Vela did not answer Simmons' question immediately.
As if recalling something amusing, she smiled faintly and countered, "What happens if the one meant to rule does not?"
Taking the Americano latte gently handed to her by her secretary, Vela crossed her legs. After a polite nod of thanks, she took a sip, then rested the cup on her knee. Her indigo eyes fixed on the delicate latte art as she continued, speaking softly to herself, "Then those unfit to rule will take power."
"The greatest crime in this world," she went on, "is committed by the cowards who toss power to the ground, letting hysterical madmen pick it up."
"Stay with the Donkey Party, Mr. National Security Advisor, and your centrist-conservative views and policies won't stand a chance against the so-called new liberals."
"Riding the wave of political correctness, too many mediocrities and incompetents have been promoted to high office."
When she said this, Vela turned her gaze back toward Drake C. Simmons. Leaning slightly forward, her tone grew serious.
"In recent years, the Donkey Party's methods of expanding its voter base have been shameful. To pander so shamelessly to illegal immigrants, junkies, hippies, minority groups, and every sort of fringe faction… it's astonishing how far they'll go."
"Newsom, who's running for mayor of San Francisco, and that California congresswoman—your so-called 'stock goddess'—who's eyeing the position of House Minority Leader… they're all members of the New Deal progressive-liberal faction. To be honest, they've tried to win me over before, but I refused."
"Because I dislike many—no, nearly all—of their policies. What they're doing is like drinking poison to quench thirst, a slow suicide. Their hypocrisy and self-serving conduct have reached levels rarely seen in history."
Vela raised her cup, gently stirring the light brown liquid inside with a small spoon.
"I'd wager that if things continue as they are…"
"In less than fifteen years, the backlash will destroy everything you and I hold dear. A torn nation, and so-called social stability? Just a fleeting illusion."
Taking another sip, she exhaled softly through her nose, her tone filled with quiet regret.
"And you, Drake—my friend—your centrist-conservative faction's decline is inevitable."
Simmons remained calm and silent.
He gazed into Vela's clear, luminous eyes—deep as an ocean beneath the moonlight. For a long time, he said nothing. Only when Vela set her cup down did he slowly speak a name: "Adam Benford."
"Vela, you're right. Even within my own party, I can't beat him for the presidential nomination. He champions progressivism, diversity, and freedom of information—far more appealing to voters than I am."
"Should I defect to the Elephant Party, then? Seek a new path…"
Contemplating Vela's suggestion, Simmons stroked his chin, his narrowed eyes flashing with keen light.
He thought—it might not be a bad idea.
Better to fight than to waste a decade serving beneath one's ideological opponents.
"Vice President."
Simmons met Vela's gaze suddenly.
"Indeed."
With a snap of her fingers, Vela smiled. "Drake, you're still young. There's no need to rush. Before becoming president, first become vice president. Join President Graham's second-term campaign as his running mate. Establish your foundation within the Elephant Party. Follow the precedent of President Franklin D. Roosevelt."
The Roosevelt family—uncle and nephew—had served six terms as U.S. presidents between them. The most remarkable part? The elder Roosevelt had been a Republican, the younger born a Republican turned Democrat—a miracle in America's history.
"Hahaha… To think you'd call me young, Vela. I'll take that as a blessing."
Simmons chuckled and shook his head. "But tell me—how can you guarantee President Graham will choose me as his running mate?"
Resting both hands on the desk, he asked again.
"I'll support you. I can guarantee California, Texas, and Colorado's electoral votes will be yours."
Vela maintained her smile.
California—especially Northern California's San Francisco Bay Area—was her stronghold, the base she had carefully cultivated. It was also home to Militech's global headquarters.
Texas—the traditional homeland of rednecks. New immigrants and illegal entrants generally avoided the state. After Militech heavily invested there, building factories and creating new jobs, Vela's influence in this conservative state grew exponentially.
Colorado, with its mere nine electoral votes, wasn't originally part of Vela's strategic focus. Yet, after the Raccoon City incident, Militech voluntarily took responsibility—establishing the Biochemical Defense and Radiation Pollution Control Research Center on the ruins of Raccoon City, rebuilding a new city for the survivors, and providing the state with bioterrorism defense and humanitarian aid. Its effectiveness was remarkable. Alongside years of preferential marketing policies in Colorado, Vela's reputation and appeal among Coloradans had steadily risen.
Militech was Militech. The evil Umbrella was Umbrella.
William Birkin—NO.
Vela—YES.
In earlier years, the public sentiment wasn't so clear. But as Militech grew stronger and Vela began to expand her political influence, her true power started to reveal itself.
She was like the industrial magnates of old Hollywood films—the backbone of local towns and communities, the respected elders whose presence at a wedding or funeral was an honor.
Militech wasn't a lightweight tech startup with a few dozen or even a few thousand employees. It was a sprawling, ever-expanding military-industrial complex and super-industrial conglomerate. It employed tens of thousands of highly paid workers in labor-intensive sectors, with hundreds of thousands of contractors and millions of outsourced laborers. Investments, orders—the people connected throughout its supply chains were countless.
