Novel

The Cog and the Machine (In Progress)

Chapter 1: Late Nights at Work

The Cog

Some people look at me and think I'm an idiot who got extremely lucky. Like, absurdly lucky.

Others look at me and think I'm some kind of genius. Maybe a genius from some other planet.

Some look at me and hardly give a second thought. Sucks to suck.

Whatever I am, I better at least be me.

Maybe we're all right about the nature of me.

Maybe none are.

My name is Cog. The Cog. That's the name I'm most known by, anyway. It's the name I chose for myself. It's my hero name.

The name on my birth certificate is George Jetson. Nah, I'm just screwing around. Please don't sue!

Did I mention how dumb it is that I have a certification for being born? Like... It's pretty obvious people. Whatever, that's Earth for you. Not as clever as it thinks it is.

"Fuck you Fletcher, you little cocksucker weasel!" somebody wheezes. They lift my co-worker's desk chair and toss it at me. I try to leverage my instincts and dodge it, but it's too fast. The chair hits my gut and I hit the ground.

The office ceiling is above me, a smear of beige. The lights were already dimmed when I entered, but I swear the room is getting hazier. Also, that was the voice of one of the office managers: Bobbin Locke. I can already see his crazed eyes meeting mine, moments from now – a déjà vu of a moment yet to come. He better be ready to pop-and-lock.

George Fletcher is my actual name, by the way. For real. And, I have precognition. I can see snippets of the future. For real, real.

My head rings. It's warning me. Out of instinct, I roll to the left. A printer crashes where I had been laying. Close call.

I snort blood out my nose and try to catch my breath. I've already had all the snot kicked out of me, and my bones ache. I'm straining to keep awake.

“That’s Cog the cocksucker to you!” I manage.

"Aren't you up past your bedtime?" Bobbin bellows.

Gonna be honest: Bobbin shouldn't be here at this time either. The reason we're fighting is that I caught him after he broke into the office building, while I was doing a scouting mission. But I can only manage a gurgle when I try to call him out.

He drags me up from the ground, one of his hands clasped around my throat. His face is now pressed up to mine. His form is sloppy, I can still breathe through my windpipe. His breath rushes up my nostrils. It reeks of garlic.

I land a few punches against his chest, but he's already knocked away most of my strength. Plus, he's wearing bulletproof gear. Off-brand, clearly: he looks like some kind of tactical scuba diver.

He dangles my mask and goggles in front of me. He tore them off my face during a struggle when I first entered the building. I wasn't expecting anybody to be by the back entrance and he managed to catch me off guard. We've only been fighting for a few minutes, and it's clear he works out.

My eyes are burning. My vision is blurring. My mask and goggles look like a fuzzy streak of black and blue. Bobbin rubs them across my face.

"I can't believe you're the Cog," Bobbin says. "Never would've thought that was in you, Fletcher."

I try to punch him again. His grip around my throat tightens, and I choke. His breath wafts into my face again. Stupid Bobbin, and all the garlic pills he takes. I don't care about how much lab work he approves: his stink should've gotten him fired instantly.

"Gee," I sputter. I struggle to catch my breath. "Gee Bobbin, your routine is really paying off," I manage.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?" Bobbin snarls.

"Yes."

Little does Bobbin know, there's a trick in my back-pocket. Literally. Bobbin was quick enough to disconnect my Fluxion-Drive from its cable to the power pack and knock it out of my hands, back when I first entered the office. But I have a spare.

I kick Bobbin in the shin. He yelps. I then wrest my neck out of Bobin's grip and unlatch my extra Fluxion-Drive from the back of my utility belt.

My hand grips its contours as naturally as it might grip a computer mouse. My thumb finds the rubber activation button I installed. It gives a crisp click as I press down.

I designed the Fluxion-Drive to work with my hand like a glove. It hums, whirring to life. Each beat moves with my heartbeat. It's an extension of me. I can already see it now: electricity bursting out its rounded tip, and into Bobbin's face.

There's a loud buzz, and a blue arc jumps through the air. The spark lands in Bobbin's eye, just as I saw in my mind's eye.

Bobbin screams. His hair stands on end.

I'm pretty sure Bobbin will be fine when we're done. At least, I think. Regardless, it's nice to watch him squirm. While the Fluxion-Drive is high-voltage, it's designed to stun. The arcs for the Fluxion-Drive run on a solid-state Tesla coil of my own design.

While I'm on the subject of the Fluxion-Drive, it has a few other party tricks I invented. Even though blood is still running out my nose, I give a smirk. I'm about to switch the Fluxion-Drive from spark mode to force mode.

I hear a fizzle. My heart skips a beat. My eyes flit from Bobbin to the Fluxion-Drive.

The wire bundles from near the tip have come loose: a solder joint sheared. Copper wire hangs loosely in the air. The rubber around the wiring glistens like a melted candle.

Crud. I didn't see this coming. Did I mention that pre-cognition has its limits?

I start running through my list of screw ups. I should've used higher-gauge wiring when making repairs yesterday. I could've made a stronger joint. I should've stress-tested my repair, instead of assuming it'd be fine.

The wiring must have gotten caught on something while Bobbin was tossing me like a chew toy.

I start scanning the room for where my communicator went. I see it in the far corner of the office with the LED blinking red. Bobbin must've knocked it away when I first entered. Thankfully, the communicator only blinks when the distress signal has been hit.

The Machine should check in at any moment. And yet, I haven't heard his voice give confirmation through the communicator. Maybe I missed the Machine's confirmation, due to the chaos. Hopefully I missed it.

I start wailing at Bobbin as best I can. He's still trying to reorient himself. He grunts as my steel-toe shoes give some damage. I unlatch my baston sticks and start using those as well. However, without my tech, I'm at a grave disadvantage.

Bobbin gives a greasy smile. The muscles in his neck flex. Then, his biceps. His hair might still be a statically charged ball of fuzz, but he is clearly regaining himself.

He grabs the tip of one of my baston sticks as I go to hit him with it.

"Nice baton," he says, plucking it from my hand.

"It's a baston," I correct, kicking him.

Christ. I sound lame.

I should be watching internet videos right now. This was supposed to just be a quick check-in – in and out. I was just supposed to be making sure nobody was stealing microchips in the night, not fighting to the death.

Where's the Machine?

The Machine

I'm falling from the sky. Also, I'm fighting a dragon.

I blink twice, just to make sure I'm not dreaming.

Yep: I'm falling from the sky while fighting a dragon.

Welcome to my world.

The air starts to warm up. I tuck my head into my chest and a burst of fire shoots just above. It smells like my barbecue.

I pull my knees up to my head. My muscles and my suit are stiff. The steel mechanisms of my power-fists pinch against my joints. I grit my teeth and make it work. The wind and sky spin around me while I hurtle through it as a cannonball.

I create a thud when I slam into the dragon's scaly flesh. It responds in a terrible roar. I manage to dig my feet into its sides, and my hands grip around some of its scales.

I raise my right hand and grip the lever to its respective power-fist. It's time to let her rip.

"Take that!" I grunt. "And you should take a breath mint while you're at it!"

There's a screeching of metal, then a thrum, as the pistons to my power-fist put themselves to work. The power ripples through the dragon's flesh as an intense vibration. Some of the vibrations recoil up through my arm and into the mountings on my shoulder. I probably should've oiled the mechanisms over the weekend.

It's alright. I can take it. I'm the most durable man alive.

I'm the Machine.

I breathe in deep, taking in the aroma of fresh biofuel. My power-fists run on a small engine mounted to my back, and the engine is singing. The dragon is writhing through the air, teetering between buildings in the city scape.

I wince as it hurtles toward the spires of the Cantor Bank. A jolt shoots through me, and I wrench the root of one of the dragon's wings. The dragon rolls to the left, the course of its flight now along the centerline of main street.

"You're gonna need to rob a bank some other day," I say. I punctuate my command with a heavy blow.

The beast responds with a whimper. It has taken me on a ride all through town, but it's starting to wear out. Its wings are pulsing at a frantic rate. It breathes heavily, but no fire comes with it. Though, before it gives its dying breaths, I have a particular destination for it in mind.

My eyes are on Everman Technologies. It's a towering steel brick, with the logo "ET" emblazoned across several stories. It's my pride and joy. It is straight ahead, and the sun is setting just above it.

I have a meeting there at 7:00. With a quick glance at the watch, I see it's two minutes from now. No worries: it should be a straight shot to the top floor, if I can just keep this stupid dragon in the sky for a little bit longer.

The dragon's snakish eyes droop. It's panting. I clamber up its spine. Once I'm near its head, I pop it in the maw.

"Stay awake," I say.

It suddenly occurs to me that I can't fly. And, if the beast dies in the air, I'm not going to have a soft landing.

Far below me a large crowd of people is gathering around. They're cheering for the spectacle. Some of them are even holding banners. I'm not sure how to feel.

It's funny: back when I was a technician, I had all kinds of people treat me as though I wasn't human. I've spent most of my life trying to get that to change, and some might say I'm the most successful man in New Vinci as a result. Yet, I'm not so sure how successful I've been. People still treat me as though I'm not human.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I let it vibrate. A shrill voice then comes in on my earpiece.

"Hugo, where are you?"

I put the earpiece between my fingers and crush it like a grape. The board chairman is going to need to wait a minute.

The dragon is losing altitude. I yank its head back. The wind quells as the dragon tilts its wings and gains a bit of altitude. The top office to Everman Technologies looks like it's only 10 seconds away, if this dragon can just keep its head up.

No, 3 seconds.

2.

I rock back, and a swarm of glass buzzes by my face.

I can't open my eyes, even if I'd like to see the reaction on my board's faces. The instinct to shut my eyes is too strong. There's a bunch of crashing smashing and thrashing. The dragon gives a broken roar, launching me off its back. By some miracle I land on some soft carpet.

The shattering of glass quells. I brush the bits off my clothes, struggle to my feet, and allow myself to open my eyes.

The window to my boardroom is gone, exposing the mouth of the city. The dragon hangs over the edge. Its purple scales have lost their color from a cloud of debris, and its movements are frail. It gives me a defeated look. It falls off the edge and is swallowed by New Vinci.

I stumble toward the window and look down. The dragon has left a crater in the street. Thankfully, nobody was nearby. Still, I wince. The cleaning crew is going to have a rough time tomorrow.

"Woah, woah, woah," somebody says. There is a quiver in their voice, likely brought on from my entrance. Nevertheless, they sound a little too glib. "Well, hello there."

"Hugo Everman, the man of the hour!" another voice says.

I turn around while coughing up some dust. Ned Escorgier, the board chairman, stands to my left. He straightens himself. His lips are twitching, but he manages to look up at me with a smug smile. The lenses to his glasses glint like small moons.

Boris Reade is to my right.

With a hearty laugh, I outstretch my hand and give Reade a firm handshake. He's a large shareholder and a great golfing buddy.

"Hey Reade, how are ya?" I say.

He wipes dust from his stubble and sweeps some of his hair back into place. "Doing good Everman, doing good. That was some entrance, I almost wet myself! By the way, you gonna RSVP?"

"For what?"

"I need to know if you'll make it to the golf tournament this weekend."

I nod my head and start walking toward the boardroom table. "Of course."

My seat at the head of the table is still there. Debris somehow just missed it. I look down the table and see that there are about 20 members gathered here tonight. It's my entire board. Also, while my seat is fine, my board is covered in debris.

My board's eyes are wide. Some are gazing out the window, still in shock from my entrance. However, most have already moved on. They are looking between me and Escorgier.

The air from the open window blows at my back. My shadow flanks behind me, trying to reverse the current of the air.

I take my seat. Reade takes his seat. Escorgier stays standing.

It occurs to me that I'm still wearing my super suit. The apparatus to my power-fist was mangled upon crashing into the room, and it scratches the table's mahogany.

"Have you been having fun saving the world?" Escorgier asks, with a cold timbre.

My communicator suddenly buzzes. It's Cog. Dear God, Cog. Why now?

I clear my throat.

"The Cog is calling me," I say. "I'm really sorry, but I'm going to need to take this call."

Escorgier doesn't move for a moment. His mouth thins into a mere line. "I see."

Reade gives a chortle. "Your twerp sidekick?"

"I had him doing a scouting mission regarding some quantum chips," I blurt. It is the only excuse I have. Thankfully, it's also true. "He needs me to take over for him. It's related to the business. I promise."

"That's nice," says Escorgier. "However, tonight's meeting about the quantum chip supply chain and Byrd Enterprise's impact on our market share is much more key to the business."

A hush falls over the room at the mention of Byrd Enterprises.

"Wouldn't you say?" asks Escorgier.

A fire rises through me. "You should be talking to Opal about all this, honestly. She's Chief Technical Officer. I'm sure she can sort this out, this is below my pay grade."

I get up from my chair and head toward the door. Escorgier' voice follows me.

"Yes, we've talked to Opal. If our costs keep skyrocketing like this, you'll no longer have a pay grade. I and the board have been talking a lot: we need to take another look at commercializing our biotech division."

Commercializing Everman Biotech? Never.

"You should really think twice before walking out that door."

Screw Escorgier and the stiff board. I have somewhere to be.

However, as I get closer to the door, I feel the weight of Escorgier' words drawing me back in. How much does Cog need me, really?

The Cog

I need the Machine to get here bad. Like, on a scale of 1-10, I'd say this is a 70.

Not going to lie, this Bobbin guy has me creamed. My lungs and tendons are screaming. I crawl along the floor, wondering why I haven't lost consciousness yet. I try peering into the future for fate to give me an out. And yet, it's drawing a blank.

Screw fate. There's gotta be a way.

I stop at the corner of the office and try hiding under a standing desk. Bobbin can almost certainly see me, but it's worth a shot. Maybe he's got bad eyesight.

"Get over here you little freak."

Nevermind, that sounds like 20-20 vision right there.

Bobbin bends over and tries grabbing me by shoe. I struggle and knock against the desk. A lamp falls to the ground behind me, and I grab it. Not a great weapon, but better than nothing.

I give another kick at Bobbin's hand. He staggers back.

"Give it up Fletcher," Bobbin says. "We can end this the easy way, or the hard way."

I give a gurgle of defiance. The lamp I'm holding is plugged into an electrical outlet behind me. Bobbin is at his full height in front of the standing desk. I lunge toward his feet and wrap the lamp wire between his ankles.

Bobbin gives a grunt and starts bending down to respond.

"Get over here you piece of shh– "

I yank the wire back. His feet slip. His forehead slams into the edge of the standing desk.

He crumples in front of me.

I drop my lamp. "Lights out."

Dang, I'm going to need to write that one down.

A minute passes. There are no more noises, save some shallow breathing from Bobbin. I'm pretty sure Bobbin is unconscious and that he came alone, but I just need to make sure.

Moving slowly, I grab Bobbin's wrist. His wrist is limp, but he still has a pulse, which is good. I always need to check that when people go unconscious. Next, I go to his pockets. As it happens, they're loaded. I scatter a clump of his stuff across the floor – quantum chips, quantum sensors, slips of paper. There's also a notepad. I start ruffling through the pages.

"I'm sorry Bobbin, but I'm reading your diary. I just gotta know if you have a crush on me too."

Bobbin gives a snort, and then nothing. He sent a shiver up my spine for a moment there.

As the pages flip by, I see there is an assortment of names and addresses. Also, some random notes scattered about, like "check manhole". Gross.

A lot of the addresses seem to be warehouses that are related to Byrd Enterprises and Everman Technologies. There are also some addresses that I don't recognize, usually on streets that I wish I didn't recognize. Finally, a lot of references are made to a "Mr. V", a "Mr. G", and a "Mr. T". I think I recognize that last name, at least. Mr. T would explain where Bobbin has been getting his workout tips from.

In terms of the electronics on the floor, there are some chips that I don't recognize which have the Everman logo on them. Others are from Byrd Enterprises. They look to be state-of-the-art voltage sensors. They remind me of electromyography for muscle sensors that I've worked with, as well as some sensors for brain computer interfaces. But the closer I look, there seems to be multiple purposes. These chips are much finer and more precise in their circuitry than anything that I've messed with before. I feel like I might break them just by looking at them.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and take some pictures. I also start jotting down some notes of my findings. This is the third time in the past week that an attempt was made to steal chips from Everman Technologies, and I never would've expected an attempt would happen in my own office lab. Let alone by somebody as high up in the pecking order as Bobbin. What's up with the big push?

I'm also still shocked that there are chips this advanced coming out. Did these come out of this lab? If so, how come I've never seen anything like them before? Part of me wants to take these chips back to my apartment to study them. However, there might be trackers still embedded in them, so it's better safe than sorry.

I feel a yawn coming on. It's been a long evening. I limp around the room and start collecting some of my things. I slip my mask back on and readjust the helmet's fin to be in-line with the center of my head. I reactivate my goggles.

These pictures and notes should be good enough to show the Machine tomorrow. Once I have all my stuff, I'll call the cops about the break-in on the office phone, and then head to my apartment. There are a few cat videos which are calling my name.

There's a creak, which jolts me back awake. It's from the exit. It better not be another knob.

"Hey Cog, how you doing buddy?"

The door has swung wide open, but it's still barely enough to make room for the Machine's massive frame. The dim light in the room bounces off his suit, which glows citrus orange. I know the Machine has dabbled in some bio-hacking, but it still strains the imagination how much of a giant he is.

New York has the "Big Apple" to its namesake. New Vinci has the "Big Tangerine", and he looks like a million bucks.

"I was just heading out," I say. My voice is hoarser than I'd like it to be. Hopefully he doesn't notice. "I kicked ass though. You should've been there to see it."

I look up. The Machine has jogged across the room and is somehow already in front of me. How does he do that?

"You aren't supposed to be fighting people bud, we talked about this!" the Machine says. He starts patting me down and looking me over. His eyes dart like a hawk's and he clenches his jaw. "Christ Cog. Your face. You look like you need to go to the hospital."

I shrug. "I'm fine. I promise. I've been through worse before."

"This mission was supposed to be remote! Your anonymous tip said you only needed to look through files tonight," the Machine says. His voice is gruff. "If you thought there was somebody stealing stuff from your lab, you should've told me."

I had been half-honest with the Machine. It's true that I received an anonymous tip on a forum the other night, where I was chatting with some online sleuths. I was told that I should do some ethical hacking on this lab's files to check for discrepancies in inventory. I didn't lie to the Machine about this.

However, the anonymous tip also said that there might be a break-in tonight, to steal some more chips. In my defense, I didn't have any reason to think it was a sure thing. I thought there was maybe a 20% chance at most, probably.

I think about telling the Machine this. But he's already rummaging through the room to assess damage. He's not going to buy the excuse.

"You make great gadgets Cog," the Machine says.

I nod my head and smirk. "I know."

The Machine wipes off a few desks and chairs, then straightens them.

"But you need to get your head on straight," he continues. "We can't be a duo if you're just going to lie to me. Your job is to work on tech and handle data. Occasionally, I'm okay with you scouting out a few things. But, let me repeat, you are not supposed to be fighting people. That's not your job. It's not. It's my job."

I've heard him rant a bunch of times before. It's been a little while since I've heard him go off, to be fair. Still, nothing new. I just saved the freaking day, and he doesn't even care.

"You understand where I'm coming from?" the Machine asks.

"Sure, yeah."

The Machine is standing on the other side of the room now, looking at Bobbin. The room has been cleaned up from the scuffle. It's quiet.

"He's a big one," the Machine says. "You really nailed a big one here."

I chuckle.

"Seriously," the Machine continues. "Holy hell. How?"

"A magician never tells his secrets."

"That's some sleeping spell you've put on him, that's all I gotta say."

The Machine is rummaging through some of the quantum chips now. His brow furrows, and he strokes his stubble.

"He's got my state-of the-art solid-state," he says. "How'd he get access to these? I didn't even get to see one of these until a week ago."

He puts them into the pockets of his jumper-pants. He rubs his eyes. I didn't notice until now, but the Machine looks sort of worn out.

"I know that I told you we aren't supposed to take stuff from crime scenes, but I'm making an exception tonight," the Machine says. "I can't afford to have any of this tech leak right now."

He unlatches a pair of handcuffs from a panel in the side of his body-armor. He clamps them around Bobbin's wrists. Finally, the Machine places his palm on the large white "M" logo emblazoned on his chest until it emits a flash of light and a crisp beep.

"Alright, I think that the police should've gotten my signal," the Machine says. "They'll probably be here in the next ten minutes. You want to wait until they come?"

I rest my palm on my forehead. Tonight has kicked the crud out of me. At the same time though...

"I'll talk things over with them," says the Machine. "I think I have a rough timeline of when everything took place."

I grimace. My butt is really sore.

I nod.

"Yeah, I think I should be good to head to bed for the night," I say. "I'm exhausted. Also, no hospital. I've had more than enough drama for one night."

The Machine takes a moment to look me over. Then, he chuckles and gives me a firm pat on the back.

"Alright then!" the Machine says. "To the Machine-Machine!"

He pumps a fist in the air and then charges for the door. Do I seriously need to run after him? I'm not entirely feeling it tonight.

Then again, the Machine-Machine is hard to top.

A cool breeze from the night air wafts by my face. New Vinci is abuzz with the hums of airships overhead. I glance at them as they swim through a sea of stars. I adjust my goggles to enhance my view. I can make out some nebula, in all their colors. Though, I can't keep my eyes on them for long.

The Machine-Machine is parked on the side of the street. It's a silver wedge, glinting in the starlight. It chirps at the Machine as he pops open one of its winged doors and hops in. The Machine-Machine's windows are one-way silver mirrors, so I can't see the Machine's face. But I know that he's grinning ear-to-ear.

I've reached the car and my fingers brush along the fin on its back. Tracing my way to the car's siding, I reacquaint myself with each groove and contour. The siding features iron gills which inhale the night air. The purr from a pair of jet engine lungs runs through me while the car opens its passenger door. I hop in and settle into a leather seat.

The doors lock shut, and the car goes dark. There's a flash. A holographic display envelops the void in front of me. I start reading some of the system metrics. They're off the charts, and there are caution symbols littering every corner. I look to my left to see the Machine's signature smile.

I can already feel my arms going numb while I clip in my seatbelt.

"Machine... What did you do?"

