Tap, tap.
The AI-synthesized female voice from Militech's military products display ended its solemn presentation—Damn! We will never forget. The stirring background symphony cut off abruptly.
The crisp sound of hard-heeled shoes striking the spotless, glossy floor echoed clearly.
From the center stage, Militech's elegant CEO descended from a perfectly symmetrical hexagonal lift platform.
In the spotlight, the two decorative golden cybernetic grooves running vertically down her left and right temples stood out, lending an edge of cold allure to her already striking, refined face.
Clack, clack—the matte floor panels beneath her shifted and split, blooming like steel-forged thorned roses around her, crossing, weaving, then returning seamlessly to their original state.
As Vela stepped onto the final restored section, a silent ripple of light shimmered underfoot—red and white particles blending into gold, joining together to form Militech's finely rendered, gold-framed "V" logo in holographic 3D.
Almost at the same instant, a sleek, high-tech lectern rose slowly from within the stage.
From the audience's view, the Militech hologram perfectly aligned behind Vela's head.
After a brief welcome, she wasted no time on pleasantries.
"I am Vela Adelheid Russell. I think introductions are unnecessary—you all know me. As your host, I regret to say there will be no cheerleader sweethearts for this Militech Expo. I hope you won't compare me to Scrooge in front of the media afterward."
A scattering of chuckles.
Lightening the mood with a touch of American-style humor, Vela placed her hands on the lectern and spoke firmly: "I am honored to serve as the first CEO of a private enterprise that will lead the march of technological progress."
"The best decision of my life was founding Militech. Just as I envisioned, pursued, and worked toward, Militech has changed lives—and we succeeded."
Vela extended her left hand, thumb and forefinger slightly apart.
"From 1998 to 2002—four years, a single presidential term—from San Francisco to California, Colorado, Texas, across America, across the world, Militech products have transformed how people live. We are walking the right path."
"Unfortunately…"
She paused, her piercing indigo gaze sweeping the audience.
On one side—Simmons, White House and Capitol Hill visitors, Morgan Lansdale and Pentagon officials, Rebecca Chambers and BSAA staff, mayors and officials from the San Francisco Bay Area, the California governor and Sacramento mayor.
On the other—representatives from Texas and Colorado where Militech had made heavy investments, foreign diplomats, industry peers, socialites, Hollywood stars, NBA/NFL/MLB/NHL players, scholars, and professors.
"Militech and I are still targeted by those with ulterior motives—suspicions, accusations, slander. The air in the public discourse is thick with distrust."
Her lips curved faintly.
"They call me a merchant of death, an immoral profiteer, an executioner killing the planet, the one who corrupts children with distractions, a blasphemer, a racist, an authoritarian, inhumane, antisocial—a person opposed to humanity's progress."
Her words rose and fell with precision, her voice clear, magnetic, steady, and brimming with power.
"And some conspiracy theorists go as far as claiming that 9/11 was orchestrated by me, that the B.O.W.s and bio-viruses on the black market were developed on my orders by Umbrella remnants…"
"Based on the so-called logic of 'who profits, who's guilty'—does that mean I really did it?"
"Ridiculous. Baseless. This is nothing but an insult and an affront to my character. Do I, Vela Adelheid Russell, need such means to profit?"
She stepped slightly out from behind the lectern, tilting her head as if to listen.
American-style speeches required a different touch—Arasaka-style rigid solemnity simply wouldn't fit here.
Adapt to the setting. Change with the moment.
Ha ha ha…
Laughter rose from the audience right on cue.
Everyone in America knew—given Vela's ability to generate wealth and her title as the new century's patent queen, unless she was utterly deranged, why would she ever touch the rotten leftovers of the B.O.W. business? It made no sense.
"Not even their slander hits the mark. But…"
She shifted tone.
"At least they've improved a little. Lately, they've switched tactics, haven't they?"
"Now they accuse me and my team of disrupting the market, engaging in malicious competition, hostile takeovers—and even claim we're researching advanced weapons of mass destruction. They say we might use them to target specific groups."
Her eyes sharpened, leaning forward slightly.
"Are we really researching such weapons?"
She looked straight into the long lenses of the media.
Vela nodded lightly, speaking each word with precision: "Of course we are. Including weapons to strike them. To defeat them. To crush them."
The message was clear: to the creatures lurking in the shadows—come and compete.
Clap, clap—
Scattered applause from Militech supporters.
"Here we go." Simmons crossed his legs, narrowing his eyes.
They'd discussed this beforehand—Vela intended to use this Expo to strike back directly at Militech's opponents, her haters, and the underhanded rivals.
In an almost casual tone, Vela straightened, smiling. "And we've already made a great many of them."
Whoaa—
The hall erupted in shock.
"That's her, all right." Simmons exhaled.
Behind him, Carla Radames raised her head, her expression complex.
Lansdale's cold gray eyes gleamed sharply.
"Oh…" Rebecca Chambers covered her mouth, exchanging glances with BSAA colleagues.
In the back rows, many faces shifted, whispers rippling.
