Chapter 3: Islands In The Stream

♫ “Islands in the stream
That is what we are
No one in between
How can we be wrong?
Sail away with me
To another world
And we rely on each other, ah-ah
From one lover to another, ah-ah” ♫

“Islands in the Stream”. Recorded by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Written by the Bee Gees, ah-ah (1983).

New York Times | October 31, 2030

OmniCore’s Unlikely Rally: How a Midsize Contractor Became a Talent Magnet Overnight

For most of the past decade, OmniCore Holdings (OMCR) occupied a familiar niche on the industrial side of the space economy: reliable, unglamorous, and rarely mentioned outside specialist conferences. That changed this month.

The company’s shares have jumped more than 40 percent since the beginning of the third quarter, adding billions in market value and drawing the kind of attention usually reserved for consumer tech names. The catalyst was not a new launch contract or a breakthrough in atmospheric processing. It was hiring.

People familiar with the firm’s recruiting data say applications from elite engineering programs spiked sharply after a recent OmniCore campus recruiting event at its Midtown headquarters. The gathering, intended as a modest pipeline exercise for the sons of employees and contractors, instead produced a burst of campus conversation nationwide that recruiters at peer firms are now trying to decode.

“What we are seeing is a narrative premium,” said Priya Patel, an industrial technology analyst at Cornelius & Co. “Investors have decided OmniCore’s progressive corporate culture can attract the exact kind of top-tier talent that every terraforming bid theoretically requires and almost none of them can actually lock down. That is a scarce asset. The market is pricing it.”

OmniCore’s implied valuation now sits closer to a growth platform than to the equipment vendor it was priced as last month, but skeptics note that viral recruiting stories often fade. “A one month surge in résumés is not a durable moat,” said David Cho of Green River Research. “The question is whether the people who applied recently still want to work there in six months, and whether the company can absorb them without breaking the culture that supposedly attracted them.”

♫ “Tumble out of bed and I stumble to the kitchen
Pour myself a cup of ambition
And yawn and stretch and try to come to life
Jump in the shower and the blood starts pumpin’
Out on the street, the traffic starts jumpin’
With folks like me on the job from 9 to 5 ♫

♫ Working 9 to 5! What a way to make a livin’
Barely gettin’ by, it’s all takin’ and no givin’
They just use your mind and they never give you credit
It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it! “ ♫

“9 to 5”. Written and recorded by Dolly Parton (1980).

The COO suite looked like a hostage situation.

Two nameplates on one desk. Four monitors. One view of Midtown Manhattan that Kessler had pointedly not assigned to either of us. The door stood wide open, of course, per her explicit instructions. She was in Seoul this week meeting with potential investors, so anyone walking the floor and peering into our office at this precise moment would only see Dr. Julian Cross ... sitting in my goddamn chair like he’d been born there.

He had not been born there. In fact, at this precise moment, he looked like he might throw up in it.

Julian was uncharacteristically nervous this morning. Five minutes to Squawk Box. Live. National. The kind of hit I used to get offered after a decent quarter, but never on a morning show that actually moved a stock. There was no denying this was Julian’s shot at the big leagues. The fucking show. A good first impression here before a national audience could launch his career directly into the stratosphere. Kessler’s very own Nakamura show pony. Forgot the COO spot. If this goes well for him, we could very well be looking at a future CEO right here. Julian’s knee bounced once under the glass desk and then stopped, as if he’d caught himself committing a human error.

I uncrossed my legs, rose from the sofa and closed the distance between us with the sugary sweetness I typically reserved only for board spouses and small children.

“Hey,” I said, soft. Motherly. “Breathe.”

He looked up. That sharp, unfair face of his already starting to pink at the ears.

“I’m breathing.”

“You’re vibrating. I get it. I’ve been in the hot seat before myself, but never quite like this. This is a really big deal.” I stepped between his knees and reached for his tie. The silk was already perfect. I straightened it anyway, nice and slow. “There. Now you look like a man who actually belongs on television instead of some kid who looks like a fucking nervous wreck.”

“Comforting.”