The Machine gives a loud laugh. "Hoo boy! I made a few tweaks to this baby, and you're in for a ride that's gonna feel like launching from a rocket... From inside another rocket! You're gonna feel so awake, you're gonna wonder whether you've always been half-sleeping!"

I start to protest, but my tongue suddenly jumps to the roof of my mouth. My teeth clench together. I try to move, but I'm glued to my seat.

We're flying. We're on the road, but we're flying.

I'm not sure what level of g-forces this thing is putting out, but it's a lot. Too much. Well, almost. The city streams past as a flow of neon. My eyes strain to stay in my skull and try to find something solid, but it's futile. All is fluid.

The Machine's jovial laugh fills the car. Alongside his laugh are the vocalizations of the jet-engine. The jet-engine is singing falsetto, while the wheels and the road play the instruments.

I let out a laugh of my own. This is insane. There's no way this is legal. Then again, this is New Vinci.

The jet-engines shift to a low whir. The tires squeal, and I jolt forward. The Machine jolts forward too, and I watch as his arms bend the steering wheel and dashboard out of place. As the car reaches a stop, its suspension sloshes back and forth, shifting with the immense weight of the Machine.

Finally, the car reaches equilibrium. I can still hear recoiling from the suspension and the holographic display is flipping through an array of error messages. But I'm too disoriented to question anything. My apartment is just outside the window: a brick hole in the wall, 68 ½.

"Well, that settles it," the Machine says, "I need a safer seatbelt."

I nod, still in a daze. "Uh-huh."

I shake my head, to try to wake myself up a bit. "That was definitely insane."

"I know right?" the Machine says.

Smiling, I open the door. I head toward my apartment. Maybe one of my neighbors will see me enter with my suit on, but I'm honestly too tired to care.

"Have a good night Cog!"

"You too!" I say. "Always great working with you!"

The Machine gives a firm nod.

"Also, Cog!" the Machine says, his voice gruff.

I look back. "Yeah?"

"Don't take any of this too seriously," he says. He gestures at his costume and smiles. "Relax. Have fun."

He drives off.

Being a hero is one of the most exhilarating things ever. It's also one of the most exhausting. It's time for me to doze off.

Chapter 2: Project Mismanagement

The Machine

"In due time... All in due time..."

I grunt. I sigh.

I steadily push a needle into my bicep. Part of me always feels guilty when I do this. It feels like I'm taking steroids or something. Am I cheating in some way?

"You say that a lot," Opal Winslow says, tapping her foot. "Look Hugo: you might be able to borrow time for now, but eventually the loan will need to be paid back."

I groan. The orange liquid has gone in, and I pull the needle out. For once, the tip doesn't snap off while sliding through my skin. Nice: I get a break from something breaking.

Much as the needles feel like cheating, the truth is that the city needs me. There's no other choice.

I drop the needle on my iron, office desk. Then, I lean back in my chair and look around my office. There are blocky windows above me, letting in the sunshine. My walls have no windows. It's pure stainless steel. My floor is mahogany.

It hasn't occurred to me for a while but I'm still not sure why I insisted on mahogany for the flooring. It is soft wood and can barely handle all the steel furnishings that my office holds.

"I can handle it," I say. "I've got thick skin."

Opal brushes some of the hair out of her face. It's a frizz-ball. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, after having a balloon rubbed on her head. I guess it's part of her charm.

"That line might work for the commercials," Opal says, "but the banks aren't so easily swayed. You know you're not a walking commercial, right?"

I shrug. "Everything we do here is commercial."

Opal looks down at her feet. "When was the last time you did something outside of work?"

"I never have time, you know that," I say, with a forced smile. "After twenty years, this place is part of me. Work family is my only family, y'know? You might be CTO, but Everman Technologies is my brainchild. Also, I owe everything to it. I'm in too deep."

"That's a lie. You don't have to do all of this. Some things matter more than ego."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you've said that before..."

"I'm just saying. At a certain point, you need to ask yourself: are you more man or machine, Everman?"

Opal's eyes flit to the needle on my desk. She pats me on the back and takes it.

"You like the new needle, by the way?"

"Sure."

Opal adjusts her glasses. "The needles are titanium tipped. If you're not going to let me administer the injection, I at least needed to do what I could to keep the needles from breaking. The stuff is harder than your skin."

"You think I'm as hard as titanium?" I wink.

"Haha... So I hear... Anyway, the biotech division has really been working wonders."

I nod. "I still am not sure that it's doing enough. It enhances my biology, which is great. But, the more I use this mRNA stuff, the less I feel like me."

"Hugo: I don't know what it's going to take for you to let us go public with this, but you need to start thinking straight. The stuff works. It works better than anything else in industry, and you're using it at a level that none of us would've dreamed of a couple years back."

She has a point. I had been wearing down a few years back. When I started taking the mRNA treatment, it gave me a new way to do superhero stuff. The treatment has only enhanced me from there. But...

"The mission isn't done yet," I say. "The stuff is good. I feel privileged to use it in the way that I have. But, with each batch, we still haven't achieved the main goal: curing cancer."

"What kind of excuse is that?"

"This treatment is supposed to be used to cure people. Not enhance them. If I take it to market, it'll be a complete reversal of my ethics. I've seen the legislation the board and my lawyers have cooked up, and I won't stand for it! Changing genetic makeup... People can't just treat it like a makeup product!"

There's an anger churning in my chest. I try to keep myself cool and take deep breaths. Due to the stress, I have to take deep breaths more often these days.

"Everman Technologies is hemorrhaging cash!" Opal says. "Look... Last week, when you said you wanted to donate billions of dollars from your ET stock to charity, I helped you. I told you it was a bad idea, and it was, but I helped you. And now your options are limited. Millionaires don't have the same leverage as billionaires."

"Billion, million, zillion... It's all zeroes Opal. I'm still the same old me."

I only partly believe this. My movement of money was processed this weekend. ET stock already hasn't been doing great and watching ET stock crash harder than it ever has this morning has been rough.

Opal huffs. "The supply chain is not your friend right now, and neither is your board!"

I shrug. "This mRNA stuff is a company tax write-off. Plus, the company gets good press with me as one of the guinea pigs. It's more than paying for itself. Again, I refuse to compromise my ethics."

"No, you don't get it. This isn't about tax write-offs or charity drives anymore, this is about lifting your stock before it falls through the floor. Also, ethics?! Are you for real!? You're enhanced beyond the entire known animal kingdom, and you're not sharing this with anybody else! Just listen to yourself! Think of how many lives you could improve, and you're just sitting on it!"

"Look, I had to do this. My machines can do a lot of the heavy lifting against space monsters, crime lords, and all. But I was nearly beat out of commission a few years ago. And think about how many people I've saved since then. The world has benefitted greatly from me using this stuff, even if I take a risk by taking it. And... I don't know if the world can handle the burden of this technology forced upon it. They didn't ask for this. I take it because I was in the right place at the right time. I'll stop and destroy it when my job is done."

"When is your job ever done?"

"The biotech is the exact reason I sold my stock. This stuff was supposed to cure cancer, not make people superhuman!"

Opal catches my eyes and gives me her classic death-stare. I'm not sure why though. Was it something I said?

"Hugo!" I know that voice too well.

Peter, one of my head engineers, is standing in the doorway with an electronic. His bald head shines with a film of sweat and I can see his eyes bulging even beneath his glasses. Great, what now?

"Pete, I'm kind of in the middle of a meeting right now," I say. "Also, how'd you get in here?"

"Clearance," Peter says itching his beard. "Technically, we were supposed to be in a meeting an hour ago. This was set last week. Did you not see the message?"

I did see the message. But also, I forgot. I probably shouldn't tell him that.

He drops the electronic onto my desk.

"We saw the magic smoke come up again," Peter says.

I inspect the electronic and turn it over. It's one of the motor controllers for our latest robots. Some of the enamel appears to have melted off the inductors, as well as from the copper leads going into the controller.

"Odd. This motor controller looks like it should work," I say.

"It does," says Peter. "That's one of the ones that survived. The other robots let off the magic smoke while in flight, then crashed and burned."

I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you told me you fixed that problem? Didn't you guys add some more heat-sinks to these boards?"

"We did, here's version 1.2," says Peter. He drops another electronic onto the desk.

I look it over. The enamel is completely fine.

"It's clean," I say, with a nod. "So, what's the bad news?"

"The motor controllers saw damage when we didn't add the heat sinks. But: even with the heat sinks, the robots seem to be exploding."

I look the first board over. Then, the second one.

"Peter, did you guys change anything since version 1.0?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" says Peter.

"I don't remember you coming to me about version 1.0. Which means... Version 1.0 worked, correct?"

Peter looks at his feet. "Yes."

"So, what did you guys change?"

"Not much. Mainly software," Peter says.

I shoot a glare. He's lying, I can tell.

Peter clears his throat. "We added the new quantum chips to help with predictive control. However that shouldn't have done anything. We cycle-tested them a ton and also tested the behavior in a virtual machine, before putting them in the bots."

I nod again. I give a smug grin. "It's the quantum chips," I say.

"That doesn't make any sense!" says Peter. "In all the robots that crashed and exploded, the motor controllers that we managed to salvage are completely burned up."

I place a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter: think."

"Look man, our team has been thinking," Peter says. "I understand our deadline is this month, and that you gave us top priority for a reason. We thought about the quantum chips, there's nothing wrong with them. We've also been working around the clock 24/7, and we're certain that something is going wrong with the motor controllers."

I adjust the boards on the table so that they are neatly side-by-side. "Opal, come here. Take a look at this."

Opal reluctantly walks over. She's been sitting in a corner of the room, watching while on mute. I'm still having trouble figuring out whether she's ticked at me, or just has a tick.

"Hugo, you know I know nothing about this," she says.

"You don't need to know anything," I say. "You can know less than that, and still sort this out, I swear."

I can smell the sweat beading down Peter's forehead. His face is red. I glance at Opal, and she rolls her eyes at me. Why isn't anybody impressed? Whatever, they will be.

"One of the robots has a board that melted a little bit, due to overheating. Also: we know that the robot using this slightly melted board worked," I say. I point to its board. "Also, we know that, even if we add heat sinks, some robots still won't work. Finally, we also know that we recently added a new quantum logic board to help with predictive control, which might be messing with things."

"Hugo, what are we doing here?" Opal says. "You're not an expert on this, listen to what Peter has to say."

Peter's hands flail at the air. "Yes, listen! Every time that the bots crashed, the motor controllers were burned up!"

It's my turn to roll my eyes. "If the robot exploded, it doesn't count. The controllers are probably burning up after the explosion. Do you guys have the motor controllers situated close to the battery pack?"

Peter squints at me. Then, at the boards. He picks the slightly damaged board up, and then looks at me.

"The robot that was using this board was working," he says. He squints deeper. "You have a point. We need to take a closer look at what might be going wrong with the new chips."

I fold my arms and give a chuckle. "Happy to help. All in a day's work!"

There's a warmth in my chest, but Peter still seems cold. "You have any idea what could be wrong with our quantum chips?" he asks. "Because, that's still a pretty big issue."

I rub my temples. "With everything going wrong these days, it almost feels like corporate sabotage."

"That doesn't make any sense, let alone sort this out," says Peter.

Gah, why doesn't anybody want to listen to me? I pause for a moment, pretending to think really hard. "I got nothing. I guess that's what I pay you for."

"It would've been nice if you'd taken any of my meetings over the past week," Peter says. "We could've sorted it out."

"I've been busy with a million other problems," I say.

"Not as busy as you're going to be today," says Peter. He shuffles to the door. As he opens the door, the chattering of a crowd spills into my office. Another person walks in. It's Susan. She's holding a giant hunk of metal.

She drops the hunk of metal on my floor. Not the floor! I'm about to yell, but she interrupts.

"Some line out there," Susan says.

A line? I walk toward my office door and look down the hall. Normally, my hall is a series of rectangular steel arches, linked together through glass paneling. However, today there's a mass of people clogging it up.

"Why is there a line?" I ask.

"Respectfully sir, you restructured the company's org chart so that all senior managers have to report through you," Opal says.

"I did not!" I protest.

Opal pulls her phone out of her pocket, then shoves it in my face. I read an email. As it happens, I stated that all senior managers are my direct reports... Apparently. Whod've thunk?

Also, I sent the email last night at 1AM.

Damn it.

"I was drinking with Boris last night, after a golf match," I say. I try making my voice deeper, to seem more commanding. Oldest trick in the book, but I'm not sure if it's working this time. "You guys weren't supposed to take anything I sent at those hours seriously."

Opal brushes some dust off her coat and forces a smile.

"Trust me," she says, looking me in the eye. She pauses. "Nobody is taking anything you say seriously."

She walks out of the office and disappears into the mass of people.

I'm totally screwed.

The Cog

"Well, well, well... Hello there!"

My head jolts up from my workbench. Crud! I can feel my heart racing. I'm not sure what's happening, but my sixth sense tells me that I need to act fast.

My hand reaches to my pocket for where my Fluxion-Drive is. But, when I go to grab it, it's not there.

Double crud.

"What's wrong with your face?"

Found it. It was in the back pocket. My finger is just about to trigger the Fluxion-Drive when I stop myself. I get a snippet of a potential future.

"Zapped Lin," I murmur. I shake my head out of my daze. "Err, slapped, sorry. I was slapped in the face pretty good during martial arts practice."

I look over, and Lindy Earhart is standing next to my workbench. Her emerald eyes go downward and are obscured by a sweeping of blond hair. There's a tinge of red on her cheeks, which are flecked with freckles. She's fiddling with the soldering iron.

"Hey, I was using that," I say.

"I've been sitting here for ten minutes," Lin says. "You haven't moved a muscle."

"I'm sore," I say, gesturing back to my face. "Can you blame me?"

Lin squints at my face for a moment. "You okay?"

I just nod. "Yep, yep. Was rough, but a fun weekend. Just finishing up some stuff from last Friday. How about you?"

"I'm fine," Lin says. She gives a quick smile, then becomes stern. "Also, Dr. Skully: he mentioned you're behind on your test data. That true?"

I shrug. "He's having me design circuits for him too. Also, there are all these company meetings, training modules, and seminars... Also, I need to fabricate components for another one of his dumb robots. Only so much time in a workday."

"You don't like Hand-E?" Lin asks.

I feel my face going red. Not sure why. I blow a raspberry and start shuffling around the workbench. My printed circuit boards are supposed to be here. And yet, an irksome premonition comes over me.

I'm pretty sure that I left the PCBs at my desk.

"Err, gotta go," I say. I whirl from my spinning chair and toward the door of the lab. I notice a few jumper wires that attached to my hoodie during my impromptu nap, and I start brushing them off.

"Forgot your PCB at your desk again?" Lin asks.

The exit is just ahead. I nod without looking back.

"You're not going to find it without me," Lin says.

I look back. Lin holds one of my PCBs in the air.

"Sweet," I say, "you're awesome."

I run over and try to grab at it. She pulls it away.

"Hey, give it!" I shout. I hear my voice crack. Great.

I laugh. She laughs back. We're now standing in the middle of the lab staring each other in the eyes. I wait for her to flinch – to give me some kind of opening.

"Make a move," she says, dangling the PCB near my face.

I grab at it again, but she's already running away.

This is absurd. Absolutely absurd. And yet, I find myself chasing after her, running in circles by my workbench.

Finally, the PCB slips from her hand. Or maybe she drops it on purpose. I'm not sure.

I stoop to pick it up. Grabbing one of my cloths, I start cleaning the dust off the board.

"How has your week been, by the way?" I ask.

"Pretty good," says Lin. "I submitted my latest report. Dr. Skully had a bunch of notes. Half as many as last time though. I'm calling that a win."

I nod. "This for the new control scheme?"

She nods back. "I showed it to Ethan, and he wasn't able to tell the difference between teleoperation mode and autonomous mode. It's that good now!"

I raise an eyebrow. "You didn't show me?"

Lin shrugs. "I thought you were busy."

My eyes dart.

"It's fine," she says. "I have a lot of work outside of work too."

I need to change the subject. "You didn't even show Bobbin?" I give a chuckle. Pretty convincing, I must say. "Gonna be honest: pretty sure he'd be hurt if he knew you didn't show him."

Lin grins. "Yeah, where is Bobbin anyway? I heard he got arrested!"

"Yeah! I heard he was doing cocaine in the bathroom."

"Um... I did not hear that."

"Trust me, I know Bobbin. If he's not on cocaine, it must be something a lot stronger."

Lin gives an awkward smile. "I'll take your word for it."

She looks at me again. Her eyes scan the bruises on my face.

"I heard the Machine and his sidekick Cog were here the other night as well," she says. "The Machine and Cog – here. Crazy, right?"

"Yep. Definitely crazy."

I put my hands in my pockets, and try shoving the Fluxion-Drive deeper in. I double check the power switch and whether the cable to the power pack is disconnected, to make sure it's turned off. Suddenly, there's a loud buzz.

The alarm.

I check my phone. I and Lin are about to miss our meeting with Dr. Skully.

"We better get a move on," I say, "Dr. Skully is going to tear his hair out again if we're not there."

Lin is already halfway out the door.

"Also: last time I was late, I swear that he left spit on my EMG sensors," I say, calling after her.

We start jogging through the lab, toward the conference room. If Dr. Skully saw us, he'd probably be squawking about how we need to be walking. That said, knowing Dr. Skully, he's probably been in the conference room setting up for the past half hour.

We're in the lab's invention center, and it's quite the wonderland. At the very least, it beats the damp offices that are kept floors and floors below. Sunlight spills in from an expansive sunroof overhead. Around me is an open eggshell white floor. Various glass lab benches are scattered about, with tools, papers, and electronic devices mounded atop.

Some of the devices in the invention center are next generation technologies: cutting lasers, electrical generators, robots... Also, more robots.

Other devices are entirely novel and do things that I couldn't describe if I tried.

Did I mention robots?

Some of the top talent works here and each lab member is assigned a variety of different projects. The guiding philosophy is cross-pollination between research groups. Everybody can see what everybody else is working on. Ideas from a small project are easily able to jump to large projects.

"Hey George!" somebody calls after me. I think it was Jack.

There's a flash, and I blink. Definitely an array of high-powered LEDs. Definitely Jack.

"Turn that down, will ya," I say after him.

"Turn down the speed, and I will," he says back.

I can't slow down. I've already lost Lin. Gotta rush through this. I dodge and weave between various scientists and engineers as they move about the lab. I catch a few glares, and I swear that somebody wheels a giant Van De Graaff generator right into my path just to screw with me. I close my eyes to get a clear picture of what I want.

I lurch out of the way of a person hauling a large glass cathode ray tube, managing to narrowly avoid knocking into them. Pre-cognition, working at full ignition.

"Watch it!"

I've already found my way through another wall of people. The conference center is just ahead. It's a glass cube with walls that extend to the ceiling and entrances to different rooms at each corner. I go to the corner entrance on my left.

Trying to slow myself down, I hear my shoes squeal against the ground and feel my legs clench. My body bumps against the entrance. It's fine, the door's silicone layers dampen the impact. I squint to try to see into the meeting room. It's blurry in there, but I don't think anybody noticed.

I place my thumb on a pad to the left. There's a chirp and the door is swallowed into the floor. As I step into the room, there's a whoosh of the door flying back into place.

"Efficiency and productivity is key to our future in this lab!" Dr. Skully says, in a commanding tenor.

I shudder, then start shuffling to a back corner of the room. Dr. Skully is still droning on, so I don't think he noticed me. The holo-pyramid at the front of the room features a display with a bunch of charts. The word "efficiency" is highlighted at the top of the display in bold comic-sans. Blech.

I have no clue what the graphs mean, and I somehow doubt that anybody in the room does. My eyes look for Lin, but I can't find her.

Settling down into my chair I take in deep breaths and check the clock. 10:01. Only 1 minute late this time. Not too shabby.

"Hey, George," Ethan says, whispering into my ear. "You were supposed to be here at 9 to help set up. What happened?"

Ok, 1 hour late. My face feels hot. It completely slipped my mind.

"It's fine," Ethan says. "I got Lin to help me carry in the bot. Also, what happened to your face?"

My arms swing in a half-hearted karate chop.

"MMA man," I say. "MMA."

Ethan snorts. "You'd think you'd be getting the hang of it at this point."

"It's fine. My sparring partners gotta leave their mark on me one way or another, right?"

"Right..."

Ethan straightens up, his eyes now to the front. Dr. Skully is really getting into his lecture.

"There are a few things I've been seeing in this lab which I am not happy with," Dr. Skully says, waving his laser pointer around like a wand. "First off: too many people aren't turning the machines off. Somebody left the vacuum pumps on for the particle accelerator, for example."

He shoots a glare somewhere into the audience. Not at me, thankfully. I lost accelerator access awhile ago.

"Leaving the equipment on for extended periods can lead to a total shutdown of the accelerator," Dr. Skully continues. "We run expensive experiments in the accelerator. Losing the accelerator for an hour costs Everman Technologies a million dollars. So, unless you want job cuts, cut the power and... Double. Check."

He slaps his pointer into his palm for emphasis.

I hold back a smirk. His wordplay with "cut" is smooth. I need to keep a mental note of that.

Dr. Skully swipes his hand, and the holo-pyramid moves to the next slide. 3D models of shelves throughout the lab appear.

Dr. Skully clears his throat. "In terms of inventory, some of the technicians have also noticed issues there. Key resources and equipment keep disappearing, without any account of it. While it's fine to use things as needed: usage of lab inventory needs to be submitted as a request in the virtual catalog. We can't have people stealing from the lab."

I shift in my seat. Rarely ever do I submit requests for the inventory I use. To be honest, I've only ever been vaguely familiar with the virtual catalog, and have never used it. I look around the room to gauge the mood. Some people are scratching their heads. Others are unphased. Many have their brows furrowed in concern.

My stomach is churning.

"These slight errors ultimately cost the lab a lot," Dr. Skully says. "So, I'm going to play everybody a quick video here to give a sense of what I'm talking about."

Dr. Skully swipes his hand again and a video begins playing. The holo-pyramid has automatically mapped the video to 3D space, so the people in the video almost look like they're here. However, they are dressed in clothes that look like they're from the 90s. Their equipment looks even older than that.

"Yo Francis," somebody in the video says. "You're wasting the rubber gloves. Also, the alcohol wipes. It doesn't fly with me."