"Is this… a declaration of war?" muttered an Asian woman marked as "Ada" on her LCD ticket ID, rubbing her forehead and gazing at the stage.
"The more our enemies oppose us, the more it proves we are doing the right thing."
Vela spread her hands in a confidence bordering on arrogance.
"This is our achievement—Militech's achievement."
Her voice rose.
"Welcome, everyone, to the 2002 First Militech Strategic Expo!"
Bzz… bzz…
As her words fell, the wide central runway extending from the main stage lit up, forming a massive T-shape—not for fashion shows, but—
Clang, clang.
Embedded scanner arrays activated, countless blue-white beams sketching out 3D holographic models.
The Expo's main venue, Militech Tower in San Francisco's Financial District, Bay Area industrial parks, Militech Medical Center—large-scale models projected right to the audience.
Before fresh murmurs could build, the display behind Vela shifted to black with red data streams.
[#3 Militech—Your Solution.]
The synthesized female voice echoed through the hall.
The screen unfolded into a complete flowing product directory.
[The Expo is now officially open.]
All sub-venues launched their product presentations simultaneously—from military industry, bionics, pharmaceuticals, drones, aerospace, to electronics, ICT…
On stage, Vela's lectern sank out of sight.
Tap, tap.
Stepping across the seamless glowing floor, she snapped her fingers. The Expo grounds' master model zoomed in under her control.
Beyond the main hall, the sub-venue architecture varied—sleek, sci-fi, fortress-like, grand geometric forms…
She opened one: —[Militech Electronics]—
The venue split into detailed sub-sections. Vela smiled faintly. "As a salesperson and host, I'm not the best—but for the first Expo, as CEO, I can't help but pitch a little myself."
"The new Militech V3 smartphone with 4G LTE support; Militech T2 portable notebooks—ultralight, gaming, and business; modular desktop units compatible with the Militech ecosystem, CPUs, gaming GPUs, industrial GPUs…"
Her tone was friendly, almost like a clearance sale, with none of the elite aloofness one might expect.
The serious atmosphere in the hall eased noticeably.
Next—[Militech Information & Communication Technology].
"For ICT infrastructure, Militech offers one-stop integrated solutions…"
Then—[Militech Interactive Entertainment]—
[Militech Security]—
…
After brief introductions, she opened the largest venue by far—the one all heavyweight guests awaited.
—[Military Industry]—
"Seeing is believing—but nothing beats hands-on experience."
Clapping once, she handed the stage to the preprogrammed AI. No need to continue—her goal was achieved.
With the Expo's theme and her strong stance established, the rest was for professional managers to handle. She had more important matters.
"Enjoy the Expo, everyone."
She bowed slightly. Clack—the platform beneath her sank.
Clang! Lights flared to full.
The Militech Expo main venue opening speech was over.
...
Night had fallen.
"The highly anticipated first Militech Expo has entered its twenty-one-day extravaganza! This festival of technology was officially opened by CEO Vela Adelheid, who, under a star-studded night, issued a global challenge to her industry peers! The Expo Executive Committee solemnly promises—you will find solutions here to all your problems…"
Cool air from the evenly diffused climate control filled the room. In the luxurious private residence atop a neoclassical marble building, Vela stood with her hands behind her back at the spotless, refined window.
The impassioned voice of Militech's streaming radio host filled the air.
From her vantage point, the Expo glittered under the night sky. Neon lights adorned every venue, each with its own striking design. Streams of visitors filled the walkways, the crowd swelling with life.
For the first time, LED holographic advertisements from the Cyberpunk era were deployed on such a massive scale. Every hall had them, and now all were fully active—an overwhelming sensory bombardment for visitors of 2002.
[#4 We are the pioneers of human technology. Our goal is the vast sea of stars—a never-ending journey.] The futuristic CG animation played in sync with the synthesized female voice.
"The era of bioviruses is over. Now is the era of cyberpunk."
Watching it all, Vela smiled faintly at some private thought, tapping her middle and index fingers together against the windowsill.
From within the room came a soft beep-beep, the same synthesized voice from the opening ceremony: [Visitor: Derek C. Simmons.]
Whir.
The titanium pneumatic door opened smoothly.
Simmons entered, followed by his aide—who carried a briefcase stuffed with Militech product order contracts.
"An unforgettable opening ceremony. I doubt I'll ever forget what I saw and heard today," Simmons said, gesturing for his aide to set the briefcase on the coffee table before dismissing him.
"I thought you'd spend more time in the weapons hall or the cybernetics pavilion," he added.
Vela only smiled, turning to step toward the nearby coffee bar. "Please, sit. Mm-hmm… what will you have?"
"An espresso."
Simmons saw no need for excessive formality.
They had been working together since early 1997—five years now, longer than a presidential term—without a single serious misstep. They had their occasional differences and debates, but no real conflict. A mutually beneficial political alliance.
That was his honest assessment.
While Vela ground, brewed, and prepared the coffee, Simmons' eyes roamed the room discreetly.