“Hey, be patient with me. I’m at least trying to play nice here.” I smoothed the knot with my thumb. “How does a wunderkind like you even end up here, Julian? I mean ... seriously. You worked alongside Nakamura, for fuck’s sake. You could have gone anywhere. SpaceX. Blue. A chair at Caltech with your name already engraved. Why OmniCore?”

He smiled. Small. Uncharacteristically unguarded.

“I dreamed of this place.”

What a fucking weirdo. Of course he did. This little fucker had probably been dreaming of swooping in and taking my office for quite some time now.

I let the smile I gave him be real enough to pass. “Well ... good luck, Julian. Really. Our little rivalry aside ... a win for OmniCore is a win for us all, right?” I tipped my head toward the open door. “I’ll leave you to it, sir. By the way, I know Kessler said it’s against the rules now, but make sure to lock the door behind me so you can focus. This is a very important interview for you, after all...”

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Wait. W-Why are you being so nice to me?”

I was already walking.

“Oh fuck. Rebecca? What is happening...?”

In my head, I could hear the beginning of Trick Daddy’s old hit “Let’s Go” start playing. One of my personal favorites. Who doesn’t love Lil Jon?

If you want it, you can get it, let me know.

I’m ‘bout to fuck a bitch up.

Let’s go.

I then locked the door from the inside and gave Julian a wicked grin. The lock seated in place with a clean, expensive click.

Fuck you, Dana.

And especially fuck you, Julian. Happy Halloween, lover.

Half a second of silence. Then his laptop chimed, the CNBC slate bloomed on his screen, and a producer’s voice began counting him down. I had timed that perfectly. For a supposed genius, Julian did the math a beat too late on this one. Bewilderment at first. Then the dawning, delicious horror of a man who had just been outplayed by the same woman whose goddamn chair he was sitting in.

Live.

The male anchor’s authoritative voice filled the room, bright and breakfast hour polished.

“Joining us now from OmniCore Tower in New York is Dr. Julian Cross, the 22 year old atmospheric systems prodigy whose revolutionary work alongside Dr. Hikaru Nakamura helped put this once quiet contractor at the center of Wall Street’s sudden love affair with terraforming. Dr. Cross, welcome. OMCR is up another 6% in the premarket. Your CEO, Dana Kessler, is jet setting around the world meeting with potential new investors as we speak. You yourself recently served a short stint as her Acting Chief Operating Officer. Which is both impressive and a little stunning considering how young you are, sir. Walk us through what’s actually been happening inside your organization, doctor.”

Julian sat up straight. Professional. Hands folded. Camera framed tight on his face with only tasteful abstract art behind him.

I walked back into his line of sight and stopped directly in front of the desk.

My old desk.

Invisible. Except to him, of course. I was entirely his problem now.

’Cause me and my clique, we don’t give a fuck.

I held up the card I’d written in the lactation room twenty minutes earlier:

// FUCK YOU, INTERN. I’m straight out the county of Dade. //

His eye twitched. His throat moved.

I seductively tossed the card off to the side and started to move myself.

Let’s go.

If you want it, you can get it, let me know.

My body does not ask permission. It occupies. I was tall enough to make today’s short black skirt a real threat. My hips turned each step into a decision. My waist cinched and then gave way to the full, heavy swell of breasts a silk dark green blouse like mine had no earthly business trying to contain. The Louis Vuittons put a slow, expensive click under every shift of my weight. I rolled my shoulders first, lazy, like Trick Daddy’s song was already playing somewhere only I could hear. That wet, filthy bounce. I let my ass follow my hips in a tight circle, then a deeper one, the kind that made the skirt climb the underside of my thighs and stay there.

Julian’s mouth opened to answer the question.

“I—yes. What’s happening is ... talent. We’ve seen recent inbound interest from—from programs we historically—”

I popped the first button of my blouse.

His eyes dropped and snapped back up so fast the audience probably thought he had a facial tic.

“—historically under-indexed,” he finished, voice a half tone too high.

“But let’s get real here. How much of that is culture versus capability, Dr. Cross?” the anchor asked, cheerful yet lethal. “Because the Street is treating OmniCore like a platform now, not a vendor.”

