants to their existing servants- one of the females mentioned how they never look at her 'like that' again. The partially-engineered, 12-year-old Boris calmly described just what the Russian mafia organizations are like- autocratic government in spirit with a few key, necessary differences. Another boy, younger than I am, mentioned using the Islamic militants to further polarize a growing area surrounding the Middle East, in order to make things easier for someone else higher up. The conversation was informal and easy. Another key thing about the engineered youth is that none of them have any fear.

A butleresque, tall servant with a mostly-bald head quietly came up to me. For some reason I got the feeling it had to do with Billy- wasn't sure why. "Your servant has called, Master Howard. He requests your contact immediately. He says it's totally, absolutely fucking urgent." There were some chuckles from the rest of the group. Yup, that's Billy all right. He better not be fucking up... I went to a small back room with a viewscreen in it.

"Howard- if it wasn't you, you would not believe this.", he said, a very serious look on his face. Paul was next to him, breathing a bit hard as if he had recently undergone stress.

"What?"

"Mike tried to kill me. And he knew it was me, Howard. He knew even before I came in that it was me. He tried to use a robot that looks and sounds like you to get me to kill myself."

"Holy fuck!", I exploded. Murphy's Law... "You're right, I almost don't believe this. Is Mike..?"

"Dead. He wouldn't tell me the truth so I blew a hole in his head."

"That's a relief. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Got lucky."

"You almost... oh damn. Billy, I'm comin there, now. Search the place, and don't leave unless it gets dangerous."

"All right, Howard. Watch it. I think someone's really out to get you." Which is more than the usual, job-description 'people are out to get me'. I announced my untimely departure, slipped out the exit, and did not seem to be missed by anyone other than the engineereds.

"Holy shit.", I said to Sarah, after the jet-helicopter was in the air and blasting at almost full throttle to the dwelling of Mike Stevenson. "Holy shit, holy shit." I opened channels and directed Enforcer squads to arrive at the same time I did.

"Well, now we know how far that goes, don't we?", she said in a half-flippant voice.

"How the hell did he know?!", I shouted, not expecting a reply. "How. The. Hell!!"

"50-50?", suggested Sarah. "The events weren't a secret. He probably guessed you in advance. He figured you'd send the servant to him and go to the party yourself, and he was right. And he or his group probably had that robot for a while."

"Sarah.. I hate thinking that.. but you're probably right. The outcome was good.. he's dead.. but that was just too fucking close."

"Howard, now you know what your real job is."

"And that would be..?"

"Survive." I gave her a strange look. Surviving is just another duty... "Howard, you don't do anything unless something's going wrong. Things that go wrong in this organization tend to be dangerous, often fatal. With technological advents and increasing powermongering, the number of things going wrong grows and the peril becomes more and more life-threatening. Under the old Dominator, people knew what to expect- since you're fully engineered, everything's shaken up and out of fear, they'll react- with violence. That's just my guess.. it could be that his group could have been plotting against your position for years. But at any rate, it's all getting more dangerous- survival becomes more and more of a concern." She would make a good Illuminatus- she seems to understand a good deal, things that I've been neglecting to tell myself. Since I am engineered, I figured they'd know my power and step back, unwilling to get in any kind of confrontation- but no, they have to be egotistical and foolhardy and commit suicide the long way. But I refuse to live in mortal terror just because I want to visit a stranger or go somewhere unfamiliar.

We arrived at Mike's mansion, the Enforcers I called in front of it. He had a double life, but his exceptionally large mansion (complete with pool, tennis courts, multiple cars, and other trappings of hedonism) isn't accessible at all to normals- guards all over the place. Guards still standing at their posts, jealously guarding the property of a deceased man. I laughed at that as I walked in to find a nervous Paul, a shrugging Billy, and a very dead Mike in a large center room with a dais. On top of that was an extra-large throne, a plastic bubble enclosing it. Hmm. I guess that was Mike's escape plan, have tunnels under the mansion and a quick getaway. But it obviously didn't work- Billy had caught him and blown his brains all over the wall, and Mike's kneecap took a bullet as well. Also laying around were the bodies of six Enforcers, each with a bullet in the head. Billy and Paul's expressions told me that they hadn't found any evidence why.

"I didn't think there would be anything. Fuck."

And on the ground was.. fuck, that's one realistic robot. Was, anyway, since its metallic skull was smeared all over the ground. The investigation crews will search it thoroughly, check the parts for identifying characteristics- and if Mike did his connections properly, find nothing whatsoever. Damn. Of all the things that could happen.. Mike here had to try to kill Billy. Why Billy, though? What sense does that make? Unless he's actively trying to piss me off.. and that would be the way to go about doing that. "Damn it..", I muttered to no one in particular. "Damn it!! I want to know why!! What is wrong with these people?!" I was probably red with anger.

"Don't look at us.", Paul said. "Stupidity burst?"