I yawn. A cost-cutting video. The characters go through the motions, and I keep thinking of my bed. It doesn't help that I didn't get to finish my nap at my workbench. My eyelids strain to stay open.

Ethan bumps into me. His body is stiff, and his eyes are wide.

"You nervous?" I whisper to him.

He forces a shrug where his shoulders barely lift. Classic Ethan. He gets nervous easily. He really cares about doing a good job and receiving good scores on his reports. The annoying thing is that he pretty much always nails it.

Maybe it's not fully annoying. The fact that Ethan is my friend probably helps my job reviews out, by association. Dr. Skully isn't exactly the biggest fan of my work.

"Who directed this thing?" Ethan asks. He squints, then readjusts his glasses.

"Kubrick," I say. I cross my arms and give a firm nod.

Ethan chuckles, then sweeps a mix of sweat and hair out of his face.

The video on the holo-pyramid ends, with a long line of credits. I attempt to get a count of the producers, but quickly lose track.

Dr. Skully makes an attempt at fielding questions from the audience. However, everybody is speechless. A pause hangs in the room for a few seconds longer than it should. I've never understood why Dr. Skully thinks people will have questions.

"Ok then, I guess we can move on," says Dr. Skully.

He quickly swipes through some slides with metrics and bullet points. There must've been another lecture that he had prepared – probably passed down from corporate. I guess he isn't into it today.

Ethan bumps into me again. He's shivering. It's not cold here though. In fact, this glass greenhouse traps a lot of heat.

"Alright, spotlight time," Dr. Skully says. "Every few months, our research groups manage to put out work that is quite the breakthrough. Lin Earheart and Ethan Ackers, come on up here."

Dr. Skully gives a rare grin which spreads into the scar on the left side of his face. Somehow, when I look at Dr. Skully smiling, I feel awkward. How is it that Lin and Ethan made so much progress together without me knowing?

Ethan stands up and gives a nervous wave to the crowd. I know I should give him a word of encouragement, but suddenly I'm feeling nervous too. There's no sign of Lin, and I didn't ever see her enter.

Where is Lin?

The Machine

"Everybody, calm down and quiet down!" I yell.

A turbulent rumble of voices settles to a murmur. The mass of people become still. Taking a deep breath, I try to reset myself. The hands of my mechanical watch are only a few hours through Monday and it already feels like this has been a long week.

I'm looking down from a balcony in the hall. My balcony is spherical mesh of stainless steel and doubles as a Faraday cage. There's also a sphere of noise cancellers surrounding the cage. The cage connects to a gigantic dumbwaiter in my office, which I use to come here and decompress from a long day interfacing with technology. Today though, the struggle is not so much technology as it is people. The people below remind me of the random static on an old TV.

I close my eyes for a moment, then reopen them. I try to count all the faces that I know. As my eyes make it down the hall, I stop myself. I know most of them. I even know their families. This company has been my labor of love for the past two decades, and I can't help but feel the love right now.

That said: it's time for some tough love. They're going to hate me for what I have to say. Oh well. I want to be remembered positively, but I can't let being remembered make me forget who I am.

"We are looking at the most intense period in our company's history," I say. "Our corporate board of directors is trying to take control of us. They want to take control of our company."

Gotta keep my head held high. Gotta project confidence.

"Productivity and efficiency is going to be key, going forward! We have major deliverables coming up in terms of the intersection between quantum computing and robotics applications. Due to geopolitics, a lot of the board is disappointed in our decision to keep going this direction. But, screw the board. If any of the board is listening right now: sorry to disappoint, but we are about to nail our upcoming unveil!"

I let out a hurrah. The room hurrahs with me. I clear my throat. Only a little bit until the hurrahs turn into haranguing.

"It's true that we are facing critical issues in supply chain and production infrastructure. It's also true that previous prototypes have lagged behind some of our competition, like Byrd Enterprises. And yes, it's true that the board has had me overleveraged for the past year. But I promise: while many think this tech is a scam, it works. This is why I sold my entire stake in Everman Enterprises this weekend. I'm in the process of transferring these funds and my Everman Biotech contracts to some nonprofit organizations that I helped start. I believe this is the only way I can ensure this technology is used to fulfill the vision our team shares."

I smile as I look around me. Regardless of how things go, this is an incredible group of people.

"While there are lots of rumors right now, I won't be leaving ET for competing companies. Firstly: my contract won't allow me to leave for another company, unless the board fires me," I laugh. About half of the team laughs with me. The other half has eyes like saucers. "Also, I will be dedicating more time than ever to direct sub-teams in the company. This is why you are all now reporting directly to me. I gotta keep a tight leash."

My chest feels tight. The room is starting to shift around. It's time for me to say the hard thing.

"I know that a lot of people have a lot of their savings tied up in ET stock. A lot of people are also wondering about job security. To those people: you're just going to need to be patient. Like I said: this is an intense time, and it might be like this for a while. But, even if ET goes bankrupt, I promise we'll get through this. If you're a person who does good work, your work is safe with me. And if you're not... Brace yourself."

My voice echoes through the hall. It sounds angry. It sounds harsh. I can smell the discontent in the air.

It had to be said. This feels right.

A few burbles of questions rise to my cage. I don't answer them and stare into space. The chain reaction has begun. Questions continue to bubble up, until the air in the room is sloshing with voices.

I turn around and enter my dumbwaiter. I was only half awake this weekend and haven't been getting enough sleep. If my decisions are bad, that's my excuse. This all feels like a dream. A deep truth is this: there's never enough time to do it all.

I hit a red button on my dumbwaiter. I don't want to go back to my office. I want to go to the machine shop. Anywhere is better than here.

I open my phone and am hit by another wave of questions and reports. So many things are behind or going wrong. We haven't even purchased the new jet engines yet. What is that about?

Squinting, I turn down the brightness on my phone. It's too bright.

Navigating through a wall of apps, I go ahead and activate my machine intelligence, Aardvark. Having studied it closely for the past year, it has only been getting better. It is effectively an extension of me and is trained on everything I've ever written or interacted with at the office. It's even trained on things that I do outside the office. It should be able to handle this deluge of emails and will send me back anything that seems urgent. Today is going to be a real test of how good it can do.

Glancing at some charts, it looks like it has already been able to gauge performance on various people and projects. I select the filter button. Hopefully I can start cleaning up some of the projects which are not getting us anywhere.

Aardvark is one of the reasons why I think I might be able to manage all these people in the company. I wouldn't have been able to do this until the past few weeks. Thankfully, I'm getting it just as I need it. Managing this large team is going to be rough, but Aardvark's raw compute and reasoning is there. Successful management is merely a matter of whether I can keep my executive functioning up and running.

The dumbwaiter vibrates and shifts around me. On instinct, I place my hand on the wall to stabilize myself, only to feel the dumbwaiter rock about. My hand puts a dent in the wall. The dumbwaiter crashes into the ground and grinds to a halt. Great. It took my team a week to install this thing, and now it needs to be replaced.

I let out a huff, then feel a rush of air hit my face. The dumbwaiter door has opened. I exit the dumbwaiter to enter the machine shop.

There is a groan from high overhead. I look up to see the cables of the dumbwaiter tangled with the cables that suspend an old rocket of mine: the Ricochet. I used the Ricochet to travel around New Vinci, once upon a time.

I give a second look at the tangled cables. Shoot. A proper chute might be needed for the dumbwaiter after all.

I give a firm pat on the hood of the Machine-Machine as I walk past her. I have yet to fix the damage made to the cabin the other night, but the polished exterior glints as bright as ever in the cool glow of my machine shop.

At the back are my machinists, Rudy and Julian. Half the time, they're great. The other half of the time, they're slackers. I'm not sure which I'm going to get today.

"How do you do Everman?" Rudy says. He turns from his workbench and gives a wave. Julian is right by him, working on the drill press.

The welding equipment is in the back corner, untouched from when I saw it last. Nobody has used it today.

"Doing good, you guys making progress?" I ask. "I need the suit and power-fists working at 100% by this Friday, for when I make the announcement."

"We aren't focused on the suit right now," says Rudy. "We actually have been needing to manufacture some replacement parts for the bots upstairs. Apparently, they've been having a ton of issues and are quickly working through their fleet. We're not going to have a lot of time to repair your suit."

Rudy grabs a greasy rag from his bench and wipes his forehead with it.

He puts the rag back. I furrow my brow.

"We have 3 production facilities in this building, and this machine shop is only for prototype projects," I say. "That's what I pay you for. Also, I booked you guys for this whole week. Why are you guys taking orders from upper floors?"

"Production lines are shut down for maintenance," says Rudy. He stoops over his bench and doesn't look at me. "Several of them were breaking down, and apparently maintenance has been put off due to the layoffs from a month back. We're needing to outsource repairs, and this shop is the only thing the building has got."

I put my hand on my forehead as my temples begin to throb. There's just too much coming at me, and I can hardly keep track of it all. It all feels as though some outside force is working against me.

"I know this might sound crazy, but it's starting to feel like sabotage! Somebody wants this whole place to fall apart!" I say, raising my voice. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"We might support your tech, but we ain't tech support," says Julian. "All I know is that we were told these robots are high priority."

Rudy clears his throat. "We've been working massive overtime trying to get these parts working. Been sleeping here, and not getting much sleep either. We'll get to your stuff when we get to it. But, honestly: we need more people."

Glancing around the machine shop, I can see piles of robotic limbs and panels. Rudy and Julian look like they've been busy. But something doesn't sit right with me.

"We need quality work I say," holding up one of the robotic limbs. The aluminum is scarred and has a few screw holes that look more like tears in the metal. "We can't present our fleet with parts that look like this."

The drill press squeals to a halt. Julian knocks some scrap metal to the floor, then throws his hands up. He walks toward me, his wild hair flaring behind him. His eyes have bags under them and are bloodshot.

"Jesus, what do you want from us?" Julian says. "We're putting in everything we've got over here! We're not your slaves!"

Rudy is still working away at some metal at his workbench. So far as I can tell, he's just trying to look busy. I'll deal with him later.

I rest my hand on Julian's shoulder.

"I need my tech to work if this presentation has any shot at working," I say. "Also, I need it to work to protect the city. I don't care what anybody else tells you guys, that's the priority right now."

Julian shakes his head. "You have backup tech, and the repairs you're asking for are going to take days! We're already two days behind on the production line. There's no way that we can do both!"

"I just feel like Cog could do both," I say, holding up the shoddy robotic limb. "I don't know if you've seen the gadgets he can build for me, but they're pretty damn good. Almost as good as the stuff I get from you guys."

Julian snorts.

"Ok then, go get Cog," Julian says, his voice sharp. "Grab him and bring him here! Let's see how well he handles needing to fit ten schedules at once!"

Julian snatches the robotic arm from me.

"This is from the scrap pile by the way," he says.

"Scrap?" I ask.

"That's where we had it!"

Julian tosses the robotic arm back into the pile that I had grabbed it from.

I raise my hands to show surrender. But, Julian recoils at the sight of my arms raising. It's only when he sees that my palms are open that he relaxes a bit.

"I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. This is a lot. You guys have a lot. Keep up the good work."

Julian takes a deep breath. He shrinks back and nods. He returns to his drill press without a word. Any hint of obstinance has subsided. There's a submissive blank expression on his face.

Did I intimidate him? Or, is he just too tired to argue? Hard to say. Regardless, there's not enough time to focus on feelings right now.

I go to a back corner of the room where my steel wardrobe is kept. Undoing a latch and swinging open the doors of the wardrobe, I smile. My suits might not be in peak condition, but at least they are still intact.

There are a few rips in the chainmail of my main suit, from the battle with the dragon. The orange paint has dulled and some of the torso's armored shell is cracked. Finally, some of the augmentation mechanisms are worn down.

I could spend time trying to repair it. However, some electronics integrated into the suit are a bit beyond me. I don't want to run the risk of breaking them. My machinists double as electronics repairmen, which makes them uniquely suited for the job.

Too much is on my plate right now, as it is. The proto suit isn't that bad, is it?

The proto suit is to the left. Its architecture is obsolete. The mechanisms are passive and hydraulic powered, rather than using a mix of combustion power and battery power. Only the power fists are combustion powered by the proto suit. Also, the outer shell is a duller orange, interlacing with a black, diamond grid.

A grimace forms on my face. This presentation needs to be clockwork, and the suit's tech is a bit behind the times – even for me.

"You'll have to do," I mutter, pulling the suit from its rack. My hands brush along the shoulder-pads, removing some dust. Giving it a closer look, it might be worth giving a test drive.

I unlatch my communicator from a buckle on the back of my pants. Hopefully there's somebody who needs saving, a calamity, or some sort of villain to fight. As I swipe through the map of New Vinci, I feel a rush of adrenaline. There must be some problem.

My eyes catch a few red blips in a few locations. But, these lights are just indicating traffic stops.

Nothing is wrong. The rush fades.

My phone vibrates. Rolling my eyes, I open the phone and start scrolling. There's an ever-growing list of concerns and issues to take note of. My day is already booked with meetings that I don't remember ever setting.

There's a particular message that catches my eye: an interview offer for tonight. It's a dinner in Neon Square, during the city's tech showcase. It'll be the same night that Byrd Enterprises plans to hold its major showcase.

I smirk.

I sling my suit over my shoulder and head toward the stairs.

"I have an interview coming up that I need to start preparing for," I say. "Be sure to put the dumbwaiter into your schedule, we gotta get that fixed."

My machinists don't look up.

"Have a good one gentlemen," I say.

"Yes sir," says Rudy.

Julian doesn't say a word. I must've defeated him.

Energy brimming in my chest, I begin what should be a long jog up the stairs.

The Cog

"Beep boop," somebody says. “Hi.”

I jump in my seat, then look behind me.

It's Lin. How does she always sneak up like that? How does she always get me? I swear, it's like she just magically appears sometimes.

She's now walking toward the front of the room. Ethan is already there, messing with a tarp kept over a lumpy object. Must be his robot. They start pulling the tarp off the robot together and I squirm in my seat.

"Lin and Ethan, explain what you two have here," says Dr. Skully.

Ethan is holding his laptop up to his face and starts fiddling with his keyboard. He looks to the side, then removes the tarp. He gives a whoop like a matador and slings the tarp over his shoulder. Beneath the tarp is a pearl-white robotic arm which covers an entire table: Hand-E.

I've worked with Hand-E a few times before. Though, there's a buzz in my head. There's something different from Hand-E this time. Much different.

Ethan glances at the crowd, then his eyes return to his computer.

"We've developed an algorithm which allows a robot to mimic human movement," says Ethan.

Lin nods. "Me and Ethan started working together on this project a month back. Ethan showed me some good nonlinear machine learning approaches."

Ethan suggested to approach things nonlinearly? Pfft. Nonstarter for me. Still, I force a smile.

Lin walks toward Dr. Skully and smiles at him. I grin bigger. Is she looking at me out of the corner of her eye?

She trades a coffee cup Dr. Skully is holding for a handshake, then places the coffee cup on the table. Ethan's fingers whir as he types something out on his computer. The robotic arm moves and picks the coffee cup up.

Lin outstretches her hand. The fingers of the robot nimbly rotate the cup, until its handle is facing Lin's hand. The cup then is placed in Lin's hand. The motion is seamless and graceful. Brilliant.

Lin takes the cup, gives a thank you, and goes to drink.

Dr. Skully protests. "Hey, that's a fresh cup."

He takes the coffee cup from Lin. Coffee splatters over the cup and onto Dr. Skully's jacket. Dr. Skully frowns, then chuckles.

"Well, would you look at that?" he says. "I guess the robot knows how to hold a coffee cup better than I do."

The room laughs. I laugh along.

"Lin and Ethan, care to explain what we just saw here?" asks Dr. Skully.

"What you just saw was entirely autonomous," says Ethan.

Lin nods in agreement. "Yep. Hand-E uses a smart-camera to respond to hand gestures. It makes decisions all on its own. The latest control scheme is also able to mimic human motion. Holding coffee is not its only trick, by the way."

Lin makes a gesture to Ethan. Ethan picks the tarp from over his shoulder and hands it off to Hand-E. Hand-E grabs the tarp and begins folding it on the table.

A hush falls over the room. My folding isn't quite as good as Hand-E's, if I'm being real. Hand-E finishes folding and places a square block of tarp to the side. It waves to the audience, before going dormant.

Lin hits a button on the table and the holo-pyramid lights up again. A video starts playing on the screen, with clips of Hand-E's various exploits. Then, the video starts going into the specifics of Hand-E's functions and overall control scheme. Lin and Ethan speak throughout the video to help explain things, and crisp graphics come up to assist their descriptions. Occasionally, the video pauses and Ethan or Lin will clarify something that the video shows.

The video ends. It was great. Thus far, this has been a far better presentation than anything I've ever put together. I rest my hand on my chin, trying to form a contemplative look – it's a move that the Machine often does when talking to people.

Dr. Skully nods. "Yes. Excellent work. You two have done a truly brilliant job."

My contemplation deepens and I nod along. Yes, yes. Truly brilliant. Nonlinear. Why yes, I was just thinking of trying that myself.

Dr. Skully doesn't seem to notice me and goes on. "To do such a great job, it must've really taken you two a lot of dedication, communication, and collaboration. Would that be correct?"

Lin and Ethan nod.

"Can you give some examples?" Dr. Skully asks.

Ethan gives an eager yes, and then starts elaborating on the amount of hours they spent on some technical glitches. Lin offers supporting examples. All the while, Dr. Skully asks clarifying questions to help smooth out their accounts.

It sounds interesting, but I'm having a hard time keeping focused. My mind is wandering to my apartment. I still need to finish repairs on the Fluxion-Drive, and it has also been awhile since I checked the ethical hacking forum for new leads.

My attention returns to the meeting when Lin borrows Ethan's laptop from him. She laughs as she moves the robot around, before handing the laptop back to Ethan. It really is surreal. The arm is just like a human, albeit smaller. How far can they take it?

"Once again, good work. Everybody, give these two a quick round of applause!" says Dr. Skully.

However, I and the room have already started applauding before Dr. Skully finishes his sentence.

Dr. Skully gives a wry smirk and begins to cover some remaining topics. There's a quick overview of some timelines, deliverables, and reports. Dr. Skully brings things to a sharp close and the room starts filing out. Lin and Ethan are cleaning the table off, but Dr. Skully swats at them. He mutters something and they head for the door.

I make my way toward the front of the room.

"Great work guys!" I say with a wave.

Lin and Ethan smile and wave back. They leave. At the front of the room, Dr. Skully is shuffling some papers from behind a podium. The robot is still at the table. I guess it's being left for maintenance to take care of.

"Hi Dr. Skully," I say.

Dr. Skully doesn't look up and keeps shuffling. I wait for a moment, and Dr. Skully finishes his shuffling. He places his papers in a briefcase and starts moving toward the door.

"Hey: Dr. Skully," I say again, raising my voice.

Dr. Skully stops and turns, looking me in the face.

My eyes dart.

"I was wondering if you got my emails?" I say, breaking the silence.

"What about?" says Dr. Skully.

"I sent in a first draft report of my work from the past month. Was wondering what you thought about it?"

Dr. Skully strokes his beard, which is a flurry of salt and pepper.

"Yes George, I read it. It was short and to the point. Going to be honest though: I don't feel like it goes into the depth that it needs. Did you read that list I sent you a few weeks ago?"

I don't want to answer that question. The list had many strange requests that were tough to find clear answers for.

"I sent you several other documents," I say. "They should have what you asked for."

"Hmm... I reread them just this morning. Speaking for myself: some of the modifications I suggested have been keeping me up at night. There are definitely some tough problems that you were handed."

Dr. Skully clears his throat.

"You don't need to do that entire workload you were sent, by the way," says Dr. Skully. "There are other people in the lab that you can have the work be assigned to. Occasionally, we each get a chance at a role in leadership. That could be you."

Dr. Skully gives a wink.

My heart flutters. I shake my head. "No, that's fine. I'll double-check your emails and see how my deliverables line up. I'll be sure to ask questions if anything doesn't make sense."

"Are you sure? Your plate seems like it's pretty full."

I force a smile and give a strong nod. Dr. Skully nods back, but he doesn't look convinced.

He makes a sudden heel-turn and goes back to the podium. "Almost forgot."

He hits a button on the podium, and the holo-pyramid resets. It begins playing default images of Everman Technologies and icons from throughout New Vinci.

The phrase, "be a hero" shows up on the pyramid. A carousel of images spins beneath the text. Most of the people featured have a background in service: firefighters, police officers, and soldiers.

As the carousel reaches its end though, the Vitruvian of Byrd Enterprises shows up: the world's richest man, smartest man, and the greatest hero in the world. His eyes are fierce, and his jaw is clenched. He's standing in his hall of paintings, his trademarked tuxedo buttoned up and his red cape flowing behind him.

Following this there's Sir Bertrand Polka, New Vinci's founder. He has a wizened and knowing look. His beard goes past his chest. He's sitting on a balcony, overlooking New Vinci's skyline.

Finally, the Machine comes up. He's wearing his latest power suit and standing with the board of directors for Everman Technologies. He has a big smile on his face.

These images play on the carousel every day. However, today, a rush flows through me.

"Slightly unrelated to work," says Dr. Skully, "a holiday weekend is coming up. I saw in the system that you haven't taken any vacation days this past year. You should consider using this opportunity to take a vacation."

I give a nod, but my eyes are still on the carousel. For some reason, I'm having trouble taking my eyes off it.

Will I ever be enough?

"Hey, are you okay?" says Dr. Skully. "Remember, we all need help sometimes. I probably am not supposed to say this, and maybe I'm just seeing things... But you haven't been quite the same since that accelerator accident."

The accident...

Oh God. No! Why did he –?

My mind beams back.

The air of cooling fans blows behind me. The chamber is dark and musty. I'm underneath the accelerator beam, using my screwdriver to fiddle with superconducting wire. I glance through shielded glass for the beam, hoping my safety goggles will pick something up. Nothing. I then take my screwdriver and start tuning one of the voltage regulators.

The screwdriver heats up. My hand jolts back and the screwdriver bursts into shards. There's a sonic boom. The shielded glass shatters overhead.

Light drenches me. I'm inside of a star.

My mind has returned me here a million times before. For better or worse, it acts as the nexus of my consciousness. Most have no memory of when they were born. I do. I am born in this accelerator blast. Anything that indicates otherwise is just illusory.