Second button. The silk parted. The lace underneath was the color of champagne and already losing the fight. I turned, planted my palms on the edge of the glass desk, and dropped it low, as the kids like to say ... slow squat, knees out, my short skirt riding up until there was nothing left to the imagination except for the fact that I had decided not to wear panties to work today. I rose the same way I’d gone down, ass first, a roll through the lower back that made my breasts shift heavy against the remaining buttons.

Julian swallowed.

“C-Capability,” he stammered. “Obviously, capability. The ... culture here is ... supportive. Of returning ... new parents, for example. And high performers.”

I laughed without sound and took off my blouse.

It slid down my arms like it had been waiting. I let it hit the carpet. The bra was a technicality at this point. Full and swollen, my big tits made poor Julian Cross forget he was on live television. I reached back, unhooked, and let the weight of them spill forward. Cool air. Immediate ache. A faint gleam already gathering at my left nipple.

Gotta spit it for the murderers. And the killers and the thugsters. That be fuckin’ up the ballers. And the dealers and the hustlers.

Julian’s gaze went dark and stupid.

“Dr. Cross?” A different voice now. Female. Second chair. “You still with us, young man? We asked about Kessler’s recent comments on the COO re-structuring. Frankly, you seem very distracted. Very flustered. If this is a bad time for you, sir, we can always reschedule...”

“Yes.” He blinked hard. “I mean no! The new COO structure is ... collaborative. Temporary. But ... D-Dana has been perfectly clear that no matter which teammate may wear this hat or that hat on any given day ... our organization as a whole is one in which our corporate culture openly and enthusiastically acknowledges the fact that great talent is hard to find ... and so it must be nurtured and rewarded. Based on key performance indicators, of course...”

I unzipped my skirt.

It dropped. One step out. Nothing left now but my Louis Vuittons and the body he’d already had twice now... and yet ... I couldn’t help but notice ... even now ... the way he still looked at me ... like he’d starve if he didn’t have just one more taste.

Fuck. His obvious yearning was making me wet. But I was also reasonably confident that his big, swinging dick was completely short-circuiting his own brain right now ... which made me smile.

I ran both hands up my own thighs, over the soft give of my stomach, up to cup my breasts and lift them, thumbs circling my tight, leaking nipples.

Much like me, Julian’s cock was a problem he could not adjust on live television. I could see the line of it aggressively trying to escape his pants under the desk. Thick. Desperate. The same one that he had buried deep inside me in both an elevator and then a broom closet ... and now here he was ... trapped in his own stupid Armani suit while I danced like all of OmniCore Tower belonged to me.

Which it fucking did. Let’s go.

I hooked a finger in my mouth, wet it, and drew it down between my breasts, over the curve of my belly. Lower. I turned in a slow circle so he got the back of me ... wide hips, the heavy hang of my ass, the wet shine already starting at the tops of my inner thighs ... then faced him again and walked back to the sofa.

I laid down.

On my back. Knees softly falling open. Thighs spread. One hand on my breast, the other sliding between my legs. I was soaked. But ... like that CNBC dork just said ... let’s get real: I’d already thought about his lips and his girth a million times since the janitorial closet ... and the way he’d said “that’s my job” ... while my body had taken every inch of him.

While Owen had watched.

Jesus, my fucking hair...

I hated Julian. And I hated myself for wanting him. For dreaming about him. I worked my clit in tight, mean circles and watched his handsome face come apart by millimeters.

I squeezed my tit.

Milk arced into the air. A clean, obscene spurt that caught the morning light and painted my fingers, my chest, the inside of my forearm. I did it again, only a little slower this time, milking myself for him while CNBC asked about Mars-adjacent capital. Julian said something in response that might have been English.

“Oh, Owen,” I moaned in a whisper, loud enough for Julian but no one else, obviously. I tipped my head back, one arm flung over my eyes dramatically like I couldn’t bear the sight of this oh-so-incredible boy wonder suddenly claiming my tight, supple desk.

“God—Owen—what are you doing to me? ... oh yes, pound my little pink pussy ... you’re so young and eager for me ... oh my ... that’s a good boy...”

Julian made a sound that was not appropriate for Squawk Box. He covered it with a cough.