In a winner-takes-all electoral system, once Vela decided where to cast her vote—
The white-collar employees of Militech might have their own private thoughts, but the mercenaries of the security division, the blue-collar workers of manufacturing, the delivery drivers of the logistics branch—and their families—would, if time allowed, often follow her lead.
Just like the Hollywood guilds.
Only, the level of loyalty wasn't quite as rigid.
Still, in a neck-and-neck race between the Donkey and Elephant parties, such a bloc could prove decisive.
"Moreover…"
Vela drew out the word. Perhaps her crossed leg had grown tired, for she uncrossed it, resting both hands atop her thigh. "Are you really a political novice?"
The subtext was clear: Don't tell me you lack a base of support.
Behind Simmons stood a vast and shadowy political organization that dominated the Eastern states—the Family.
At her words, a spark flashed in Simmons' contemplative eyes.
"I'll need to discuss the implications with my family and my advisory team," he said solemnly. "Give me a month, and I'll have an answer for you."
Done.
Vela smiled faintly.
In her indigo eyes, the crystalline glow of her Geass shimmered briefly.
Based on Simmons' personality and certain 'future fragments' she was aware of, she ordered the Red Queen to construct a behavioral model.
The conclusion was clear enough: Simmons was adventurous—aggressive by nature.
Otherwise, he wouldn't one day resort to biological terrorism to eliminate his political enemies—sacrificing an entire city's population in the process.
Most people would hesitate before switching parties. But Simmons? He would likely relish it. He would savor the thrill and the victory.
Thinking so, Vela stood lightly, her steps graceful and her expression bright.
"It seems our meeting has come to an end."
"Then may our friendship endure, as it has these past six years. Vela, together let us guide America—and the world—back to its rightful order."
Simmons rose as well, extending his right hand across the table.
"To friendship, Drake. The future belongs to us."
The polished surface of the table reflected Vela's serene face. Her smile never wavered as she extended her right hand in turn and clasped his.
After the handshake, just as Vela prepared to leave, Simmons' next words made her pause.
"Vela, you're about to make enemies of the liberal Donkey Party. While I know you don't care about accusations of racism, rumors can still tarnish your reputation. Since you're already here in Los Angeles, why not stay a while and relax? Spending all your time in laboratories or offices, detached from the public's daily life—it won't help if you ever decide to enter politics."
He spoke with deliberate meaning as he handed her a small stack of glossy, colorful paper.
Politics?
Turning her head, Vela gave Simmons a sidelong glance. Are you trying to paint me a pretty picture? Once President Graham's second term ends, you'll run for office—and what, plan to pick me as your running mate? I'd be the vice president?
She let out a soft laugh and accepted the metallic purple-gold ticket from him.
"Tickets?"
Looking closer, Vela read aloud, "NBA—Los Angeles Lakers."
"You mean… buy the Lakers?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Simmons froze, then sighed helplessly.
"I meant we could go watch a basketball game live at the Staples Center. With your wealth, treating the audience to free fast food should be easy enough."
"After all, Los Angeles is the City of Angels. If you want to deepen your influence in Southern California…"
"So? Will you go?" he asked.
Vela quickly ran a mental calculation. Her [Cyberpunk] counterpart—the "Big Sister"—was still tied up at Arasaka's New Year's celebration and wouldn't be free until tomorrow to inspect the [Sonnentreppe Project] biolab's development logs. Watching the game and flying back to San Francisco afterward would fit neatly into her schedule.
"Sure. I'm already here—why not?"
NBA 2003 season, the Lakers' F4 era, huh…
Thanks to Militech's breakthroughs in cybernetic limb technology and human recovery treatments, sports injuries had become increasingly rare since the turn of the century. Career-ending announcements were dropping sharply across all major leagues. Even in football, the Paralympic matches were starting to rival—and sometimes surpass—the normal games in spectacle and viewership.
...
"MVP! MVP! MVP!"
"Shaq! Shaq! Shaq!"
"Kobe! Kobe! Kobe!"
The sound of running drills, thunk-thunk-thunk of dunks, and the occasional clang of a missed shot filled the air.
From the stands, a roaring ocean of purple and gold erupted like a tidal wave.
...
[Cyberpunk World]
It was already past midnight on New Year's Day.
After the family's New Year gathering and an hour of prayer at the Arasaka shrine, followed by an afternoon game of shogi with old man Saburo, Vela stepped out of the main Arasaka residence, her thoughts elsewhere—specifically, on the vivid scene from the Staples Center playing in her mind.
"The Lakers are Jerry Buss' pride. I won't steal his treasure. Maybe I should acquire the Bay Area's own Oakland Warriors instead…"
As for the gift she was preparing—the virus:
"T-G–Progenitor–Veronica–Ghoul Hybrid Virus."
Vela turned her gaze toward the shoji door, behind which Yorinobu knelt on a cushion, chatting idly with Hanako.