A cool color palette. Grand ceilings. Minimalist décor. Classical displays paired seamlessly with cutting-edge technology. The space mirrored the woman: elegant restraint, quiet opulence.
It matched the critics' descriptions—Vela was a bundle of contradictions. Rational, focused, gifted in communication yet reclusive in habit. Her career and passion for research outweighed sentiment. She was a perfectionist, conservative, with an unspoken sense of discrimination. Unlike the average American billionaire, she never appeared on talk shows or entertainment programs.
In America, the public was split: many adored her; many despised her.
Her excellence, her sheer presence, felt unreal to some—prompting accusations of pretension or insincerity.
Her conservatism and refusal to champion certain activist causes, her lack of token visits to war-torn regions, and her unapologetic role as an arms manufacturer drew sharp criticism from charities, which labeled her cold-blooded.
Some investigative groups claimed that certain demographics—hippies, addicts, cheerleader sweethearts, illegal immigrants, juvenile delinquents—were the least receptive to Vela.
Being a politician at heart, Simmons mentally ran through what Vela's voter base might look like if she ever entered politics. After President Graham's term ended, if he invited Vela to be his running mate…
"Hm?"
His thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of blue light from the sunken courtyard beyond the reception area.
He stood, eyes narrowing.
On a synthetic composite conference table lay a holographic map—not a flat display, but a full 3D projection.
It depicted a waterfront plot in Contra Costa County, East Bay—complete with geological and vegetation data. Rising from an artificially cut canal at its center, outlined in blue scan lines, was a skyscraper reaching into the clouds.
Label: [Militech Tower]
"So this is the new Militech HQ design."
Beside it, scale models of the Eiffel Tower, Rockefeller Center, Empire State Building, and the under-construction Taipei 101 were displayed—each dwarfed in turn. The visual impact was staggering.
Simmons stepped closer, reading the specs of Vela's ambition made manifest:
3,500 feet. 226 floors. 1,066 meters tall.
Nearly twice the height of the world's tallest building, equivalent to two and a half Empire State Buildings. From floors 130 to 170, vast aerial gardens were planned.
The surrounding skyscrapers and dedicated corporate plaza went without saying. Even in model form, the smooth, fortress-like skyline radiated Militech's unmatched power and pride.
Viewing the full blueprint of the [Adelheid Center] complex, Simmons—born to privilege and high office—could only whistle in awe.
No wonder the old-guard arms manufacturers, the budget-feeding leeches, and industry veterans displaced by Militech's rise were panicking—banding together, resorting to every underhanded trick they could muster…
"So?" Tap, tap. Vela's voice broke in.
"An insane construction plan," Simmons said, shaking his head as she approached.
Handing him his coffee, Vela's gaze burned on the Militech Tower model. Her brow eased, her lips curved upward into a pure, unguarded smile—like a child seeing their dream toy.
Simmons understood. She wasn't uninterested in luxury—her idea of a "luxury item" was simply very different from most.
Lavish construction, monumental wonders…
A costly passion.
He had no doubt of her capability or Militech's resources.
"Still, such a high-profile declaration of war might not be the most optimal path for Militech."
"They crossed the line first," Vela replied coolly.
She snapped her fingers. The HQ model vanished from the 3D display, replaced by a top-down route from the Expo site to Militech's old HQ in downtown San Francisco.
As she swiped the projection, the map zoomed in. Along the route, clusters of flashing red markers appeared—especially in small towns and suburbs around the East Bay Expo grounds. Several bore prominent red exclamation marks.
Vela tapped one: "Look here, Simmons—ELF and ALF, two utterly misguided activist groups, were planning to torch my Expo."
She opened another: "From their hideouts, besides arson tools and thermite, they had firearms, explosives, timers. Who exactly were they planning to blow up? To shoot?"
Her tone was icy, edged with anger.
Simmons scrolled to a red marker near Vela's commute route to HQ. Surveillance photos showed illegal immigrants repeatedly occupying rooftops; masked men in caps scouting the area; and one rooftop gunman captured by Militech security. After a memory-recovery interrogation, the man admitted he'd been paid to assassinate her and stir chaos in San Francisco.
"Idiots. Parasites. Federal deadweight!" Simmons cursed, draining a large swallow of his now-lukewarm coffee.
His values allowed for any measure to preserve social stability—but assassinating his ally? That was a direct strike at their shared "family" interests.
Breathing hard, he warned, "Congress isn't full of people happy about your trust-style expansion. Within three months at most, the antitrust investigation against Militech will restart."
"That's all they've got left."
Vela sipped her coffee.
The U.S. had passed the Clayton Antitrust Act a century ago, and the DOJ's Antitrust Division could split companies deemed monopolies—but defining monopoly was always political. Some landed softly, others were dismantled.
"What will you do?" Simmons asked.
Vela smiled faintly, leaning on the table, gaze lowered, idly rubbing the smooth base of her cup.
"Sometimes I overhear people in the shadows say I'm cold, ruthless. Then let me be as they wish."
"Let's follow the old Kennedy family tradition—and make sure some people meet untimely ends."