This time though, there's a strange vibration. The light begins to drain away, and Dr. Skully stands off in the distance. Odd. Hand-E is there too. Hand-E reaches out.

Hand-E grabs Dr. Skully by the throat.

"No!" I shout.

There's another flash.

I've been beamed back to the lab. Dr. Skully is fine and looks at me with intense concern. He must think I'm insane.

Good. That means I still have a few seconds.

Hand-E whips toward his neck, but I've already lunged toward the table. The table topples over just as Hand-E's fingertips grace Dr. Skully's neck. Hand-E hits the floor, snapping in half.

Dr. Skully breathes heavily. Sweat beads on his forehead. He straightens the collar to his jacket and wipes the sweat away.

"You could've just unplugged it," he says, managing a smirk.

I realize that I'm also breathing heavily. I struggle to catch my breath, then shoot him a glare.

He doesn't seem to notice and crouches down.

Gingerly, he grabs Hand-E's snapped limbs. Hand-E has powered down, any sign of life now drained from it. Dr. Skully flips it around to look into the camera. He scowls, then looks up at me.

“What was that?” he says, more to himself than to me.

“Maybe it was a glitch?” I say.

I’m not convinced. Dr. Skully doesn’t seem convinced either.

"Could’ve been,” Dr. Skully says. “But, with all the chaos going on in this place, also might’ve been some kind of breach. I’ll need to get in touch with our IT people.”

I nod. I can’t disagree with Dr. Skully. That said, the idea of Everman Technologies being hacked feels unthinkable. Who would even do such a thing?

Dr. Skully takes a deep breath, then turns to look at me. “Thanks, by the way.”

"No problem, Skully."

"Doctor."

"Right...”

He's looking me over, studying me. He tries to catch my eye – I feel him get a glimpse at my soul.

Damn. I think he likes me more than Lin right now.

Chapter 3: The Interview

The Machine

The reporter, Amanda Taft, is already by the VIP lounge’s entrance for Neon Square. She’s wearing a blue jacket and a bright green dress. Her foot gives short taps along the floor to match her short expression. Her eyes lock onto me with a squint.

We’ve conversed many times, and she’s always terse.

“10 minutes early this time,” I say, pointing at my watch. I flash a smile as her face is caught in a glare from the metallic orange of my suit.

“Finally learn the early bird gets the worm?” she asks, shielding her eyes. She adjusts a microphone clipped to her jacket.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Speaking of birds, is Culver Byrd here?” I start scanning the VIP room for signs of him, only to find a few maintenance workers cleaning the room up.

“He left a few hours ago,” says Amanda.

“So, he was here...”

“Yes, for the Byrd Enterprises summer showcase. You know... The tech showcase of the year. What, you somehow didn’t hear?”

She has a point. Each summer, Byrd uses Neon Square to put on some elaborate, overdone wank.

I give a sheepish wink.

Amanda turns away. She walks through the entrance as it automatically slides open for her. A soft glow washes through, highlighting her hair with a brilliant white hue.

“Hugo?” Amanda asks.

I clear my throat.

“I heard about it, but I figured he’d be back for reruns or whatever,” I say, trying to explain myself.

Amanda gives a snort, and I begin adjusting the sleeves to my suit. “Is there a chance I’ll get a second chance to see it?”

“It’s over man,” Amanda says. “Maybe try catching his show next year or something.”

I give a chuckle. “That’s fine, our dinner should make up for that I guess.”

Her back becomes stiff and she speeds ahead without addressing me.

I look around the showcase hall. The floor, walls, and ceiling are white marble brushstrokes, which converge to a point far in the distance. Along the walls are various installations of neon origami, woven in and out of the marble. It’s like being on the inside of a giant sculpture by some 25th century Michelangelo. My only gripe would be the glass displays from the tech showcase, which obscure some of the neon installations.

I wave at some people crowded around a display for a new laundry folder, giving the classic grin I put on for photoshoots. I also pump my muscles a bit, to heighten the effect.

Taft might refuse to address me, but I refuse to be ignored. She has missed the whole point of an interview, after all: to make sure that the movers and shakers like me are heard.

Neon Square showcases are usually dominated by the whirs and beeps of state-of-the-art electronics, shown off by various tech companies throughout New Vinci. Right now though, it’s dominated by chatters and calls from a crowd of people. The crowd might be here to see the tech showcase, but now all eyes are on me. I give a grin as a group comes toward me. They hold out pamphlets from Byrd’s latest Neon Square showcase and begin begging for my autograph.

“I love the suit!” a young boy says, his eyes wide with wonder. “Going retro again?”

I laugh and nod.

The boy gives his showcase pamphlet at me. I unclip a laser pen that I have hooked to my utility belt and turn it on to lightly etch my signature onto his pamphlet. I also laser a mustache into Culver Byrd’s stupidly perfect face.

“Can you say the phrase?” the boy asks.

“Imagine it, machine it!” I say.

The crowd erupts with cheers, and I start signing a few more autographs as they’re pushed toward me.

“Imagine it, machine it! Imagine it, machine it!” the crowd begins to chant in unison.

I finish signing an autograph and begin jumping with each chant. I pump my fists into the air. In the corner of my eye, Taft is swallowed by the crowd. With a laugh, I steady myself and move through the crowd.

“Alright, settle down everybody,” I command through my jovial laugh. “I have an appointment tonight.”

The crowd parts as I push my way through, allowing me to move back to Taft. There are some dejected faces from people who had been holding out for an autograph. That said, nobody is going to tell me no.

I find Taft near a corner of the hall, studying a display kept behind glass. The display features a large metal cage with several robotic arms shooting out of it. The arms are spidery, with sharp edges and thin components.

A scientist wearing a silver jumpsuit stands in front of the display, with one of his hands resting on his chin. The logo “B.E.” for Byrd Enterprises runs along his chest. I try to read off his nametag, but it’s written in a phony cursive font which is impossible to decipher.

He’s talking about something to do with joints, which I can barely make out. I’m willing to bet Taft can barely make it out either, despite the gracious smile she’s putting on.

“I thought you were supposed to be talking to me,” I say, towering over the pair.

Taft and the scientist continue to talk.

“Uh, hello?” I say. I raise my voice, hoping they’ll somehow get the message.

Taft looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, an interview with me.”

“I thought you were busy with a publicity stunt,” she says with a smirk.

“Looks like you are too,” I say, gesturing at the godawful apparatus in front of us. “Like, let’s be real: that device is garbage, nobody is ever going to use that thing.”

The scientist gives a grunt of protest. “It’s for excavation,” he says. “It’s one of the most advanced excavation devices in the world.”

Taft nods in agreement. “Byrd Enterprises has put out quite the showcase this year and warrants some of my time.”

I give the device a second look. Despite Taft and the scientist projecting an aura of confidence, there is something to the excavator’s needle-thin linkages and the dominance of its operator cage which puts me off. Is a person expected to sit in the cage all day, operating this thing?

“Whatever, I get the feeling nobody will be talking about it by tomorrow,” I say. “Especially now that I’m here.”

I turn and say hi to a group of people across the hall. Despite the hall being dominated by Byrd Enterprises and some partner companies, most people are interested in the small display that Everman Technologies installed this week. It’s a little helper bot, which levitates along metal surfaces.

I never put much energy into the Everman Technologies displays since I prefer for Everman Technologies to hold an in-house showcase each summer. There’s usually no point in competing with Culver Byrd and Byrd Enterprises. So, admittedly: maybe some people are only interested in the Everman Technologies display because I’m here. However, I get the feeling that my display is a nice appetizer for the announcement I have coming up at the end of this week.

I hear Taft say thank you to the scientist before she comes to my side.

“That was super rude,” Taft says.

“I know right, why did you abandon me like that?” I retort.

Taft gives a huff and starts walking toward a corridor near the end of the hall. As I follow her, we pass by several more electronics displays and an empty soundstage. Groups of people are mostly looking at their phones and taking free merchandise that Byrd Enterprises has set out – cheap pens and portable charging devices. Those who aren’t are watching me and Taft, with their mouths agape and their eyes starstruck.

We make a turn and move toward the end of a corridor. We arrive at an armored door that features a hand scanner. Taft holds her hand out in front of it, and the door opens. Suddenly, we find ourselves on the top floor of the restaurant Chez Neon, with a balcony overlooking a mass of people below.

The restaurant is blanketed by a pulsating white glow, produced from neon tubes laced through the ceiling above. Electronic music plays along with the pulses of the neon lights. The flooring is an interactive screen, which sends out digital ripples of cool blues and greens as I walk along it. There are about a dozen tables on the VIP level, which hover over metal plates and seat various business leaders that I’ve brushed shoulders with over the years. One of the tables hosts a mayor New Vinci had a few years back. I watch a robotic waiter take his order and then move to another table.

Over the balcony is a carousel of benches and tables. A couple jumps over the balcony and onto the tables. The setup is wildly risky, but that’s how we do it in New Vinci.

Taft walks me to our table, which already has a bowl of bread and waters set out for us. We take our seats opposite each other. I try resting my hands on the table, but quickly have to pull them away. Eddy currents from the magnetic levitation has made the table extremely hot. An egg could be cooked on it.

Taft rests her microphone next to her silverware and grabs some bread. I brush some specks of dust off my armor as I wait for her to finish it.

“You sure are quiet,” I say.

“And you’re clearly not quiet enough,” says Taft, her mouth still full with some bread.

“What, am I supposed to just keep my mouth shut all the time or something?” I ask. “If I see something, I say something. It’s the hero way.”

Taft swallows and smirks. Her face flushes, her lips turning red as blood.

“Your stock has completely collapsed,” she says. “Word on the street is that your board wants you gone. Your charm might be able to keep you afloat with the average person, but a lot of the industry hates your guts right now.”

“You really need to bring that up?” I ask.

“You accepted this interview, and you really expect me not to? Honestly, any other person in your shoes would’ve chosen to stay low profile.”

“Not my style. Everman Technologies has one of the biggest announcements in its history set for the end of this week. I can’t stop for bad press.”

Taft pulls a pad and pencil from her purse and laughs. “What do you think this is, exactly?”

I furrow my brow and speak through clenched teeth. “Everman Technologies is in a tight spot right now. From the bottom of my heart: I need something to go right.”

Taft scribbles something down on her pad. “Fair enough.”

She fiddles with her bracelet and then looks me in the eye.

“You and I have a checkered history,” she says, leaning forward with her cleavage in full view.

I can’t argue with her there. I’ve seen a lot of Taft in my past. A lot more.

“I’m very familiar with your exploits,” Taft continues, “and lack thereof. But, I’m going to try putting that aside and spend tonight focusing on you, Hugo Everman. What makes Hugo tick?”

I smirk back and place my hand on my chin. “I want to change the world for the better. Ultimately, that’s why I became the Machine.”

Taft looks me in the eye again. It’s as though she’s looking for something, but also unsure whether she’s already found it. “You see yourself as an every man, Everman?”

“Yeah, definitely. I started from the bottom. Did technician work for a lot of different contractors. Then, I worked my way up. Started my own business with a lot of talented people, about 20 years back. And, here I am today.”

“You say you’re an every man. And yet, you’re a billionaire...”

“Millionaire as of Monday,” I say with a chuckle. “Keep up.”

“Ah yes, thank you for the reminder. You’re super smart, superhuman, and all-around super-duper. Deep.”

Taft makes another note on her pad.

“The saving the day thing...” she says. “That is motivated by...?”

“Saving the world has been a dream of mine since I was a kid.”

“The whole world? Ah, of course, very relatable...”

I feel my face becoming hot. “I was pushed hard when growing up. And I was always worried about being a disappointment. Also, the world disappointed me a few times. I’ve always been good at fixing things and I wondered, what if I could fix it?”

“You say you were pushed hard. How exactly?”

“Growing up was tough. We’re talking about the world pre-cyberwars, mind you. Let’s just say that space monsters aren’t the first way the universe has landed some hits on me.”

Taft lifts her microphone from the table and hits the record button.

“I’ve seen you fighting various villains on the news,” she says. “What’s your favorite battle?”

I look at my hands. “Oh man, there are more than I can count. Lobster Mobster was classic. I also had a great time fighting Professor Hurricane. That guy nearly took out all of New Vinci with his sonically induced tsunami!”

“I remember that. Bad hair day.”

“And then there were the Squid People. Remember them? They nearly took over the planet. Thankfully though, their evolutionary cycle—,” I have to stop myself, to burst into a laugh, “was — was a thousand times faster than ours – so they devolved back into squid as they took over city hall!”

I howl.

Taft rolls her eyes and clicks her pen.

“I thought the time that you saved me from Mega-Frog was pretty nice myself,” she says. “But then, if your goal is to save the world, why focus so much on New Vinci?”

“Because it’s my world. It’s a hub where artists and artisans work alongside each other,” I say. “It’s a place where science and philosophy actively intermingle. It’s singular.”

“Nice. Any inspirations?”

“Sir Bertrand Polka,” I say, pumping my fist in the air. “The Global Federation was founded in the aftermath of the World Cyberwar, and people needed a new vision for the future. Polka built New Vinci with the desire of a rebirth. I think ‘revival’ was his specific word choice.”

“I recall him saying he was after the hope of utopia.”

“You know it. Anyway, I started my company here back when the city was being built and like to think my success is due in large part to his success. Just look around us, and the world he helped create!”

Taft takes a quick glance around, then goes back to her pad.

“Some people might say that billionaires like you and Sir Bertrand Polka have only obtained their wealth by exploiting the workforce for cheap labor,” says Taft. “All at the behest of shareholders. What say you to that?”

Wow, she’s doing a poor job of pulling her punches. It suddenly occurs to me how hot and stuffy my suit is.

“I and Polka are prime examples of people who aren’t doing it for the profit,” I say. “Polka has always been a big proponent of workers’ rights. Early in my career, I spent a lot of time busting executives for poor working conditions in manufacturing facilities. Even tied a few of those executives up with some mob bosses. You should know that.”

“That was an iconic picture,” says Taft. Her eyes light up for a moment, then go dark. “Lately though... Hasn’t your company been a bit of a mess? There have been numerous reports of manufacturing facilities breaking down at Everman Technologies.”

I scratch an itch around my neck. Despite all my efforts to keep Everman Technologies running smoothly, I’m not able to refute her. It seems like everything is going wrong these days.

“Taft, just look at this city,” I say, making a broad gesture to the room. “A whole city as a public works project? People thought that Polka was crazy! And me... A stooge for shareholders? Come on! This past week clearly speaks for itself.”

Taft bites her lip and gives a begrudging nod.

“The cancer research you’re doing,” she says, “quite admirable. That said: nothing has been brought to the public. This includes any sort of research data. You’ve also taken a cavalier approach to testing, with yourself very publicly acting as a guinea pig.”

I shrug.

“That’s the cost of doing science!” I say.

“Are we all just supposed to buy that this is an ethical way to be running a business?” Taft asks, raising her voice. “You’re artificially enhancing your biology, and there is nothing keeping you in check.”

“Not business, nonprofit,” I say. “I very deliberately am keeping Everman Biotech a nonprofit endeavor. Therefore, I don’t need to do things the normal way.”

“All your money has recently gone into your nonprofits. You say that you’re just a millionaire now, but many are wondering whether you’re trying to liquidate your billions for other means.”

It’s always infuriating to hear somebody suggest that I have some sort of ulterior motive. Can’t anybody just believe that I am who I say I am?

It’s my turn to raise my voice. “This is a battle of morals, okay? Money is no object to me. I know what it’s like to have no money. I know what it’s like to have all the money.”

“But you do have billions being funneled into your nonprofits,” Taft presses. “And, they’re mostly supporting your personal hero stunts, as of right now. If your true goal is curing cancer, what does a cure for cancer even mean for somebody like you?”

My mind flits to Polka. He hasn’t been doing too great these past few years and has been stuck in the ICU for months. My eyes go misty, and I shake my head to snap myself out of it.

“I’m saving the city, I’m saving the world,” I insist. “I don’t want to go any deeper into it than that.”

Taft gives a frown but nods again.

“On that note: Culver Byrd, savior of Earth,” Taft says, savoring the words as they roll off her tongue.

My lip curls, and I hold back a snarl.

“Some would say he’s your main competitor,” she says.

“He’s my teammate,” I say. “The Vitruvian and I worked on a few different hero teams over the years, as co-leaders. Our companies have also worked together many times.”

Taft gives a thin smile. “He is the greatest hero in the world though. He’s saved the world several times at this point, at scales far beyond just New Vinci. Surely there’s some friction there.”

“No,” I say quickly.

“None? Okay. Even with his background? You started out as a technician at a small engineering contractor.”

Taft pulls a pamphlet from the event from her purse and pauses.

“Looking here, it says Byrd was a... Quant, was it?” Taft says, her eyes moving down the pamphlet. “Went to some top schools. Was employed at some large investment banking firms. Made a good deal of money at the start of his career. And, would you look at that? He’s spent much of his resources supporting research, charities, and volunteer projects. Have you ever felt as though you’ve been living in his shadow?”

I rub the back of my neck. It’s been feeling sort of tense, and I’m especially noticing it right now.

I glance at Byrd’s photo from off Taft’s pamphlet. Byrd has a massive smile on his face. His teeth are showing, including his oversized canines. His red cape flows behind him, and his tuxedo has a popped collar that helps his face stand out from the background.

The photo is cast in a marmalade glow, making Byrd look like a Greek god.

“It’s like you said: by any count, Byrd is the savior of the Earth,” I say. “I mean, how can you compete with that?”

I’m about to add something snide, but there’s a sudden blast. Taft gives a yelp and jumps from her chair. When I look up, I can’t help but jump back too. I try regaining myself and stand to my full height.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins. There is a green blob of gelatin floating in the air. Rings of a green energy pulse beneath it, allowing it to hover. A slimy appendage branches from its side, holding out a ray gun. There’s crackling from fissures that form within the gelatin, which slowly develop into a puppet-like mouth and bubbly eyes.

“I am a Murph-Zplat, from the planet Oozle!” the goopy alien gurgles. “Prepare yourself!”

The restaurant erupts in screams, and some begin jumping for the carousel. Taft pulls her hair back, pushes her chair out of the way, and holds out her microphone.

“You sound like the sort of alien who wants to destroy the Earth,” she says. “Care to comment?”

Bits of goo fall from beneath the alien and splat onto the ground. I can make out something like a brain or a ball of energy held at the center of the alien’s gelatin head. However, it’s hard to say what it is for sure.

I jump on top of the table and jut my chin in the alien’s direction. “That’s a lot of goop you goof!” I cry.

It’s not my best one-liner, but hopefully it gives something for Taft to put on a headline.

The alien aims its ray-gun at me. “Millennia ago my people sent me across the galaxy, to guard your sector of space. Recently, my alarms were triggered,” the alien says. “I have dilated my time to align with yours. There are signatures of technological anomalies in this sector of space, which threatens the stability of this planet’s development!”

I raise an eyebrow. Should I try punching this thing?

There’s another sudden blast, and the alien bursts into a puddle of goo.

“Well, that was fast,” I say with a chuckle.

I look over to Taft, to find she’s already looking at me. Her eyes are wide with horror.

“Behind you!” she shouts.

I feel something grab me from behind, then knock me to the ground.

The Cog

I’ve always believed that if I worked hard enough and did enough people would love me. If I ever failed at a project, it was just because I needed to be smarter. That, or more efficient. To feel love, I had to become a better person.

I had to be the better person.

It’s what the Machine would do.

I’m starting to think that maybe I was wrong.

I’m riding on a magnetically levitating train. I don’t feel like I’m levitating though. I feel like a lump and slouch deeper into my seat. Out the window, New Vinci flies by. Running parallel but in the opposite direction there’s another train, contained in a glass tube. Cars ride on a road paved above the tube. It’s not the best system, but it works. I listen to rumbles from a road of cars above my own train, even if I can’t see it.

New Vinci is a vast network, covered in spiring structures. Some of the architecture is gothic, featuring gargoyles, brick, and stained glass. Other structures seem to come from centuries into the future, formed of ceramic glass and synthetic marble. Systems of tubes and wires interlace the buildings. Some buildings double as pillars for trains and bridges. This tapestry is a bit unruly, but there’s comfort to it. The architecture is allowed to be whatever it needs to be, wherever it needs to be.

The train gives a whir as it begins to decelerate. I lurch forward in my seat and grip a handlebar above my head. The doors to the train whoosh open.

I enter Euclid Street and weave through a bustle of people. There are also service robots mixed in, which only serve to slow everybody down. Making my way down the street, I glance at various neon signs and peer through windows. Most of the signs mark restaurants and shops. They’re empty.

Business usually doesn’t come alive until late at night, when I’m either hard at work or fast asleep.

The ground below is made up of metal gratings. They’re covered in graffiti, which is a surreal mixture of primary colors and abstract shapes. I pass a rainbow lion that looks like it was sent through a kaleidoscope. The city often claims that it wants to clean up the graffiti, but it never does. I don’t ever want the city to clean up the graffiti either – art is part of the city’s spirit.

Above me, there are successive layers of city. The sky is a deep blue fabric, covered in patches made of metal gratings and concrete. Looking back down, the layering of city structures doesn’t stop. I squint to glance through the grating. I forget how far down the true ground-level of the city is, but I know it’s far.

I shudder, and then return my gaze to my immediate surroundings. Eyeing my apartment just ahead,

I adjust my backpack and check my pockets for my keys. I give a sigh of relief to find that my keys are still there. They usually are, but I always need to check.

As I place my key in the door lock, I give a jump. There’s a flash of my roommate, Jack, jumping at me to try to scare me. I roll my eyes, and then unlock the door.

“Boo!”

Jack jumps in front of me, blocking the walkway.

“Hi Jack, nice to see you too,” I say. I give a yawn.

I take off my backpack and place it on the table by the doorway. There’s Jack’s skeleton in the corner, giving me the death stare. I roll my shoulders and stretch my arms: home sweet home. I feel freer already.

“Man, you’re impossible to scare,” says Jack, opening the walkway and scratching his head.

He has his band shirt on and is holding one of the needles he uses to give himself tattoos.

“Some people just inherently aren’t scary,” I say, with a wry smile.

I go to the kitchen and start shuffling through the cabinets. My head is a buzzy fog, and I’m starving.

