Michael Fredericks sat behind his desk in a high-rise Manhattan office.

The room’s decoration was Spartan enough to almost look sterile. A plenty supply of sunlight poured in through the broad windows of the corner office to illuminate the area without the use of artificial lighting. Yet, the deeply varnished wood paneling of the walls and gleaming black floor made the room seem dark even though it was late in the morning.

Hours had gone by since Fredericks had sat down in the leather chair, and he was starting to feel the need to stretch his legs.

The World Management Committee’s President had been occupied for the better part of the day with the duties that came with his office.

His broad hand moved fluidly as he signed his name on one last document; a meager little bill on crime control that the Senate had passed along his way.

Despite the graceful movement of his handwriting, a nasty case of writer’s cramp had set in. It would have been an easy matter to simply do most of the work with the computer sitting near the left edge of the desk. But there was something about writing with just a pen and paper that seemed to give him more of a sense of achievement.

The pen is mightier than the sword. It had always been one of his favorite quotes from America’s history, and it was probably what influenced his old fashioned way of doing his job.

There were times when he couldn’t help but marvel at the implications of a single signature. That signature had determined the fate of countries around the globe. A hand written name had resulted in deaths. Sometimes it had resulted in the sparing of lives.

Yes, there was a great deal of power backing this one man. And if everything went as the powers that be declared, it would stay that way.

With the last pen-stroke, President Fredericks yawned. The morning just seemed to drag on today for some reason, he thought.

Fredericks massaged his hand for a moment and then stood up from the desk to move about the office a bit.

Straightening up to his full height, the President was a rather tall man with a slender build. There was just enough mass to go with his considerable stature to keep people from seeing him as gangly. His eyes were the color of stainless steel and as sharp as his wits. The President also enjoyed having the red hair that enforced his claim of being Irish, which he kept long enough to easily slick back.

A scandal had broken out over his declared heritage regarding a drinking binge, but that had been a baseless story cooked up by the media. Now, that same media was his to control. Much like the rest of the world.

Indeed, Michael Fredericks had come far from being the CEO of the then rising star corporation of Fredericks Financial Enterprises. The company was originally set up as a firm of stock exchange advisors overseen by Fredericks himself.

The CEO’s shrewd dealing style allowed the company to grow exponentially. In time, Fredericks Financial Enterprises expanded into other trades like communications and corporate security. As the years went by, the business’s name was shortened to simply Fredericks Enterprises. From there, the corporation grew through dozens of mergers, buyouts, and takeovers until it took the title of the World Management Committee.

The President walked away from his desk to look out over his land. Italian shoes worth enough to feed a family of five for several months clacked audibly against the polished jet-black floor as he went to the windows.

Looking over his surroundings outside of the office was Fredericks’ way of relaxing.

For miles, stretched the island of Manhattan with its steel monoliths. The location was ideal. It was close enough to the Bronx where one of his main projects was at work. And if by some incredible occurrence that the citizens were to revolt, the area could be well defended from any ground attacks.

After his rise to power, it had taken nearly a whole year to clear out all of the island’s original residents. That whole affair was tedious to say the least. But now Manhattan was the home base for not only the Enforcers, but also many of the highest level WMC executives.

The President was halfway to the window overlooking the Manhattan area when the intercom at his desk chimed in followed by the voice of Fredericks’ secretary.

"Sir? Constable Burkar is here to see you."

Burkar showing up for an unscheduled visit? The President wondered as he went back to his desk. That’s not his usual style.

"Send him in." Fredericks spoke after thumbing the receive button on the intercom built into the desk.

One of the double-doors into the office silently swung open.

In stepped a man who appeared rigid enough to have been built from cast iron. His walk was steady and confident. The air around him rang with discipline. This image was even more strongly accentuated by the blond crewcut. The self-esteem in the man’s manner crossed over into cocky arrogance, but there was a degree of control that showed he knew what he was capable of and how to best apply those abilities.

The hardened individual wore the telltale uniform of an Enforcer, from the black combat boots right down to the olive flak-jacket. The only discernable differences from the standard Enforcer were the red stripes depicting rank stitched into the arms of the blue uniform and the lack of a helmet with its visor.

There was no salute from the constable. In fact, he didn’t even stand at attention before the most powerful man on the planet. He merely stood in front of the President’s desk nonchalantly in wait for Fredericks to be the one to initiate the conversation.

"And what has brought you here today so suddenly, Constable?" Fredericks asked casually.

Burkar let a smirk creep across his face.

"It would seem that a variable has been thrown into the equation."

"Do be so kind as to not be so vague." Fredericks said icily. "We both have our own jobs that require our constant attention."

The constable reached into the pocket of his uniform slacks and pulled out a video-disc in its case.

"Trust me," Said Burkar, opening the case to remove the disc. "This applies to both our occupations. It would appear that someone is messing with our Bronx project."

"Somebody knows?!" the President exclaimed in shock. "I want the security leak found and dealt with."

"I hardly see a need to panic on this. By the looks of the footage on this disc, I would just as well be willing file it all in a report about some malcontent group. But since it occurred in such a sensitive area, I thought you’d want to be made aware."

"Then let’s see what you’ve brought." Fredericks stated while pressing a button built into the desk.