"Yeah, obviously.. something along those lines. He knew who you were, Billy. He knew.. he just knew. He probably predicted my moves. It's a good thing you caught it."

"I didn't. Paul did. It was in mid-sentence when Paul blew its head off." Holy shit.

"You mean that if you didn't bring... then.."

"Bingo." My red anger turned to black fury. I'm going to kill these people, if there's any more of them. I shall walk up to them and rip their bones from their bodies, leaving a mound of shapeless, torn carcasses and a river of blood behind me. Billy bothered with a gun for that asshole. I will not. I will tear them apart in unheard-of ways, ranging from (literal) recto-cranial inversion to crucifixion with their own ribs. Or maybe I'll just forget the creativity, and just smash them to pulp the old-fashioned way. Don't these assholes know that I am absolutely the last fucking person on planet Earth to fuck with?

"Okay, it's official.", I said to them, striding up to Mike's screen and calling up the editor of the Real News. "Let it be known, to you and to everyone you report to, that I fucking hate this. I want to know who was responsible for trying to harm the property of the Dominator; I want to know where that robot clone- don't worry, editor, you'll find about it later- came from, and I want to know what a motherfucking sec-ond lev-el is doing trying this shit. That is all I have to say. Anyone with information should go public about it or risk my wrath." That statement would certainly be placed next to the available Real News evidence- which probably isn't going to be much. I had the Enforcers search the place anyway. There. That's the official shit. That's all I can do, for now. I'm particularly interested in hearing from the Sons of Control, although I know what their statements will be- they didn't know a damn thing. And who knows? They might not have. Illuminati often spend a good deal of their time striving to be unpredictable and unknowable, and if someone's going to try something like this against me, that amount of time grows. And now to prevent this trick from happening again...

"Billy, I...", I began, and then realized something. What the hell could I tell him? He's obviously not stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice, and if the next one is super-realistic, there is no defense. You can't tell an implanted to ignore certain commands from you in the future. Latest has priority, not earliest. I'm just going to have to watch it when I tell him to do things like this. Damn it! Two months into this business and I'm already seeing shit like this!

"Forget it. He's dead, and we're wise to the tactic. Can we just go home and pretend none of this happened?", Billy suggested. His voice was music to my ears.

"Except for whatever I'll have to say regarding it, yes. Let's get out of here; I don't like looking at that.", I said, gesturing to the dead robot and the dead Illuminatus. Sarah had already gotten into the cockpit, waiting for us to get in and fly off to a relatively safe place. Without hesitation, we were gone, and the reassuring THOOOOOM of high-powered jet engines gently massaged my back once more.

"Ya know, Howard.. I think I made a major mistake back there.", Billy said, after we were well into the sky.

"What?"

"I didn't torture him enough to get the truth.."

"Wouldn't have worked. He probably had several ways to kill himself on- or in- his body. Torture him and he just dies." Even with our kind of medical technology, there are ways of hiding things like neurotoxins near the brain. Fool around with the body and it stops living.

"So I guess Sodium Pentathol.."

"He'd kill himself first. Even if you did manage to somehow incapacitate him, Billy, as soon as he woke up, he'd do some small movement and axe himself. It's almost certain, taken for granted, that anyone doing anything like this for anyone else's benefit is going to kill himself if caught. And if we do get information he was told by someone, it might be misinformation or just bullshit."

"And if it was for his own benefit.."

"Then it doesn't matter now, does it?" We both laughed- as I heard his voice, a cold realization came to me. I might not be hearing any laughter now if that assfuck had gotten his wish, his profane desire. I wanted to resurrect him, just to kill him again for that. I've got to keep my mind off the subject- every time it gets on it, I find myself in 100% throat-rip mode. It's like being millimeters away from taking a head shot- sure, it was close, but it didn't actually kill or even hurt. I really have to put my mind off this until I get some hard data- so I popped up Recent Documents, looking for something entertaining I've seen recently- and found an interesting piece of literature. The Prince and the Pauper. Of all the things they could be reading.. I noticed Paul biting his tongue. "I remember reading this a couple years ago.. and I remember wondering why Edward never used Tom for a duplicate.", I said. (As a matter of fact, my Illuminated mind picked up on it as soon as I realized the plot.) The ensuing laughter was expected. "I know, that was just the most fucking ironic thing I have ever said, especially now."

Then I turned my head to the right, to look at Billy, and I told him the unequivocal truth I should have said as soon as I heard about what happened. "Billy.. I can accept losing servants on a mission or in my defense, or similar circumstances. Comes with the territory. But there is no way- and I mean none- that I am going to lose any of you to that line of BULL SHIT!!" I noticed my right hand was almost ripping a portion out of the seat cover and I relaxed it.

Paul lightly grasped my left arm. "Thank you, Howard.", he said with sincerity. "A lot."

"No problem, Paul."

The jet blasted to the south much faster than sound.