“How have things been going, by the way?” Jack asks. “You got any new gizmos or whatever that you wanna talk about?”

I shove a protein bar into my mouth and give a shrug.

“Mrmff...” I say.

Jack nods, pretending to look spellbound. I keep chewing through my protein bar and force a smile.

I already know what’s coming – no need for pre-cognition on this one, either.

“By the way,” says Jack.

Here it comes.

“My band...” he continues.

Yep.

“We need to practice for a venue we’re appearing at this weekend. We were wondering if you’d be cool with us practicing here tonight.”

Nope.

“Sure, why not?” I say. I don’t know why I always say yes when I really mean no, but I do.

Jack gives me a thumbs up and runs toward the back of the apartment where his room is at. Before I can pick a fruit out from the fridge, Jack is back with his guitar. He starts thrumming the guitar strings. It’s too late for me to go back on my word now – the countdown has started. The band will be here soon.

Jack’s band is called The Transnationals. It’s a mixture of foreign exchange students and trans students. Jack is trans, and his band’s music is not exactly subtle about it. But then, I guess that’s part of what makes it work.

Going to be honest: sometimes Jack being trans makes me feel uncomfortable. He’s tolerable enough though, which is better than I can say for a lot of past roommates.

Jack watches me as I toss wrappers into the trash bin and grab my bag from by the door. He plays a note slightly out of tune and waves to grab my attention.

“Hey, spaceman, you wanna join in and listen tonight?” Jack asks.

I shake my head but give a smile.

“No, I’ve got other things right now that are on my mind.”

Jack gives a huff. “You never want to hang out. We’re roommates man. What’s so great in your room, up on the moon?”

There’s a lump in my gut. In a lot of ways, Jack is right. However, I really am busy tonight.

“Maybe we should grab a bite to eat or something sometime,” I say.

Jack nods, but his eyes are now focused on his guitar. He resumes strumming to no tune in particular.

My mind flashes back to all the times I’ve spent regaling Jack with technical knowledge and lists of trivia. Rarely do I stop to ask him about his passions. I hold back a frown, then shuffle to my room.

Jack is an okay roommate. I might be a bad roommate.

As I unlock my bedroom door, something brushes against my leg. There’s a gentle purr. Looking down, I find my cat PB. He’s a small fluffy white ball with some brown sugared in for extra flavor.

I kneel down. “Hi there little guy,” I say. I pet the streak of brown fur along his back and can’t help but smile. There’s a warm kind of feeling PB always gives me, which is hard to explain.

“You hungry?” I ask.

PB purrs deeper, as if to say yes. I pull myself up and finish unlocking my door.

I’m greeted by strings of old Christmas lights braided around the room. I feel like it gives the room character, even if it took forever to put them up. My desk and my bed are at the back of the room. To my right, there’s a collection of various robots and gadgets I’ve toyed with over the years. My favorite robot, Bit-Bot, is among them. He’s a helper bot who can waddle around and perform assistive tasks. Normally I’d be tinkering with him, but I got home late tonight. I had to stay overtime in the lab, to get the Fluxion-Drive fixed. Truly a test of patience.

Speaking of patience, PB has taken a seat next to his food and water bowls, near the foot of my bed.

I grab a jug of water and bag of cat food from my desk and begin filling the bowls up.

“Here you go sweetheart,” I coo. I give him a few pets as he begins to dig in. He seems content.

I grab my laptop from my bag and head toward my bed when I hear the chatters of several voices and the slamming of a door. With a smirk, I activate my phone’s sound recorder and place it near my door.

The band has begun to play. The air rumbles with the clamor of drums and guitars going in and out of harmony.

“Tonight... Is the... Night!” somebody cries out in a hoarse voice.

It’s going to be a long night of this. But at least it’ll be funny to play some of it back tomorrow. I hop in my bed and begin scrolling through my laptop. I’m on the ethical hacking forum again, checking for updates. The silhouette of an owl stares at me, as an icon in the corner. Underneath it are the letters “E.H.” for ethical hacking.

Going to be honest: the content is often eh. But every once in awhile, I can find some useful information on here.

My eyes widen as I see a new chat show up in my feed. I click on the chat and am hit by an onslaught of dire information. There are several accounts reporting on accidents that have occurred throughout the city over the past few hours. Multiple office break-ins and car jackings. I glance at my communicator, which is poking out of my backpack. How come I haven’t seen anything about any of this on my communicator feeds?

As I scroll further, it looks like a lot of the issues were benign and already handled by the police.

Still, the muscles in my neck have become tense.

I scroll back to the top, and my chat icon blinks a bright green as I begin typing. Though, I’m only halfway through my sentence when the chat updates with a new message.

“Potential attack at Neon Square,” the message says, listed under the pseudonym ratcatcher.

“What kind?” I quickly type back, under the pseudonym of monkey-wrench.

The chat stalls for a minute. A bead of cold sweat forms on my forehead. The hard thumping of Jack’s band outside my room is overwhelmed by the thumping of my heartbeat.

The chat suddenly overflows with replies. I struggle to make sense of it all.

“Can confirm,” an account called Turtle-Dove says. “More attacks throughout quantum chip supply chains.”

I give a sigh of relief seeing a familiar account. I have interacted with Turtle-Dove many times, and I trust her. She always has great tips, too. I think she works in my lab, based on past information she’s managed to give. But, I’ve never been able to confirm this. Regardless, she’s extremely familiar with the R&D going on throughout New Vinci.

I ask her if she has more info, and she leaves me a frowny emoji. Dang – her replies are usually spunkier.

“That’s it?” I write. “You’re just going to leave me hanging like that?”

“That’s all I know,” she says. “Going to be honest, I’m just as confused as you right now!”

I’m about to send a crying laughing emoji when our chain is bombarded.

“This is an especially unusual guy,” ratcatcher writes. “He wants to make a scene according to my sources. Send a message to the executives who will be there for the tech summits tonight.”

I stroke my chin. Neon Square has a lot of high-profile people, and they’ve been holding a lot of tech summits recently. However, this usually comes with tight security.

“Have any authorities been alerted?” Turtle Dove writes.

There’s a pause. Then, a “yes”.

Ratcatcher drops a .zip file into the chat.

“They are armed with some bootleg electronic gear, but this software package should have everything you need to override their stuff. You just need a device with good Bluetooth connection.”

I feel my heart race as I prepare to download it, but something feels off. I glance at my laptop battery: 10%. My laptop battery drains faster than the drain on a sink – there’s no way it’ll make it before I get to Neon Square.

I check my phone: 5%.

My mind jumps to my cubicle on my office floor. I’ve left my chargers at work.

My fingers race along my keyboard.

“Battery low.”

It’s not the cleanest of excuses, but it’ll have to do.

“What? You have no other way to connect?!” ratcatcher writes. “This is life or death!”

He sounds more ticked than usual.

“I generally don’t do field work, especially when it’s dangerous,” says Turtle-Dove.

“I love when it’s dangerous,” I write, “but I need more than what you’re giving me.”

“Fine,” says ratcatcher. “Close range is also a weakness. There should be an off switch installed in the back of the attacker’s neck. Try getting as close as you can, and then disable him.”

Sounds legit.

“Also, tell nobody. Contact nobody. We need this done as securely and safely as possible, as fast as possible. I’ve already shared the same info with the authorities.”

I roll my eyes – sketchy as hell – but still write a “thanks”.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t contact anyone?” Turtle-Dove asks. “You’re not making any sense.”

I click to like her comment.

Suddenly, a stream of text pervades my screen. Dozens of accounts I’ve never seen before are spewing random nonsense. I turn off auto-refresh and blink a few times to regain my composure. I manage to filter for comments by ratcatcher, amid the barrage of noise.

“Crud,” says ratcatcher. “We’ve been hacked.”

I close my browser and shut my laptop.

Man, I didn’t even get to tell Turtle-Dove goodbye. Whatever, I’m sure she knows how I care.

I hop off my bed and grab for my communicator. I need to tell the Machine. I’m not sure what to think right now, and he always knows how to help.

A green dot is lit up on the communicator’s map display. It’s located at Neon Square. The Machine is already there.

Huh. Does he already know about the attack? Yes, of course. Of course he does. He must already be on it.

But then... Why didn’t he contact me?

I scowl and clench my fists. He needs me... He must need me. That, or he totally has no clue. I drop my communicator, without sending my message. Better safe than sorry.

My fluxion-drives are on the floor. They’re poking out of my bag, which doubles as a power pack. The fluxion-drives are a couple of bowling-pin shaped devices, with rubber grips and silver tips. I place them on my desk and start turning their dials from “inert” to “thrust force” mode. They give a swoon and glow a cool lavender at their rounded tips. I begin bumping and banging about my room, struggling to get my super-suit on. My boots are a pain in the neck, and barely budge as I yank them up my leg. Probably should’ve gotten bigger shoes to fill.

PB gives a mew as he watches. There’s a thud as I go back into a wall, before finally getting the zipper to my shirt loose. There’s a click from the zipper reaching my collar, and PB resumes lapping water from his water bowl.

I snatch my fluxion-drives from my desk and unlatch the lock to my apartment window. I give a few firm shoves and pull it open. A chilly breeze welcomes me to the city’s nightscape.

I press down on the rubber triggers to my fluxion-drives and feel them push against me. While I’ve operated them a million times, the thrust against my body still feels surreal. The force reminds me of the push and pull that can be felt by two polar magnets.

My feet are lifted slightly, so that only my toes are touching the ground. My curtains and the breeze are pushed out into the city air. I glance out the window. Why does my apartment need to be so high?

“Make sure to keep a close eye on things for me,” I say to PB.

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I shift my stance and ready myself. I jump.

To the stars.

The Machine

I roll over on the floor and look behind. There is a pale creature looming over me. I squint.

It almost looks like a man, but not quite. His forearms have been replaced with plasma blasters, and metallic talons are placed along the rim of the barrels. There is a visor where his eyes should be, grafted tightly to his face. A tube runs from out from the top of his head and appears to feed behind him. Another set of tubes seem run from the blasters and to behind.

The man is wearing a plain white t-shirt that is so tattered I can make out his ribcage from beneath. His arms and neck are awfully thin. The man opens its mouth to say something, but only drool comes out. I raise myself to a crouch and stagger back a bit. I don’t have my power-fists with me, and this guy looks a lot more decked out than the usual villain I face.

I’m missing the goop alien quite a bit.

“Hey there, I’m the Machine,” I say, raising my hands to signal peace. “I’m the protector of New Vinci. You interested in talking this out?”

The man’s jaw moves again, only for more drool to form. Lights flash along the visor on his face, and his head swivels a bit to scan the surroundings. His face then locks back onto me. The blasters crackle and it spits sparks from the barrel. Looking down the barrel, I see a fiery red glow.

I stand back up and look back to Taft.

“Call the police,” I say. “This man needs help.”

I’m not able to make out her response. The room turns to a bright red as a plasma blast that contains molten metal gets me in the shoulder. I blink several times to recover my vision, while skidding back a few feet. My knees groan. The skin along my shoulder and chest burns as the heat radiates through my suit. I glance down to see a small dent has been left in the chest armor.

My eyes jump to the levitating tables. I leap toward one and tilt it to create a makeshift shield. As a second blast reaches me, a dent forms in the table. However, I feel the heat from the blast quickly radiate away.

“You just ruined a perfect alien dinner invasion!” somebody says in a sarcastic tone.

That can only be one person: Cog.

Pulses of sound vibrate through the air. I watch as the cyborg man staggers back from an unseen force. Cog descends down from somewhere in the ceiling, his arms flailing like a rag doll. He uses his fluxion-drives to slow his descent. There’s a click as Cog flips a switch. The glow from the fluxion-drives changes from a slight purple to a greenish-blue glow. It reminds me of the aurora from the northern lights.

Cog laughs, then takes aim toward the cyborg. He starts blasting.

Cog’s blasts mostly miss, and Cog only narrowly dodges a few of the cyborg’s plasma blasts. A pulse from a fluxion-drive manages to hit the cyborg’s head. Cables flop about, and the cyborg’s metal joints screech. Lights in the cyborg’s visor flash randomly, and its legs begin to buckle.

The cyborg manages another blast of plasma, and Cog finally scampers toward me.

“I’m fine if you just want to play look out,” says Cog. “But –.”

“Look out!” I shout.

Cog ducks and a burst of plasma hurtles over his head. He scuttles along the floor, then huddles with me behind the shield of the table. The cyborg lets out a roar as he begins to regain his strength.

“Nice timing,” I say, giving Cog a playful punch in the arm.

Cog winces from beneath his mask and gives a weak smile. “It was mostly the pre-cognition,” he says. “Also, my head is very hazy right now. I’m sensing a lot of unknowns with this guy.”

“Good to know,” I say. I clear my throat. “How’d you know to come here?”

“Pre-cognition,” Cog says with a wink.

“Haha, very funny,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I pause to grab a dinner plate from off the ground.

“But seriously, how’d you know?” I continue.

I quickly look from behind the table and then toss the dinner plate into the Cyborg’s gut. The Cyborg staggers back, randomly sending blasts of energy into the air.

“Nice!” Cog says, jumping up and down.

Cog really needs a new suit. He’s wearing blue sweatpants and a frayed jacket, which are sky blue.

His logo is the letter “C”, cut out from a profile for half a gear.

His mask could also use some work. His goggles are clearly glued together from spare parts, and the large purple fin coming running out the top of his mask sticks out like a sore thumb.

Yet, I can’t help but smirk.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“It was the forum I use,” Cog says. “I got an anonymous tip. They said there’d be an attack here.

Also, I was told the attacker is weakest at close range.”

“I’ve been at close range, and felt the blast from that thing,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s false info.”

Cog gives a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I’m not sure. My source was pretty sketchy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There’s another blast putting a dent in the table and forcing pushing it back. I manage enough force to keep the table in its place, but my muscles groan and my feet slide along the tile floor. Cog pokes his head from the side of the table, sends a pulse from his fluxion-drive. There’s a screech from the cyborg going on the fritz again.

“I thought there was no need,” says Cog.

“Why?” I repeat.

“I thought you already knew and were handling it without me.”

“I definitely would’ve preferred to handle this without you,” I say, in a stern tone.

Cog lowers his head, gives a sniff, and then a nod. He starts fiddling with the dials on his fluxion-drives.

I feel a sinking in my gut. Maybe I’m being too harsh. However, the people I fight are very dangerous, and Cog should know that by now. He just can’t keep shutting me out like this.

“I think I know its weakness,” says Cog.

I ignore him and pretend to scan the floor.

“You’re right, by the way,” Cog continues. “You’re going to need to handle him.”

I take a deep breath to calm myself. Cog pulls his power-pack off his back, then pushes it and his cabled fluxion-drives toward me.

“Take it,” Cog says, looking at me. I wish I could see his eyes from beneath his goggles, but I know he’s stressed from his urgent tone.

Begrudgingly, I pick the power-pack and fluxion-drives off the ground. Putting the power-pack on, I have to admit that the pearl white casing Cog recently added to the fluxion-drives are quite nice. That said, there’s a slight crack along the siding of one of the casings, and the devices are extremely small in my hands. The power-pack is also tight around my shoulders. I grip the rubber handles to the fluxion-drives and hover my thumb over the rubber trigger button. I can’t help but worry I might break it.

“I tuned their frequencies to maximize the electromagnetic pulse. You just need to get close to him and press the button,” Cog says. “I’ll keep lookout.”

“Lookout eh?” I say with a chuckle.

“There’s some kind of brain computer interface at the back of the cyborg’s neck,” Cog says, his voice stiff. “I tested sending a few electromagnetic pulses at it, and this seems to put the cyborg on the fritz. I think if you can get close to him with a good pulse, you should be able to shut him down.”

“Sounds good,” I say, tightening my grip around the fluxion-drives.

I glance from the side of the table. I have a good opening – the cyborg is shifting its attention to another table.

I charge toward the cyborg. I was hoping to be subtle, but I can hear my boots stomping against the ground. The cyborg turns and starts blasting at me. I manage to dodge a couple of the blasts, but one of the blasts gets me in the chest. It nearly knocks me over, but I manage to land on my feet. My chest burns, my chest plate is left with a large dent in it, and molten metal drips down, but I push through.

I drop the fluxion-drive in my right hand to my side, letting it hang from its cable to the power-pack. With my right hand now free, I then grip the cyborg by its left arm and try holding it back. The motors at the cyborg’s joints screech, and fight against me. I aim my left arm toward the cyborg’s head and prepare to press the trigger to the fluxion-drive.

A jolt of pain rips through my left arm as the cyborg’s talons clamp around my wrist. My fingers are jammed and work against me. With a grunt, I force them down and press the trigger.

“Sorry pal!” I say as the fluxion-drive lights the air with rapid bursts of energy.

The cyborg is twitching, and I can feel its grip weaken. Gotta give it to Cog, the fluxion-drive works like a charm.

There’s a thud at my back.

“Sorry!” Cog says sheepishly.

I glance behind. Cog tried tossing the table at the cyborg and hit me instead.

I give a scowl. Why can’t Cog see that I’m busy here?

There’s the snapping of linkages as the cyborg digs deeper into my flesh. I let out a yelp, force my arm closer to the cyborg’s head, and send more pulses from the fluxion-drive. The talons on the cyborg’s arm snap back and I watch the lights in the cyborg’s faceplate go out. Its legs buckle and I let go of its arm. There’s a clang and a snort as it collapses to the ground.

The cyborg’s skin is extremely pale and clammy, and drool oozes from their mouth. The metal interfaces have jagged welds, and the cyborg’s skin has numerous scars near where the interfaces link to the body.

What sort of person would do this to somebody?

“So, was it awesome or was it awesome?” Cog asks.

Cog comes toward me for a high five. Begrudgingly, I raise my arm and give him one. There is still blood on my arm from where the cyborg bit me, but I can deal with it later. This night has been too crazy to let my guard down.

“You should’ve warned me,” I say, showing Cog the bitemarks in my arm as I bring it down. “If I had known there would be an attack, I could’ve gotten more prepared.”

“Sorry,” Cog says, before scurrying to scoop the power-pack off my back.

I go to hand him the fluxion-drive I’ve been using. “Also, you should’ve waited before tossing that table. The table was a good shield, and the cyborg’s firepower was too strong for you to be messing around like that.”

Cog gives a huff and brushes some dust off himself.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Cog says while putting the power-pack back on and snapping his fluxion-drives to the belt. “Was just trying to help.”

I can’t see his eyes from beneath his goggles, but he’s gritting his teeth. His movements are tense.

“Other than that, good work,” I say, with a smile.

I give Cog a pat on the back. Nevertheless, he remains tense.

“The Machine and pre-cog!” Amanda Taft says, walking toward us.

“It’s the Cog,” says Cog. “Pre-cog is just my powerset.”

“Duly noted,” Taft says. She aims her microphone toward me. “How are you holding up? That fight looked pretty rough.”

I nod and laugh. “I’ve seen a lot of evil in my day, but this was something else.”

“That wearable tech is pretty nasty,” says Taft with a quick nod. “Just to confirm, Everman Biotech hasn’t been working on anything like this, have they?”

“Absolutely not!” I say, raising my voice. “We work on robotics, we work on biotech, and we occasionally – emphasis on occasionally – offer consulting for the military. But we don’t make cyborgs.”

“But you acknowledge that this was very advanced technology.”

“The only two places I’ve ever seen tech like this are from Byrd Enterprises and some of the companies that Polka has invested in over the years.”

I pause to glance at the gash on my left arm. Blood is still oozing out, and the cut runs deep.

“But that was years and years ago,” I say, placing my hand over the wound. “I couldn’t imagine this coming from Everman Technologies. I’ve never seen cybernetics this high tech. Never.”

Taft nods. “So, how did you –?”

Cog chuckles and interrupts.

“Me,” he says. “I’m the one who saved the day!”

He gestures down to the fluxion-drives at his belt.

“I tuned the frequency to send an electromagnetic pulse through the cyborg’s brain computer interface,” says Cog.

Taft shifts her focus to Cog, aiming the microphone toward him now.

“Fancy gizmos you got there,” she says. “Did you –?”

“Yes, I designed them myself!” says Cog.

“Maybe wait for me to finish my question.”

“Sorry, it’s my pre-cognition kicking in,” says Cog.

Taft laughs. I feel my face burning and clear my throat. Taft is supposed to be talking to me.

“How did you two meet by the way?” Taft asks.

“Dating website,” says Cog. “In case you’re interested, I’m a great dinner date.”

“Right...”

I tap my foot on the ground.

“I met Cog at a talent program dinner, hosted through Everman Technologies,” I say. “He showed up there by chance, during an attack by some supervillain. I think it was... Captain Flapjack? Anyway, impressive showing, and we’ve been working together ever since.”

“See?” Cog says, outstretching his arms. “Dinner date.”

Taft gives an awkward smile and shakes her head. She then scribbles something down on her pad.

“Well, I think I have everything that I need here,” Taft says.

I cross my arms and give a wink. “I think we just about have thing settled here too.”

I press a button on my wrist, and it gives a clean chirp.

“The police should be on their way,” I continue. I glance at Cog. “You want to help me sort this out with them, and then get a ride back home?”

Cog smiles and gives a thumbs up.

Taft’s heels click against the ground as she starts walking away. She pauses to turn her head and look at me. “Machine and Cog is a cute name by the way. I always liked puns. You guys seem like you work well together.”

My face goes red. I think Cog’s does too.

Cute? But I’m the most durable man alive!

“You ever need anything, just give me a call,” I say.

Cog elbows me.

“Okay, okay, give us a call,” I say, with a chuckle.

Taft laughs, then disappears down a corridor.

“She was nice,” says Cog.

I look down to the cyborg. Much as I hate to admit it, I was lucky to have Cog show up tonight.

“Yep,” I say. “Hopefully the rest of the night can be so kind.”

A shiver goes down my spine, and goosebumps form along my arms. Only Byrd or Polka have the technology capable of building a cyborg like this.

That, or there’s something going on in my company that I don’t know about.

I’m not one to be easily spooked. But something about all of this just doesn’t sit right.

Chapter 4: Dinner With Coworkers

The Cog

My eyes burn and my goggles blur. The air is damp but warm. I smile. My fluxion-drives give a steady beat against my palms. I just got off from a long day at work, but I’m humming with delight. I’m flying on the inside of a cloud.