A portion of the near wall folded out to reveal a modest-sized television screen rigged to a disc player. The constable went to the opening in the wall and inserted the shining gold-colored disc.

Fredericks leaned back into his chair to observe the scene that was apparently taken form a security camera in some store.

It was the sight of those two men in black that set off the President. At first, his eyebrows raised at the sight of the dark costumes.

Under normal circumstances, Fredericks might have been willing to simply dismiss the black outfits as a mer coincidence. But the weapons they wielded and the location of their appearance could not possibly have been unrelated factors.

"This can’t be!" Scales slammed his palms on the desktop. The pens and other office supplies were rattled by the impact. "There’s no way they should exist!"

The change in the President was amazing to say the least. He looked about ready to stand up from the chair and flip the desk over.

Of course, this shift of mood did not go unnoticed by the constable.

"I take it you recognize them." Burkar said casually.

Even though he took orders from the Committee’s President, the constable never interacted well with Fredericks. In fact, the President knew that Burkar enjoyed situations such as this, which unsettled the WMC’s top executive. It was the fact that Burkar’s utility outweighed his potential for annoyance that kept him in his position as Head Constable.

"They are of the Shadows! They could--." Fredericks fought to regain his self-control. It was no easy task. His temper had been known to flare like a bonfire when it was ignited. After another moment of struggling to recover his composure, he stood up from his desk with an almost serene calmness.

"Of the Shadows, you say?" Burkar scratched his chin while looking to the video footage. "Sounds interesting. So please enlighten me."

Damn this bastard. Fredericks though bitterly. Seeing the President losing his composure seemed to be one of the few things the constable took pleasure in.

"When I said they were of the Shadows, I was referring to the name of the spell that made them look like that." Fredericks went to the windows again. His walk was stiff with the pent-up anger. "As far as I know, the spell is exclusive to only the Spirits on Neddel. It took me months of studying their work to understand just what the spell really was."

"Magic that goes beyond your comprehension." Burkar smirked. "This is getting more interesting by the moment."

"Such a complex spell among them is a rarity. Whoever the enchantment is put upon is said to gain powers based on magic and the subject’s subconscious as time passes. The black clothes are an added effect of the spell. It gives a nice disguise for the subject."
"I don’t suppose you have enough information on that spell in your library so that we could put it to use." Said Burkar. "A few squads of enhanced Enforcers could come in handy with our future plans."

"Written records of the spell’s use are virtually non-existent. The Spirits guard their secrets carefully. And this spell is so detailed that it can only be learned from a Spirit. The knowledge I have is from references I’ve seen only hinted at in spell books and what I’ve learned from my personal contacts. So, there are only a few trusted individuals who have that dangerous knowledge. Top that off with the fact that a fair number of skilled wizards is needed to cast the spell properly, and the whole thing seems like more trouble than it’s worth."

"But it looks like somebody went to the trouble." Burkar pointed out. "Which makes this a mystery for even us. The Spirits all fled back to Neddel years ago."

"That’s why I have come to the following two conclusions. First, it’s quite possible that not all the Spirits left. There may still be some left running around here on Earth, living secret lives. And since the Spirits are the only ones I can think of whom could detect my spells here, those two on the disc you brought in could know our whole plan.

"My second assumption, though it doesn’t seem nearly as likely, is that somewhere along the line, someone on Earth was able to contact the Spirits."

"That’s absurd." Burkar remarked. "The people here can’t cast spells."

"Maybe the Spirits made spells that didn’t require the mental channeling. If so, it could have been done for any number of reasons. There could have been officials from the old governments forcing the Spirits into making such spells secretly. Or maybe the Spirits thought they might need to depend on the people here for some kind of help if they were incapable of using their own magic.

"Then there are still the magical items we weren’t able to claim in all the confusion when those wizards left. From what the reports told me, three books and one staff were unaccounted for after our agents went through the homes where the Spirits were staying.

"Still, the odds of someone finding just the right spell and being able to read the coded language used by the Spirits is a long-shot at best. So I’d have to believe that in the rush, some of the Spirits were simply left behind."

"If that’s the case," Burkar said thoughtfully. "Then how are we supposed to find them? I can only have the Enforcers search so many places with the limited time frame we’re on."

"It’s obvious that whoever these people are, they know where the gangs are supposed to go for their assignments. They probably got their hands on the schedule somehow. So this won’t be the last time they’ll be invading that part of our business. They’ll go after the next one, then the one after that."

"Not a problem. I’ll just send word out to change around the dates and places."

"No." Said Fredericks sternly. "The Shadowed Ones are a threat just by their existence. The last thing we need at this stage is a couple of wild cards running loose in the city. They have to be eliminated."

"Easily done. My people should be able to set something up at the next appointment."

"If you can call them ‘people’." Stated Fredericks with just a touch of disgust.

"They get the job done." Burkar growled.

"As they should. Just be sure that they continue to do so."

Burkar glared at Fredericks for that last comment.

The President crossed his arms with a look of impatient expectation.

The constable turned away form his commander and made his way out of the office.

Just remember your place in all this. Fredericks silently cautioned. Or you may rue the day I came to your world.

Turning back to the window, the President resumed his staring out over Manhattan.

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