I glance at the clock in the top-left corner of my goggles. It’s only a quarter past five. I’ll make it back in time for Lin and Ethan. The flux from my hands can outpace the hands of time.

I laugh as I think back to the smile on Lin’s face from yesterday. I give a deep breath. Focusing my mind, I watch the seconds turn to molasses and my precognition beams me to memory.

I’m in my cubicle, on the bottom floor of Everman Technologies. A stack of papers has piled up on my desk this week, and I don’t want to look up right now.

“You called me over?” Lin asks.

My thumb flips through my papers as I try to conjure some paper-thin excuse.

“George?” says Lin.

I clear my throat and force myself to address Lin in the eye. Some invisible force tries to draw my gaze away, like a magnet. I forge ahead anyway.

I can’t take the easy way out this time.

“Yeah, I was wondering if you and Ethan would be interested in having a dinner at my apartment,” I say.

Lin smiles. There’s no other smile quite like hers.

“I’ve already talked to Ethan, and he’s up for it if you are,” I continue.

I can already see that she’s going to say yes.

Yes!

Yesterday’s memory fades, and I’m beamed back into the sky, among the clouds and gliding on a flow of force toward my apartment. I stretch my arms toward the edges of the cloudy mist. I imagine that my arms are cans of paint spray, and that this mist sprays forth from them.

When I was a kid, I wanted to touch the clouds. For some reason, I believed they were more like pillows than mist. So much for that myth.

I’ve always had an issue where my imagination will get away. Life will often get away, too. Somehow, Lin and Ethan haven’t caught on yet.

Suddenly, I hear a strange noise. It’s a buzz. It sounds like drone propellors. My ears are ringing. “Hrrgh!” a voice grunts. I feel a punch against my shoulder.

Definitely not a pillow.

I struggle against successive blows to my back from some unseen attacker, before directing my fluxion-drives to hurtle away. I choke on the stench of exhaust.

“Wow you’re exhausting!” I exclaim. “I don’t know who the heck you are or how you found me, but I’ve got better things to do! You’re gonna make me miss my dinner date!”

Okay, I shouldn’t get too excited – maybe it’s not exactly dinner date. Lin and Ethan probably would say it’s more of a coworker get-together.

Whatever, I get the feeling my attacker won’t care about the difference.

My thumbs pulse the trigger to my fluxion-drives. I try to aim blasts of force in the direction of my attacker, but I also need to stabilize myself. My fluxion-drives pound frantically, and my heart pounds with them.

As I steadily regain control, I use my elbow to rub mist off my goggles and tilt my neck upward to make my attacker out. He’s directly overhead. Also, he’s a freaky drone-man hybrid.

His eyes are covered by a dark helmet that features a visor and two ducted fans protrude from his back. Plumes of fumes spill from an engine mounted between the ducted fans. His arms are ensnared in a network of metallic linkages and jerk at the air aimlessly.

I wince as the fans generate a boom. My hair flies into my face and my body is tugged by a vortex of air. As the propellors draw closer toward me, I use my fluxion-drives to redirect myself out of the path of the vortex.

Gah! Why couldn’t my attacker have been some kind of balloon-man hybrid instead?

The muscles in my arms groan as I restabilize myself again and take another look at the propellors.  A jolt of revelation shoots through me – I’ll need to get closer to them if I have any hope of taking him out.

The clouds have begun to part, as if to confirm my revelation. Below me is the scattered house of cards that I call my city. Above is a smear of Klein blue sky.

I lunge toward the guy, use my thumbs to turn a dial on my fluxion-drives from force-mode to spark mode, and send bursts of electricity toward his face. The drone-man spins as a corkscrew, and I ran into the side of one of his ducted fans.

My thumbs desperately turn the dials to my fluxion-drives back from spark to force. My body shakes and my head throbs. I can’t let myself look down. The fluxion-drives and some nerve are the only things keeping me in the air.

I quickly attach the fluxion-drive from my right hand to a latch at the center of my belt buckle, then flip a switch to set it for automatic hover. Thrust directs downward, along my center-of-mass. If this fluxion-drive does its job well, I should stay stable while the fluxion-drive in my left hand does the real work.

My teeth chatter from gutted nerves and gusts of air, but I have to keep it together if I want get to my get-together.

With my right hand now free, I use it to grip the rim of the ducted fan. Gingerly, I bring my left arm and its fluxion-drive into the mouth of the ducted fan. As I aim for the center, the propellors rattle with a rage that shakes me to my core. My stomach churns. Sweat beads down my forehead.

I press down on the trigger.

There’s a blast and my head goes fuzzy. Carbon-fiber shrapnel tears through the air. A crack forms in my goggles as bits of shrapnel get me in the face. My muscles spasm and pangs shoot through me. Time seems to slow. My muscles freeze. I can’t move. In fact, nothing is moving – time has frozen with me.

Crud. Precognition? Not now! I can’t be doing this now! Yo, universe: I feel like I might die right here, right now.

My heart skips a beat, taking me back in time and to another memory.

I’m at a party of some kind. The music is raging. People are dancing. There’s a band on stage, and they’re singing loud and proud. Too loud, actually.

I’m in a back corner of the party, drinking from a paper cup that’s basically empty. There’s a banner above me: “Welcome Back, Interns!”

I remember this party. It happened about two years ago. I didn’t know anybody and was super out of place. Was feeling spacey. Too afraid to talk or interact.

I walk toward the exit. There are hushed voices, and I’m sure lots of people can see me leaving, but I don’t care.

There’s a flash as I’m sent away from the memory.

I’m now in the office cafeteria.

Wait… What? What happened to the sky?

I look down to find I’m carrying a water cooler full of Kool-Aid to a table. I suddenly realize that it’s really freaking heavy. I try to get a handle of myself and press ahead.

I feel the edge of the cooler slip from my fingers. I feel the color drain from my face. Oh no – I remember now – it’s too heavy.

“Hey, you need any help with that?” I hear Ethan ask, coming up from behind.

Nice gesture, but he’s too late. I gesticulate, fighting gravity. Gravity wins. The cooler crashes on the ground and the Kool-Aid gushes out.

Uncle!

Wow, I’m so uncool.

“It’s alright,” Ethan says, giving me a pat on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you clean it up.” I nod my head in a daze, while Ethan runs to go get napkins.

I feel dizzy. There’s another flash, and I’m beamed once more.

“Twice,” I say.

“He’s asked you twice?” says Lin.

I scratch my head. We’re on the office floor again.

“Three times, maybe?” I say.

I’m holding a can of tuna. My palms are sweaty. My hands are shaky.

I remember this. It was about a year ago, back when I first met Lin.

“It’s whatever, I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

I can’t remember what it was that I had to get to. Something for Dr. Skully, no doubt.

I try to laugh when my finger slips on the edge of my tuna can. I feel a twinge as the can gives a slight cut to the tip of my finger and a burble of blood form.

It’s just a small cut. A minor inconvenience, really. Yet, my skin gets cold and clammy. The room is hazy.

“You alright?” Lin asks, with a concerned look in her eyes.

“Yes, I’m alright,” I manage, even as my anxiety mounts.

My chest feels tight.

I don’t think she’s noticed the cut, but she’s noticed the look on my face. I can’t let her see me. “On the subject of being late: I just realized, I have an online meeting that I’m running late for,” I say. I make my way toward my cubicle.

“Alright,” Lin says. “I’m always here to talk if you need me.”

I’m already in my cubicle shuffling through papers as she says this. My heart flutters. I close my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say.

I’m back in the sky, caught in a total death spiral.

My knuckles are white, holding onto the edge of the ducted fan as best I can. My limbs are splayed, and my torso makes a thud as it flops against the ducted fan’s walls.

“Grah!” the drone-man bellows, his voice an equal mix of digitized and zombified. The air bellows with him. We’re flipping end-over-end now, and I can taste stomach acid. I squint to try and make out the city below. I think I can see Euclid Street from here.

I press the trigger down on my fluxion-drive and try aiming my descent toward my apartment building.

“Yeehaw!” I cry. “Let’s ride on home!”

I cough from the fumes given off by the drone-pack. Its engine Is sputtering, straining to stay alive.  My fluxion-drives aren’t doing so great either. Excess waste heat burns from the fluxion-drive in my left hand, as well as the fluxion-drive near my groin. I’m tempted to adjust the fluxion-drive attached to my belt but stop myself.

No time for navel gazing.

My body slams into the drone frame again as our trajectory shifts closer to Euclid Street. I feel my body go numb. My mind is starting to fade again. I’m tunneling away.

No! Not again! This never happens this often!

My mind is thrown into a carousel of memories. Failed projects. Verbal diarrhea. Missed opportunities. Mess ups. They’re all charged with a flurry of regret.

I need to stop. I need to forget. I can’t waste my time here!

I’m slung back into the sky, and I’m once again clinging to the back of the drone-man. Somehow I’ve managed to not lose control.

I vomit up a bit of stomach acid.

Okay, maybe I have been losing control just a little bit.

My street is only a few hundred feet below now. The drone-man is writhing and growling, striving to break free. Unfortunately for him, you can only do so much against gravity.

We pass by some rooftops and then zip through the street. My muscles and joints scream at me as I force us into a tight turn, into an alleyway.

My foresight is already forming an image: the vision of a graceful entry into my apartment. The drone-man kicks me in the shin.

“Screw you!” I shout.

Our path is diverted, and we’re headed for a dumpster. My pre-cognition now says this is about to be a literal dumpster fire.

I use my fluxion-drives to blast out the drone man’s other propellor, then use the fluxion-drive’s thrust to push myself off the drone-man and decelerate. Nevertheless, the dumpster insists upon itself.

I clench my teeth. I crash into a pile of trash.

“Years of university, just to become a garbage man,” I say.

By some stroke of luck, the drone-man crashes next to the dumpster, into a pile of sewage. Well, maybe not so lucky for the drone-man. But then, who cares about him anyway?

I switch a dial on my goggles to get a read on the drone-man’s vitals. His respiration is still in good condition, even if he’s unconscious.

Looks like, against all odds, we both made it out alive. I can’t help but smile. Maybe I care about him a little bit.

Then again… He nearly killed me.

My smile is replaced by a rush of agitation. As I study the machinery attached to the drone-man, something is askew. Bits of metal interlace through his skin, and a truss is built along the drone man’s spine. Impressive as the technology may be, the sight of flesh meshed with metal is depressing.

How did this guy find me, anyway?

I probably should call the Machine. Or maybe the cops. I’m kind of machined out after some of the friction we’ve been having. That dude never gives me enough credit.

My hand hovers between the pouch for my communicator and the pouch for my phone. Which to choose?

My phone buzzes. Must be a message. I grab it.

“We’re headed over now.”

The message is from Ethan in our group chat, sent a few seconds ago.

“ETA, 10 minutes.”

10 minutes?

My eyes go wide.

“There’s no way I’ll be able to microwave everything in time!” I say, shifting around on my throne of garbage.

The drone-man gives a zombified snort. My fists tighten.

“You weren’t invited to the dinner, to be clear,” I say.

Should I delay the dinner? I quickly scroll through the group chat to find that I’ve been bombarded with texts from Lin and Ethan for the past half hour.

At this point, they can probably see that I’ve seen their messages. Also, maybe they can tell that there is a delay.

What should I say?

9-1-1. Maybe I should call 9-1-1 first. I can take care of dinner after.

I go to dial the number when my communicator buzzes. I pull it from my pouch and take a look at the message.

Oddly, it’s not from the Machine. My communicator took in a signal from an address I’ve never seen before.

“Cog, you ok?” the message reads.

“Who is this?” I write back.

“Turtle-Dove,” the message reads.

I wipe some sweat off my brow and send a thumbs up.

“I saw you flying around town on some cyborg, all over social media,” Turtle-Dove continues. “He’s neutralized,” I write. “Also, how’d you get my communicator line?”

“You have a distinct vibe, you know? Distinct frequencies,” Turtle-Dove says. “Usually I wouldn’t pry, but I had to get into contact with you somehow after the forum got hacked. Had to do some hacking of my own.”

My eyes twitch and my ears itch. While it’s nice to hear from Turtle-Dove again, is it really that easy to track me down?

I glimpse at the drone-man. I can’t help but wonder if he found me through my communicator signal, the same way Turtle-Dove did. Am I and the Machine being targeted?

I send a “:/”.

“I work with a guy who is an idiot-savant at getting info,” Turtle-Dove explains. “He went by Ratcatcher on our forum. He has a lot of other pseudonyms too. Generally, goes by Nimrod.”

I laugh.

“Nimrod?” I write. “That was Nimrod!? The legend himself?’

“The one and only. ;)”

I send a thumbs up.

“Speaking of which,” Turtle-Dove writes, “he wants any information he can get off these cyborgs you’ve been fighting. They should have brain-computer interface chips on them. Can you get access to those? Pics, or it didn’t happen.”

My eyes dart to the back of the drone man’s neck. There’s a steel panel linked onto him. The brain computer interface must be hidden somewhere under there.

“Might be an hour or so,” I write. “But I can definitely get that sent to you.”

“No problem, I can wait for you. I have other plans tonight to keep me busy.” My chest feels lighter. Then I see the time listed on my communicator.

Only five minutes until Lin and Ethan arrive for dinner. Not even enough time to reschedule.

I pull myself out of the heap of trash, then jump from the dumpster and onto the alleyway pavement. I look up to my bedroom window, several stories into the air. Then, to the drone-man.

“Guess you get to crash at my place after all,” I say.

His jaw is slack and he breathes with a drowsy snore.

I latch my fluxion-drives to each side of my belt and hug the drone-man from underneath the armpits. The engine and ducted fans to make this awkward, but I manage to squeeze between.  Activating my fluxion-drives, I steadily hover into the air. The weight of the drone-man is immense, but what must be done must be done.

“I hope you know you’re a serious flight risk!” I shout as we make our way up to my window.

The window is slightly cracked open, and I use my foot to push it open all the way. Biting my lip, I shift my weight to angle my hover. Some way, somehow, we need to fit through this window.

We descend. I bump my elbow on the edge of the window frame and feel my arm go numb with pins and needles. One of my shoes is pulled off and falls to the alley below. The screech of metal on wood skewers my eardrums.

We land in a lump on my apartment floor.

“That was tight,” I say, steadying myself to my feet.

I don’t have much time to soak it in. A doorbell goes off.

“Just a minute!” I shout, scrambling to my window. I lock it closed, then start pulling off my clothes.

Off with the shoe, then the goggles. I take off my power-pack and super hoodie too. Oh, and the mask – I have to take off the mask.

I toss it all into a clump on top of the drone-man. Switching into new t-shirt and sweatpants, I head for the hall. I make sure to lock my door shut as I do.

“Mew,” PB says, chasing after me as I run down the hall.

“Did you hear that noise? What was that noise?” Jack says, popping his head out his bedroom door. “Band practice,” I say, still running.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Haha, fair enough… Also, what’s the rush?”

Ignoring him, I beeline to the front door. I start undoing the locks.

“Oh, right,” Jack says, “your work dinner.”

He gives a yawn and closes his door.

I chuckle. Despite the turmoil of tonight, my mind begins flipping through a scrapbook of memories out of anticipation. Games, good meals, jokes told, stories shared…

I open the door.

“Well, hello there!” I exclaim.

I brush some debris from out of my hair. It suddenly occurs to me that I might smell like garbage.

Lin and Ethan beam at me with wide smiles. Lin is wearing a dress. Ethan is dressed similarly to me, in t-shirt and sweatpants. They’re also both already holding Tupperware, with containers of food.

Funny – I didn’t tell them they needed to bring anything. But I guess I should’ve assumed they would.

“Hi, how are you doing?” Ethan says, stepping into the apartment. “You have something good cooking?”

“Uh…” I say, rubbing my eyes.

“Hi!” Lin waves at me while following Ethan.

I wave back and shut the door behind her.

“Gonna be honest, I still have to get dinner going,” I say. “Gotta put it in the microwave.”

“What? You put something off?” Ethan says in a sarcastic tone of voice.

Lin shoots him a glare and Ethan gives a chuckle.

“Don’t worry, we figured you might get distracted with all your… stuff,” says Ethan, putting on a stiff smile.

I give him a thumbs up and he relaxes.

“Awesome, you guys can go ahead and set it on the table,” I say, pointing to a plastic foldup table, complete with a set of foldup chairs.

I jog into the kitchen and snatch a bag of cat food from the counter to fill up one of PB’s food bowls.  PB gives a chirp and runs up to his bowl.

As he reaches his bowl, I’m already in the fridge getting out a box of chicken. I pop open the microwave and set it to two minutes.

I’m a whiz.

“Is that lil’ PB?” Lin asks, coming into the kitchen. She stoops down and starts petting him. “He’s been feeling a little shy lately,” I say. “But I’m sure he’s happy to see you.” “Oh, I’m sure,” Lin says, giving PB scratches behind the ear.

PB rolls onto his belly.

I roll on into the dining area and grab a remote from the edge of the dining table. I stop myself for a moment. Lin and Ethan have already taken the lids off their food containers, revealing bread and pasta.

I flip on the TV that’s in the corner, before heel-turning back toward the kitchen. I skid to a halt as I nearly bump into Ethan. He’s crouched on the ground, sifting through his backpack.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, it’s fine,” Ethan says, pulling a pack of paper plates out. Lin is standing behind him, already holding a box of plastic silverware.

I give a sigh of relief.

“How’d you know to bring silverware?” I say. “I was gonna need to wash some dishes.”

“We’re psychic,” Lin says.

I raise an eyebrow, until Lin gives a playful laugh.

I try to laugh back, when the timer goes off. I jog into the kitchen and pop open the microwave.  Steam wafts into my face.

I can hear Lin and Ethan taking their seats at the table, but my mind is tugging at me. The steam reminds me of the jet exhaust – the battle in the clouds.

I shake my head, and head for the dining area with the chicken.

“What’s with the old TV, by the way?” Ethan asks as I set the chicken on the table. “Not into the new?”

“Too chicken,” I say.

Lin laughs. Ethan rolls his eyes.

My face goes tingly. I’m pretty sure there’s nobody else but Lin who’d laugh at that joke.

I take my seat across from Ethan and Lin and start filling up my plate. Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic. This room is so small. How should I hold my fork again? Also, should I have taken a seat next to Lin?

I turn my head to look at the TV behind me. Everman Technology’s rocket launch and tech showcase should come on tonight, but right now it’s just some ads for toothpaste.

Come to think of it, did I brush this morning?

I brush away some hair from in front of my eyes and turn back to Lin. I make eye contact and grin.

“Those vintage TV sets are actually gems,” I say. “Particle accelerators are built into them. They shoot beams of electrons. Did you guys know that?”

Lin shakes her head.

Ethan shrugs. “Yeah, I think I took one of them apart as a project in high school. Pretty neat, I guess.”

Lin nods, then looks down to start cutting her chicken into smaller pieces.

“It’s actually dangerous to stare too close at the screen,” I say. “It gives off mild amounts of x-rays and stuff. True story: it’s one of the reasons people weren’t supposed to stare at their screens for too long.”

“Definitely sounds like somebody has been on screens for too long,” says Lin with a playful smirk.

Ethan chuckles. “So, like… If I sit in front of the TV for too long, my eyes will just melt or something?”

“If amped up enough, who knows what it can do,” I say, with a laugh. “Eye melt, mind melt… Who knows. We’ll need to mind meld on that one. I think it’s got potential.”

Ethan gives a slow nod. Am I crazy? Am I being an asshole? Do I sound like a crazy asshole?

“I was being sarcastic, just to be clear,” I say.

While it’s true that the accelerator in my little TV isn’t much, I’m still mystified by particle accelerators. My accident with the large particle accelerator at Everman Technologies remains seared in my mind. Should’ve never had the harebrained idea to stick my head in there.

Ethan grabs some chicken from near me and begins removing the bone with surgical precision. “How have your projects been going in the lab?” I ask.

“Pretty well,” Lin says. “Surprised we haven’t seen a lot of you lately. I’m sure you’d love what we’ve worked on. All state-of-the-art stuff.”

“I’m not much for art,” I say. “Plus, I’ve been super busy lately.”

“With what?” asks Ethan. “Whenever I see you, you look like you just woke up from a nap.”

Lin nods and gives a raised eyebrow.

“Hey, not all of us can work on the glamorous stuff,” I say. “Trust me, I –.”

I stop myself when I hear a loud clang. My chest falls.

“What was that?” Lin asks in a hushed tone.

I drop my silverware and cock my ear toward the hall.

Half a minute passes. Nothing.

“Probably just squirrels,” I lie. “They have a nest outside my window.”

“A nest of squirrels?” Lin says with a chuckle.

“Must be flying squirrels,” Ethan says, cracking a smile. “They’re closely related to birds, right?” Before I can defend myself, a swell of music blares from the TV.

“The Everman Showcase!” I say, raising my fork into the air to change the subject. Lin looks unimpressed.

“I think they’re testing chips and launching a new rocket tonight,” I explain.

“We’ve seen it all over the work newsletters already,” says Ethan. “To be honest, I don’t want to think about work, especially when there’s only a 50% chance of things working.”

The TV has an awesome overhead shot of the Machine striding to a stage near a rocket launch pad. I sigh.

“No fun,” I say, switching the channel to a nickelodeon.

“The Vitruvian announced something way better for next week,” says Lin, with a warm smile. “I heard he’s hosting a ball at the National Art Museum. Will be displaying artwork and giving a speech.”

I clear my throat and pour myself a glass of water.

“Oh? Art? I love art,” I say.

Ethan snorts.

“I love art,” Lin says, leaning toward me.

My face is hot. She’s hot. Her eyes seem enchanted. I feel my own eyes get reeled in.

This room feels like it shrunk yet again. Did that drone-man happen to have a shrink ray with him?

“They just announced it,” Ethan says. “Tickets go on sale tomorrow.”

“Damn,” I say. “I’ll be keeping an eye on that then. Gives me something to go to.”

“At the rate Everman Technologies is going, definitely need something to look forward to,” says Ethan.

For some reason though, I’m having trouble paying attention to him. I can’t take my eyes off Lin. “I’ll get those tickets,” I say.

There’s a violent crash, which shakes the whole apartment. PB skitters from somewhere in the kitchen and hides under the table.

“Okay, seriously, what was that?” Lin asks, her voice severe.

“One second,” I say, standing from my chair.

There’s a quiver in my voice but I try my best to walk casually down the hall.

“You sure you don’t need help with anything?” Ethan asks, standing halfway up from the table.  “That was pretty loud.”

I shake my head and continue down the hall.

“No, I actually have a surprise to show you,” I say. “You guys can watch the cartoons or whatever, it’ll just be a second.”

Lin and Ethan’s sharp whispers between each other echo after me as I enter my room. I quickly shut my door.

“Okay, I need a plan,” I mutter to myself, while staring at the giant cyborg in the middle of my room.

He’s still in a lump, but he’s moved a few feet from where I had him. My piles of clothes have been flung about, and my desk has been knocked over. I run to my closet and pull out loose electrical wire. I begin untangling it as I run back to the drone man and grab his wrists.

I start trying to tie the wire around his wrists when he jerks at me. I jump back and watch as he writhes around the floor, causing the room to shake. He doesn’t seem fully awake, and the various electronics along his body spit electric sparks.

My dresser topples over, falling onto the drone man. He goes still. Maybe I can stall from here. A brilliant idea flickers into my head.

“Jack!” I shout. “Jack! Why does this have to be so freaking loud, Jack!?”

I finish cinching the drone man’s wrists, then leap to my door. I open it, and Jack is already there, staring me in the eye. His eyes are bleary and his hair is frizzy.

“Ok, what the fuck is going on?” Jack asks, with a hiss. “I’m trying to sleep over here, and it sounds like you’ve summoned a demon.”

I swallow.

“What’s your price?” I say.

Jack squints.

“Excuse me?”

I draw my face close to his.

“Suppose I ask you to help me hide a dead body,” I say, my voice hushed and rushed. “And, since you’re my roommate, you decide to help out. Out of the goodness of your heart.”

Jack scoffs. “Goodness…”

“What’s your price?”

Jack’s face contorts. “I can’t be bothered, let alone bought.”

“50 bucks.”

“Fuck it, “Jack says, studying me. “I’m in.”

Jack pushes past me, making his way into my room.

“Holy –!” Jack exclaims, before I put my hand over his mouth.

“I need you to make sure he doesn’t move while I see my guests out,” I say.

Jack’s jaw is slack, and his eyes are in a daze.

“You weren’t – you didn’t,” Jack stammers. “Is he actually dead?”

“Doubt it,” I say, putting my hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I need him dead silent though, for these next few minutes.”

Jack shakes his head as I head for my guests.

“50 bucks,” I say. “It’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Double it, “Jack says, eyes still in a stupor.

“Done.”

As I leave my room, I find Lin and Ethan, looking toward the front door of my apartment and whispering to themselves. Their plates of food are nearly finished – clearly my detour took more time than I had hoped.

“Sorry, there’s a big mess I need to fix,” I say.

“Yeah?” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow. “That was definitely loud.”

“I was worried we needed to call the police or something,” Lin says.

My mind freezes as I search for the right thing to say.

“Do we need to call the police?” Lin says in a rushed tone. Her eyes dart between me and Ethan. I shake my head and raise my palms in the air.

“Slow down, calm down, it’s fine,” I say.

“Then what was that?” Lin asks, pointing at me. “It shook the whole place!”

My eyes go to the ceiling.

“A robot,” I say. “Jack’s band… My roommate… They commissioned a robot that can give a nice beat. And it’s gone on the fritz.”

“You’re taking commissions now?” Ethan asks. “You once told me you’d never turn your hobby into a business.”

“Always time to start. You guys always thought I had business potential, right?” I search for sympathy in their faces, but I’m getting none.

Ethan doesn’t take my bait to change the subject and persists. “Also, I thought Jack hated robots.”

There’s another crash from my room, followed by a shout of “Fuck!” that can only be Jack.

“Jack loves robots,” I lie.

Lin’s face twists. “Do you have some other guest here tonight?”

I scratch an itch on the side of my neck. “No, not at all. Totally just you guys! I only really know you guys.”

“It’s just, you took awhile to open the door and everything,” Lin presses onward. “Also, I’ve seen you talking with other guys and gals at work. We’re not the only people you know, don’t lie.”

I look at my hands, still grimy from my battle with the cyborg. “You know me: I’m not good with people, even if I pretend to be. There’s nothing fishy going on here, I promise.”

“I mean, he’s got a point,” Ethan says, backing me up. “Dude barely talks to anybody.”

Lin gives a reluctant nod. “I mean, that was some raucous. But yeah, I guess I can agree Ethan… George, you’re a total recluse. When I first met you, I thought you were a mute.”

“Thank you!” I say with a grin. “Also, mute beats mutant, am I right?”

She rests her hand on her chin, then squints her eyes quizzically. “So then… Uh… Guess I’ll drop it. Anyway, have you seen the various news reports lately? All those crazy tech crime attacks and stuff? You ever messed around with any of that?”

Wah! She can’t know my sacred secret! It’ll erect too many issues!

Waving my hands in the air, I sputter. “No, that’s ridiculous. Commit crime, fight crime… I’m… I could never! I’m no hero! I’d never do anything that insane!”

“What made you think I thought you were a crimefighter, George?” Lin chagrins. “That’s a big leap. I was just trying to change the subject to news stories.”

I clear my throat. “Right, of course.”

There’s a boom, throttling the entire room again. Sweat beads on my forehead.

“You sure you have no idea what that noise is?” Lin says, her hands gripping the edge of the table.

Ethan is equally tense, his hair standing up with goosebumps.

My body is shaky. Thoughts intercross and cognate, all with negative connotation. Are we safe? Is everything going to fall apart? Will they hate me?

In terms of a backup plan if things get any worse over these next few minutes, I have none – I need to get my friends out of here.

“Maybe we need to cut this dinner short?” I say, my voice breaking into a high pitch.

“Okay, if that’s what you want, I think we can leave now,” says Lin, her eyes downcast.

Ethan and Lin stand from the table then head for my front door, putting their coats on as they do. I want to stop them—I want to take my words back— but, my body feels as though it’s caught in amber.

She grabs Ethan’s forearm, and my foresight sees her disappearing with him into the night.

“Wait,” I say, finally forcing myself from my seat as Lin opens the front door.

She looks back at me.

“Yeah?”

“You still interested in going to the art gallery next week?”

Lin gives an expression that is half frown, half smile. “We’ll see.”

“Thanks for having us!” says Ethan, now standing on the other side of the door. A pit falls in my stomach.

“Yeah, thanks,” says Lin, following after Ethan.

“Thanks for coming!” I say through a forced smile.

My hands are trembling, but I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or anger. Why couldn’t this night have just gone smoothly?

“Really sorry about this, I promise I will make it up to you guys,” I say. “It’s always a lot of fun hanging out.”

Ethan nods. “Yep, we had fun, no worries.”

Lin nods with him.

“All the best,” Ethan continues, “hope everything works out!”

Lin makes a heart with her hands. “Stay safe! Have a nice night!”

“You too!” I say.

I lock everything up once they’re gone.

I try so hard, and it often doesn’t work out. This is the sort of stuff that always gets me out of sorts.

“Okay, you’re good,” I say to Jack, as I reenter my room.

“You underpaid me, this thing is insane,” Jack says, giving a smirk.

He’s sitting on top of the dresser and drone man sandwich with his legs crossed. He stands from his seat, then outstretches his hand.

I outstretch mine and give him a handshake. Oddly, he lets his arm go to a limp noodle. “I wasn’t going for a handshake,” Jack says. “Cash. I want my cash.”

“Later,” I say, still shaking his hand.

“As for the police?” Jack asks.

“Again: later,” I insist.

“Okay.”

We break off the shake.

“Just know, this will come with a lot of interest,” he says, walking around me for the hall. “Whatever, tell me what else is new.”

I pause.

“He’s not one of mine, by the way,” I say, gesturing to the drone man. “Also, don’t breathe a word.”

Jack laughs, then pats me on the back.

“You’re a mad lad,” he says, before leaving to his room.

It’s now just me and the drone man. I would’ve preferred to end the night with somebody else in my room, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.

I snatch a screwdriver from the scattered mess on my floor, then move to the back of the drone man’s neck. With some effort, I manage to pry off the metal plate attached to his neck, revealing a web of chips and circuitry beneath.

I grab my communicator and use it to snap a picture. I send it to Turtle-Dove.

“Here you go,” I write. “No clue what’s going on in this picture. Things feel totally overwhelming and all over the place.”

Turtle-Dove sends me an instant thumbs up.

“Everman,” she writes. “Analysis still needs to be done, but this tech is clearly coming out of Everman Technologies. Seems to be their new stuff, too.”

My face goes hot. I bite my lip. Something is very wrong, and I need to let the Machine know as soon as possible.

“But how?” I write. “All of this stuff should be under tight wraps.”

“Clearly somebody high up, but no clue who,” writes Turtle-Dove. “Still a lot up in the air.”

There’s a pause, then another message.

“Also, we need to rendezvous at the art gallery next week. More secure. Also: all signs point to there being an exchange of chips of some kind during that event. There might be a chance to sniff out who the source of this is.”

I grin. Poorly as this night with Lin went, at least something is going right.

“I’ll be there,” I write.

“You better. ;)”

Chapter 5: Product Launch

The Machine

I slam my foot on the accelerator and yank my yoke to the left. My tires squeal with delight, and its vibrations rush from the dash through my body. The Machine-Machine is the best car in the world, probably. I'm definitely the best driver.

My car gives a sputter as I shift gears, and my body shifts forward. The slack on my seatbelt turns taut.

Okay, maybe there are some people that are better drivers than me.

I press harder down on the accelerator and the Machine-Machine gives a low rumble. Look, I never promised anyone I was humble.

I'm driving on an open concrete plane. A tarmac. I grin. I give a whoop. I love living in the fast lane.

Things have been rough on me lately. The company is a mess. I feel like I've lost control of it. Also, the cyborg attack during my interview with Taft was extremely disconcerting. I recently sent components from some of them for my machinists to analyze, and I'm worried about what they might find. Ditto for Cog – I know he's on the hunt, and I just hope he stays safe.

I see the world and I wonder whether we've made a wrong turn. Maybe I'm the wrong guy to try being a leader. This ride helps to renew my soul, somehow. It's dumb fun, and that's exactly what I need right now.

Just ahead is my rocket stage, secured atop its launchpad. A crowd of people is gathered around a smaller announcement stage for my product showcase, set in front of the launch pad. Beams of sunlight bounce from the tip of the rocket. It's covered in pearl white tiles for heat shielding, making it look reminiscent to an obelisk.

It's also a bit phallic, but what can you do?

I make a tight turn of my wheel and listen to screeching as the path of my car arcs toward the back of the announcement stage.

I slam my brakes and prepare to shift into park, as I crash through a stack of crates.

"Park! Park!" I bark to myself, slamming my brakes harder.

There's another crash as I close my eyes. I manage to shift into park and my car engine settles to a soft purr.

That was trash.

Oh well, at least the audience didn't see. All they saw was my entrance through the back of the announcement stage, when I was moving like a bullet. I'm sure it looked awesome.

I reopen my eyes. I've crashed into the back of a forklift. I squint – it looks like nobody was inside. Good.

I hop out of the Machine-Machine and check its front bumper. I wince. The hood and front bumper are totally mashed in.

"Incredible," I mutter to myself. "Bulletproof car, and I still manage to damage it."

"Holy cow," I hear my head engineer Peter exclaim.

I force myself to look away from my wreck.

"This is nothing," I say with a scoff.

"You alright?" Peter asks, scrunching his brow.

He's standing in the stairwell, holding a clipboard.

"Just a little burnout," I say with a chuckle. "All the best racers gotta go through it at some point."

Peter's lip quivers as he takes another glance at the wreck behind me. He returns to his clipboard.

"The board is here," Peter says.

I roll my eyes. "I know."

"So is Sir Polka," Peter continues.

He swallows. I swallow with him.

"I thought Sir Polka was still in the hospital," I say.

Peter shakes his head.

"Apparently not. You prepared your speech, right?"

I nod. "Sent it over to the teleprompter guys."

"You practiced it, right?" Peter persists.

I snort. "I had my AI write it. I'll ace it."

Peter's face goes tight and he clenches the sides of his clipboard.

"You can't just CliffsNotes your way through a product announcement, Hugo! Do you realize you're on a cliff's edge with the board? They want you gone!"

I look at my watch.

"I could probably use a vacation," I say, forcing a yawn. "How those bots, by the way? You fix the capacitors in the quantum chip."

"Our problem wasn't capacitors," Peter says.

"The inductors then?"

Peter coughs into his sleeve, then glares at me. His forehead features a dew of sweat.

"The bots are working now, and that's all that matters. Okay?" Peter says, with a tremble in his voice. "The team had to scramble like mad, and work around the clock... But, hey, we made it."

"Awesome! See, you guys just needed a push."

Peter pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"I've seen a ton of CEO types like you over the years," Peter says in a mumble.

I give a smug smirk. "Oh please, you've never seen anybody like me."

"Look: you might think you're master of the universe. But I just want to make something clear to you... You're not an engineer." Peter pauses to gesture at my car. "You need to learn to stay in your lane."

I wince. That really hits like a gut punch. I glance at his clipboard.

"Why are you using paper?" I say, grasping for a comeback. "So outmoded, Peter. Use a tablet, much more advanced. Having info delivered to me on paper signifies poor workmanship, and it gives me the willies."

Peter nods and drops his clipboard to the floor.

"You see the new article that came out about you, from Amanda Taft?"

I shake my head. Peter pulls his smartphone out of his pocket.

"It's not a tablet, but here you go," Peter says, showing his phone screen to me.

The article has a photo of me in my super suit. Only, it was taken on my bad side. The headline reads, Hugo's Hubris: Turning a Titan to the Titanic.

My face heats up. I want to punch something.

I clear my throat. "That bi—."

"By the way," Peter says. "The last company I worked at went completely under. The reason? Their CEO turned management into a living hell."

I'm about to snap back, when I see Opal coming down the stairway. Peter gives a wave.

"Best of luck," he says.

He's gone.

I flip through my phone screen and get to the article by Taft. As I read through, a rage inside of me acquires more and more pressure.

"You in a wreck again?" Opal asks.

"Blech," I mutter.

My car wreck is the last thing I want to talk about.

"Opal, have you seen this new article?" I grumble hoarsely. "It's ridiculous! Completely twisting my words!"

Opal walks up to me, nodding in sync with her steps. She looks me up and down.

"You look great, nice outfit," Opal says. "Is that cashmere?"

Opal points at the orange sweater I'm wearing.

I grin. This day has been pretty crappy so far, but at least something is going right.

"Yeah, glad you noticed," I say. "I like its effect. There's a certain gravity to cashmere, don't you think?"

Opal rolls her eyes and begins flipping through her phone.

"You might be aiming for utopia, but the difference between dystopia and utopia is oh so slight," she says. "Taft wasn't trying to slight you. She's making an important point, if you read through her article."

"Article? More like artifice," I say, holding back a growl.

"Ooh, artifice. Interesting term," Opal says sarcastically, while giving a half-hearted nod. "Nice and short."

I throw my hands up. "Honestly, I'm burning the candle at both ends here, and I feel like nobody realizes how hard I have it!"

Opal taps her phone screen, then glares at me. "That's real rich," she says, placing emphasis on the words real rich.

Is she poking at my wealth again? Before I can retort, my phone buzzes. I open a new email from Opal.

"List of updates from my biotech division." Opal says. "Also, some talking points you might want to hit."

I chuckle.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

Opal nods. "Not sure how much I can keep sending these lists for you. Managing things has gotten insane, ever since you cut our headcount."

I snort. "It's fine, you guys are fine. You'll tough it out."

Opal shakes her head. "By the way, is Everman Technologies still hosting bring-your-kid-to-work day? Or is that getting cut from the budget too? It isn't on the calendar anymore."

I cough. I clear my throat.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, scrolling through my phone. "We'll sort it out."

I give a quick gaze into Opal's eyes and notice how dark the bags under her eyes are. The truth is, I don't want to think about the fact that Opal has kids. I suddenly feel a bit of a headache. Opal is doing a ton, but she does it well and we also work well together. My team and I get way less done when she's not around.

People always get mad when I say this, but: I need everybody focused on their work family just as much as their biological family. It's the only way I see Everman Technologies getting through this rough patch. Does that make me a bad person?

"You need to consider working with a proper assistant," Opal says. "I have a whole division to run, and these meetings we have are really cutting on my time."

I shrug, trying to roll with the punches. To be honest though, something sinks in my chest. I'm starting to feel like this day just won't let up.

"An assistant? You're thinking too old school. I got AI and robots for that," I say. "This is Everman Technologies, I don't ever need an assist. Just a good roboticist."

"Publicist?" Opal persists.

I rub my temples. "You're gonna give me a cyst..."

Opal shakes her head. "Much as you hate hiring internal assistants and publicists, you might run into some today. And I don't want you to go blaming me when you do, because I didn't do the hiring."

I raise an eyebrow.

Opal continues unperturbed, "A public relations team for the biotech division is here. They're near the VIP row, up front. I was talking with them a few minutes ago. They're looking forward to meeting you, and they want to do a photoshoot for the results from our latest trials."

My eyes go wide.

"Since when did we hire a public relations team?" I ask. "This is all out of wack."

Opal clears her throat. "Speaking of things being out of wack," she says, her face red. "There's one last thing I need to talk to you about, before I split. We've gotten some blood results back from the trial runs. Some of your vitals seem kind of odd. The medical team is suggesting that you get checked out."

I shake my head to dismiss it. "I don't have time for this. How bad?"

Maybe I should be more afraid. Maybe I'm just in shock. But, after being hit from all sides, it sort of feels like nothing can faze me at this point.

"Hopefully it's nothing," Opal says. "But they need to give you a checkup to know for sure. They're worried it's your heart."

"What about the other trial batches coming out of our division? I thought we've been doing incredibly good? Like, stupidly good?"

Opal forces a smile. "We have. Overwhelmingly positive results. Treatments have been ongoing for a year, and the results were very positive. Most patients see full remission."

Opal pauses, to let the weight of the results hang in the air. She then continues, "But, those trial runs are to help treat cancer. Your super treatments are different. We're usually not using treatments to try enhancing people. It's like you said to me the other day: our biotech isn't supposed to make people superhuman."

I rest my hand on my chin, still struggling to soak it in.

"See, nothing to worry about," I say, more to myself than to Opal.

"I'm sorry," says Opal, staring at her feet. "I don't like being the bearer of bad news. But you can't use money and tech to solve all your problems. Things should probably be fine for you, but only if you change how you're doing things and soon."

Before I can say anything in return, a thrum booms through the air.

"Get ready to rumble!" an announcer cries.

A vibration runs from my feet and through my bones as an electronic remix of heavy metal and rock albums begins to play. That's my cue. I only have a few minutes until I'm supposed to enter the stage.

"The nonprofit public relations team – who they got for me to meet?" I ask.

"It's a group from some of our first cancer trials, using our latest treatments," Opal says.

"Thanks. I just want to let you know, you and your team are miracle workers," I say with a smirk. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know that this is a good cause. And I can afford to be fashionably late to the stage."

Opal smiles back but her smile is stiff. She seems a bit aloof.

I turn to leave, then turn back around.

"Where they at again?" I ask.

Opal rolls her eyes. "VIP row, in front of the stage. You can't miss it."

I give a wink.

"I wouldn't for the world. Thanks again Opal. Also: We'll get this organization tightened up. Promise!"

I give Opal a wave, then break into a jog. I move through a passage beneath the stage, then enter the front of the stage near the VIP seating area.

Much as I hate to admit it, Opal has a point. If things don't change for me, and fast, everything that I've built might go away. But then, do I even have the time to change?

Bam! There's a flash before my eyes.

I flash a smile in return, posing for the cameras.

"Imagine it!" I bellow.

"Machine it!" I hear the crowd roar.

My eyes peer out to a large sea of people, all clapping and cheering. I put up my palm, signaling for the crowd and the audio to simmer down. They follow my whim, and the air quells.

"Hugo Everman, over here!"

I turn to see a photographer standing near a VIP row. There's a group of people wearing Everman Biotech t-shirts. There's also some lady with a clipboard – god, so many clipboards today. She grabs the photographer by the arm and drags him toward me. I walk toward them.

"Hi, I'm Susan Lang," the lady says. "I'm a public relations assistant."

I give a fake grin. "Wonderful," I say, speaking through my teeth. "While I generally don't work with PR –."

"P.S., I hate BS," Lang says, giving a broad gesture to the crowd behind her. "This is about the miracle work going on here."

She gives a new gesture to the row of people wearing Everman Biotech shirts. She signals for them to come forward, and the row of people come one-by-one. There is a silver fox of an older man wearing a brown suit and spectacles.

"That's Ed Kettle, a librarian and schoolteacher," Lang says. "Also, a major blood donor and community volunteer. He's a real hero in his community."

I force a smile but feel a bit uneasy. Ed definitely sounds like a real hero. But then, what does that make me and all my work?

He's followed by a much younger man, wearing a black t-shirt and sweatpants. His muscles bulge from beneath his clothes, and he looks like an athlete. Finally, there's a girl of about ten, wearing a pink t-shirt and jeans.

"After that, we have Cole Gander," Lang continues. "He's a paramedic currently going through med school. He also is a triathlete in his spare time."

I quickly recalibrate myself and shake Ed's hand before going to shake Cole's.

"Finally, this is Lucy Birk. She's in 4th grade and spends a lot of time on her school's soccer team and newspaper," Land says, still reading from her clipboard.

I give Lucy's hand a firm shake.

"Nice to meet you all," I say.

I then side-eye the PR lady.

"A bit awkward to be following a script here, but –."

I chuckle to try to release any tension.

Lang gives a thin smile.

"Sorry, just trying to bring you up to speed, I agree that this whole thing feels very rushed," she says. Her eyes dart toward the crowd. She steps back, then raises a finger into the air.

"One other thing I was supposed to tell you. These three are all cancer survivors. Also, they were all patients of the latest Everman Biotech treatments. Full and speedy recovery."

I blink. I feel as though I've gone from zero to sixty back to zero again, in the span of a few seconds.

"That's incredible," I say, my voice going soft.

I watch as Lang's eyes go from steely to warm.

I turn back to the group of people.

"Super great to meet you all, once again," I say. "This really is just amazing! Thanks so much for coming!"

Mr. Kettle adjusts his spectacles.

"No, thank you," he says. "We could really use better – uh – billionaires like you around. Just imagine where we'd be without your support."

I swallow. To be honest, I hadn't even been interested in cancer research until Polka began to have issues. Also, the way that Kettle says "billionaire" almost makes the word sound like a personal failing. I sigh. What is this money even worth if everybody hates you for it?

"You really are a lifesaver Mr. Everman," says Gander. "Without the medicine you invented, I wasn't able to do a third of what I can do now."

I swallow. There it is again – my guilt. The truth is, I don't know the first thing about this treatment other than that it worked. All I did was dump my billions into it. But then, what if that's money I'm not even supposed to have? My subordinates have been getting more and more obstinate lately, and likely for good reason.

I glance at Lucy. Her short frame is sort of hiding behind Cole. She's probably the only one here who is more uncomfortable than me. Maybe I intimidate her. Kids get like that around me sometimes.

"How have things been going for you? Liking school?" I say trying to keep my voice from getting too high, but also loud enough to be heard over the crowd. "Don't be shy."

She smiles. "Are you a doctor?" she asks.

My face goes hot.

"No," I say.

She looks at her feet. I look at mine.

"I'm more of a mascot, really," I say.

The photographer whistles and we all turn around.

"Everybody get ready to say cheese," the photographer says from behind his camera.

We all shuffle around. I waddle in front of Lucy, with a few playful stomps. She snorts.

"Wait, you go in front," I say, with a dopey grunt.

Lucy laughs, to be joined by Cole and Kettle. Finally, I laugh too.

There are flashes of the camera as it snaps its photos. I try my best to freeze our moment in time, for the camera to capture. Nevertheless, something in me feels a bit uneasy.

Helping with cancer cures might be another exploit to add to my list, but what if this is all just exploitative? Has any of the tech I've worked on ever come close to the positive impact of this treatment?

The cameraman gives a thumbs up and steps aside. I turn back to Lucy.

"What's your favorite subject in school?" I ask her.

She lights up. "Art."

"What kind of art are they having you do?"

Lucy begins regaling me with the various clays, pastels, and paints she's been able to experiment with. I try to ask insightful questions. She obliges with insightful answers.

Cole and Mr. Kettle begin to join in with their own life's passions, when Susan Lang juts in.

"Just a moment," Susan says. "Sorry to interrupt, but we just have to have you all take another picture with Sir Bertrand Polka!"

I look over and can't help but feel my eyes fall. Polka's frail and emaciated body is being wheeled on a wheelchair. His eyes are sunken and glassy.

"Isn't he still undergoing treatments?" I whisper to Lang. "I'm not sure if he should be here around all these people, let alone doing press."

Lang shrugs. "He and his estate insisted. He's an eccentric billionaire. Kind of hard for people to tell a billionaire no. I'm sure you know that firsthand."

I nod and give a slight frown. It's extremely hard to see Polka like this. For all my life, he's been a huge motivating force.

I feel somebody suddenly run into me, and I step to the side.

"Hugo! Hugo!"

It's one of my machinists, Rudy.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something right now," I say with a raised voice.

"This can't wait," says Rudy. "We think that Everman Technologies has been hacked."

My face contorts. The world seems to spin off its axis. He just confirmed one of my worst fears at one of the worst times.

"How?" I say in a hushed tone. I step away from the charity group as he tries to drag me to the side.

"You know the cyborg you just had sent to our machine shop for analysis?" he asks.

I give a grunt in the affirmative and bite my lip.

“I thought we had the cyborg sent to the biotech med bay?” I say. “He’s fine right?”

It was extremely hard to convince the police to even work with us on that setup. But then, the Everman Biotech med bay is one of the best, and we need to get to the bottom of what's going on with this cyborg problem.

Rudy nods his head dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Last I heard he’s recovering. Anyway: I was referring to the cyborg components you sent us.”

"Well, what’s the issue?" I say.

Rudy seems to freeze.

"The components are all Everman Technologies," Rudy says, his voice cracking a bit. "All of them. I don't know how, but they are."

It's my turn to freeze. But Rudy keeps going.

"I'm also not sure about this robotics and rocketry demonstration we're about to do. I'm worried there's some sort of bad actor who has a backdoor to your stuff."

I shake my head.

"No, this was probably just the black market – uh – misappropriating our company's technology," I say, trying to pull a rationalization from thin air. "Everman Technologies is extremely secure, and we must go on today to improve public relations. All practice sessions were good, Peter already confirmed that to me."

"You're not taking this seriously enough!" Peter shouts, his voice hoarse.

I hear Mrs. Lang scoff from behind me. She's followed by a series of haggard coughs from Sir Polka.

"I don't have time for this," I retort. "I was in the middle of helping my nonprofit division. Charity. I couldn't care less whether these robots work right now, I was in the middle of something very important. I won't be able to get the moment back."

"Ok, that's enough," Mrs. Lang says, grabbing me by the forearm and pulling me away from Rudy. "I knew you'd be a handful, based on everything everyone had told me. But this is –."

"We'll talk more later," I say, glancing back at Rudy. "Sorry for the outburst."

Rudy gives a look of derision. My eyes dart to the crowd, then to patients. They all look uneasy. Impatient.

My eyes go to my watch. Crud – I'm ten minutes over from when I was supposed to start.

"We gotta get you on that stage," Mrs. Lang says.

"But, all of this time," I mutter. "I'm never gonna get it back."

Lang seems to ignore me. She gives a whistle and music begins to play. The crowd is abuzz once again.

I turn to Polka and the group of patients.

"Sorry everybody, I'm sorry," I say in a hoarse voice. "I've gotta do this presentation. I'll try setting another gathering to make it up for you guys."

The words fall flat for me. Oddly, the group seems less disappointed than me, and I can see their attention being carried away by the wild crowd and showmanship on display.

In the corner of my eye, there's the flashing of a jumbotron. No doubt it bears my name. Everything here is for me – everything for Everman. So, why do I feel so cornered?

"It's fine, you guys and Polka have a dinner scheduled for the middle of next week," says Mrs. Lang. "Also, we could try meeting again after the presentation. I figured we might run out of time, it's fine."

I smile. A dinner – yes. A winning idea.

The entire group nods, including Polka. Or, maybe he's nodding off to sleep.

Before I can sort it out, Lang is nudging me toward the stage.

"Go! Go!' she hisses.

"I'm going," I say.

I break into a jog toward the stage. I take deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. My chest feels tight, as though it's coiled in a knot, and I wish there was more time to take everything in. But there's just not.

"Hugo Everman!" an electronic voice roars as I make my way up the stage steps. "Built like an Evergreen! The Big Tangerine! Hugo, a hero like no one has seen! The Machine!"

Upbeat drumbeats from the speakers overhead begin to swell. I puff my chest and raise my gaze toward the crowd. I then give a wave, followed by a pumping of my muscles. There's a flaring of light from the screens behind me. The air fills with screams of delight. A throng of my fans jump to the tempo of the music.

All eyes of the crowd are united in a look of wonderment, with the stagecraft having put them into a kind of a trance.

In the past, I was terrified of the stage. Even today, I've found myself looking for ways to put it off. Nevertheless: these days, it's all the same song and dance. I absorb the atmosphere and attempt to assume the identity of the hero they think me to be.

My arm gives a quick swipe, prompting the music and lightshow to fade into the background. My gaze shifts to my teleprompter, situated inline with the center of the crowd.

"Welcome everybody!" I say, my voice washing over the wave of people through the loudspeakers. "Sorry for being late, hopefully it's not out of fashion!"

I chuckle, then gesture to the Everman Biotech group I was just with.

"I want to give a quick shoutout to Everman Biotech," I say. "They're truly doing amazing things with cancer research, and it warms the heart. Everybody, please give these people a round of applause, they're – they're the true heroes!"

It's hard for these words to come from my lips. It really is. I want these people to see me as the true hero. But then, there's something about acknowledging the work of my biotech branch which just feels right.

Thankfully, I don't think the crowd catches any of this. They quickly erupt into applause. I let them go on like this for about a minute, before they finally begin to settle down.

"You guys are awesome! I can already tell this is going to be a great crowd and a great presentation!" I say with another chuckle. "Now, time to get into the true meat of this thing!"

I look back to my teleprompter. Time to start reading – hopefully I didn't just jinx myself.

"You all may have heard Byrd and his companies making a lot of noise. Annoys me! You guys?"

The crowd roars.

"That's right, make a noise!"

The crowd roars even louder. I wait again for them to settle down. It always helps build energy.

"Today, Everman Technologies is about to blow the roof off! We've been testing new robotics, which will be smart enough to be butlers, using our latest quantum chips. They'll be able to do anything, from your lawn to your laundry!"

I jut my pointer finger into the air, giving signal for a flurry of Everman Technologies' latest robots to fly overhead. They're silvery humanoids, retrofitted with powerful ornithopter wings. They're metallic daimons, worth more than diamonds.

The crowd ogles. Wingspans for these bots are a sight to behold, with each bot having a wingspan of 30 meters. There's another shift in the crowd as the formation of the robots takes on various shapes, resembling flower petals and hexagons.

"That's not all," I say, as a video begins playing on the large screen behind me. Humanoid robots are shown serving people in their homes, yards, and workplaces.

I turn to gesture at the massive rocket looming behind me, then return my eyes to the prompter. The warnings from Rudy just moments ago still itch at me. But, in defiance of Rudy's fears, the robots seem to be working like clockwork. I guess the test sessions were safe after all. They better stay that way.

I give a sigh to quell my nerves and hope nobody notices.

"Our collective future is in space, among the stars. I'm sure all of us are sick of this planet's tech illiteracy getting in the way of progress, am I right?"

Images of Dyson Spheres and people living in manmade space stations populate the screen behind me. The crowd whoops, but not as loudly this time. Odd – it often seems like people are not as enthused about the utopian visions as I am. I'll never understand why.

"This is why we are retrofitting our rockets with our latest quantum circuits, such that they can navigate to asteroids more easily. We should be able to do this within three years."

I blink. Three? Why did my AI, Aardvark, put that there? Whatever, I'll just roll with it.

"Furthermore: with our latest mining robots we might be able to mine these asteroids for rare resources. This can be used to help prevent resource scarcity on Earth!"

The crowd bursts with applause.

"Back when I was an electrical technician – an ET," I pause to gesture at the ET logo for Everman Technologies emblazoned on the screen, "I never thought I'd come this far. And now look. If you'll indulge my monologue for a moment: my guiding star has always been a world beyond material. Plato's realm of forms. And, with technology like this, we might be looking at a utopia where we can transcend our current system of materialism. No longer will we need labor, toil, or suffering. We might all be able to inhabit the space of ideas."

The audience was able to follow me for a little while, but they don't seem as enthused with my words on materialism. I rub my eyes. Maybe trying to sell the robotic cherubs above me as a product isn't helping my case.

I catch a glare from my board, who are seated in the front row. Escorgier in particular looks ticked. Even Polka doesn't seem impressed.

That said, maybe Polka is just tired. Heck, maybe that's my problem too.

Clearing my throat, I continue.

"Rich or poor, I think we can all agree that materialism is the chief problem in society that we share," I say, pretending to look out at the crowd as I begin to read the teleprompter verbatim. No room for slipups right now.

Even though I'm on a wide-open stage, I feel claustrophobic. My board is now signaling that I need to change topics.

"Sorry if this speech seems canned. I've been testing with a new machine intelligence, Aardvark," I laugh, forcing myself to break from the teleprompter.

I only manage to receive some weak chortles from the audience in return.

Suddenly, I hear a groaning. I glance behind me. Was that from the rocket? There seems to be steam coming from beneath its launchpad.

No, that can't be steam. That doesn't make sense. Probably just fog. I must be seeing a mirage.

"But, seriously," I continue. "An Age of Aquarius is upon us. We all need to start thinking about –."

"Machine!" Rudy says, cutting me off. He's somehow made his way onto the stage.

"Not now," I hiss. "These people clearly don't understand how our technology works, and I need to show them where we're at."

"The rocket is about to launch!" Rudy shouts.

The crowd falls silent as a mixture of dismay and disappointment falls over them. They don't seem happy with me. Maybe I should've been more careful with my words. More careful with planning.

I'm the strongest man alive, but I feel so weak.

" The quantum circuits have gone completely haywire!" Rudy shouts, waving his arms. "We gotta do something! We gotta stop this!"

I snap out of my daze and look out to the crowd.

"Everybody, evacuate!" I shout. "I need to catch a rocket!"

The crowd breaks into a frenzy and starts filtering away from the stage. The board is engulfed in utter fury, and Polka looks to be in shock. I break into a sprint, bounding off the stage.

"Hey, wait!" Rudy calls after me. "What are you doing?"

To be honest, I'm not sure myself. But there's no time to look back. Just run. Can only run.

My arms and legs pump back and forth as pistons as I move across the tarmac. My breaths go in and out with the rapid rhythm of an engine exhaust. After about a minute, I make it to the ladder for the rocket platform. The rungs bend under my strength as I climb, but I press onward and upward.

I'm on the metal platform. I pause for a split-second to take in the scale. It's a long stretch of metal to the rocket stage – about 500 feet, straight ahead.

Can't stop. I'm running again. The platform grating clangs beneath my feet. I'm running so hard.

Hard. This is hard.

My lungs burn. My eyes too. I've never run this fast before. But then, I've never had to chase down a rocket before.

My gaze locks in on the rocket. It's my target. It's my prey. Maybe if I pick up enough momentum I can knock it over or something. Maybe I can punch it into submission. There must be something I can do. There has to be.

I'm the Machine.

Tired. So tired. My body is straining, strength waning. I haven't felt this taxed in ages, and the rocket stage groans ever louder.

"Everman," I say to myself, through rapid breaths. "This is crazy."

Deep down, I know the truth: I can't stop a rocket. Not even with all my might.

All warning alarms on the platform are blaring. I can see off in the distance that the crowd has all but fled the scene.

The rocket engines flare. It's only about a hundred feet away. Maybe I can still get it somehow. Maybe there's a way.

My foot snags on something. Can't tell what. I stumble and collapse onto the metal platform. I want to pull myself back up, but I can't. I'm out of fuel.

The platform roars with an immense power.

There's an explosion.

I breathe in. I breathe out. Again and again. I can't bring myself to look up. I don't need to. I can already feel debris crashing down around me.

Today needed to go well. I needed this event to boost the company. Boost my people. Boost myself.

And yet... It's too late. I couldn't save it.

Teardrops hit the platform. I'm bawling. Broken down to the bone.

I don't need to cry. I don't. I'm the toughest. I'm the strongest. That's my superpower.

I am!

Still – I'm bawling. I feel weak.

My communicator buzzes. I force myself to stop crying and read it.

It's from Cog.

"We need to talk," says Cog's message. "I think somebody has infiltrated Everman Technologies, based on some new findings surrounding the cyborg problem. Just got attacked by another cyborg. Also: whoever is instigating this, they're planning an attack on the Vitruvian's ball next. We need to plan."

I send a thumbs up.

Suddenly, there's another buzz. It's the Vitruvian. Odd – he almost never messages me these days.

"Sorry I couldn't make it to your rocket launch party you had today," the message reads. "Sounded like it was a blowout."

I clench my jaw. My fist tightens around the communicator until the screen nearly breaks.

The Vitruvian couldn't be behind this, could he?

I take a deep breath. Regardless of the cause, one thing is clear: whoever did this is due for some major payback.

Chapter 6: Work Culture

The Cog

“It is I! The one you’ve all been waiting for!” the Vitruvian says, standing behind a pulpit.

As I make my way toward the middle of a crowd of people I take in a deep breath, then smile at Lin. We’ve arrived about ten minutes late. As it happens, we’re also right on time.

“We as a collective are standing on the edge of reality’s final horizon,” the Vitruvian continues, his voice like the roar of a lion. “It is about to be a new age! We must push the collective’s conscious reason to its limit! We must decide what we will become! And, in so doing, we must be cautious!”

Lin brushes her arm by mine. My face goes red, even though there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. In a crowd like this, I don’t think anybody notices.

The crowd is crammed into a room which is to double as a dance floor and dining area. We’re packed together tight. As for how the organizers plan to pull off everything they have planned in such a small space, I have no clue.

“Finding oneself is so hard. What are we? Why are we? What should we become?” The Vitruvian pauses, letting a hush fall over the crowd. “The actor of fundamental substance is one of understanding. In my view: the deepest reason of existence is reason itself!”

The crowd is enraptured by the Vitruvian’s sermon. The stage he stands on is a sheet of white marble, placed at the front of the room. The Vitruvian is dressed in a pure white suit to match. He also is wearing a pure black cape, which is of much darker material than anything I’ve seen before. It swallows all light, letting nothing escape. Above him hangs a sweeping holographic display, and behind him looms a statue. This statue is of a large boulder, held on the precipice of a steep slope. Finally, to the Vitruvian’s side is an object hidden under a tarp.

“The monsters we face are deep, dark, and eternal,” the Vitruvian continues. He causes his cape to wave with a subtle twirl of his torso. “They’re good at morphing. Hiding. But they’re always there. We’ve collectively been sleeping on this. They will never go away. They will continue to eat at us if we do not learn to destroy them.”

All the advertisements claim the Vitruvian is about to unveil a masterpiece tonight, and I believe them. While this is the first time I’ve seen the Vitruvian in person, it’s undeniable how otherworldly he really is. His complexion is porcelain. His person is defined by soft and delicate features. A deep, dark brown sits at the center of his eyes, and his hair is equally dark. It’s gelled into two steeples, which sit on each side of his head.

When I’ve seen pictures of him on TV or in photos, I never thought they were entirely authentic. I figured they must’ve been edited or airbrushed somehow. I no longer believe that. The whole room is caught under some unknown spell that he cast and seems to bend to his whim.

The holographic display begins to play footage from over the island of New Vinci. The ocean is presented as a churning dark froth, and our island is just a speck of light amid it. The Vitruvian strides toward the tarped object beside him, taking slow and measured steps. The room gives oohs and ahs, including Lin.

The hall we’re standing in is for the Foucault Art Gallery. Grand Corinthian pillars hold up the ceiling, which is covered in paintings of the stars in the heavens that rival the Sistine Chapel. Stained glass windows stretch from the floor to the edges of the ceiling, as if to try touching heaven. Yet, everybody’s attention is down here, on the Vitruvian’s tarp.

“Mankind effectively has all the powers of the gods,” the Vitruvian says. He speaks in a soft voice, but my ears ring from the speakers being set to the maximum possible volume. “And yet… We still must die. Why? In light of our struggles, today I will reveal to you all my latest masterpiece. The source of catharsis. The source of salvation!”

The Vitruvian unveils the tarp.

“I give you… The Overman!”

The crowd breaks out in cheers and applause. I join in. To be honest though, the piece is sort of ugly. It features the figure of a man with his arms and legs outstretched into the shape of an X, and it’s painted in blood red. The man’s figure is warped out of proportion, to perfectly fit into a set box inscribed within a circle.

“I have achieved in the Overman what the great Leonardo failed to, with his sketches of the Vitruvian man!” the Vitruvian cries. “I have attained the perfect man! A man who is both circle and square!”

The room is ablaze with whooping and flash photography. The Vitruvian outstretches his arms, mimicking the X-shape of the man in his painting and soaking in all the praise.

“Some may decry my art as artificial,” the Vitruvian says. “To them, I say this: for humanity, the artificial is only natural.”

There’s a fresh round of praise doused on the Vitruvian. I scratch my head. Personally, I don’t see what the hype is about. The linework and colors are aggressive and clash. The cheering is just getting annoying.

“Is he trolling us?” I say with a snort.

“It definitely looks like a troll,” Lin says with a laugh, then a smile.

I squint to look at the picture again, then laugh with her. She has a point. The figure in the picture has a squashed troll figure. Impressively impish.

I shift uncomfortably in our spot. Did my laugh sound too weird? We’re mashed in between a bunch of people and are very close to each other. I want to impress Lin so much, and I can feel the connection building between us. She’s so soft. Gentle. Also, there’s a spice to her that’s hard to place.

But my mind is also in a bunch of places right now. At some point tonight, I’m supposed to rendezvous with the Machine and Turtle-Dove. What will I do then? Ultimately, saving the day is my sacred duty. Tonight though, I kind of just want it to be me and Lin.

I glance at Lin. While the Vitruvian has been covering my dead air, I can tell she thinks it’s weird how spacy I’m being.

I rub my temples.

“What’s wrong?” asks Lin.

“Sorry,” I say. “My head gets yanked in a million different places. Especially in crowds like this. I disassociate. I feel a lot like a ghost in the machine lately. You know the feeling?”

Lin bites her lip and nods. Her eyes are wide. I can’t quite tell if she thinks I’m insane, or if there’s something she wants to tell me.

She looks at her feet.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft. “Sometimes I feel that way too. When I get stuck and go into a dark place, I try talking to my friends. ‘Oh Lin,’ they say. ‘It’s all just part of growing up. It’s all in your head.’ I guess it sort of helps, but…”

She gazes into my eyes. They’re sparkling, but there’s also a darkness there. They remind me of the surface of a frozen lake. I draw the memory from a blizzardy night when Jack Frost and Father Christmas were going at it.

I’ve never seen Lin look more beautiful than tonight. I’ve never seen her look so sad.

“Hey, do you want to see something cool?” I say, trying to change the subject.

I crouch down to pull Bit-Bot out of my backpack. I cup him between my hands as I switch him on. He leaps from my hands and I watch as he begins to waddle across the floor.

Lin scrunches her nose.

“Uh, are you sure that thing is safe in this crowd?” she says.

“I guess we’ll find out,” I say with a snicker.

The crowd around us erupts with a few yelps and groans as people have to step over my little robot.

“Bit-Bot has cameras and LIDAR. He’ll be fine.”

I whip out my phone to show Lin the map and footage Bit-Bot has of the area.

“Maybe he’ll find something cool,” I say. “Might also make for a good guide.”

In the back of my mind, I also know that Bit-Bot needs to be on the lookout for any possible threats tonight. Something weird is going to happen – my precognition has been buzzing at me all night. I need to be ready.

Lin grins.

“You need a guide my guy?” she says.

She grabs me by the hand and we’re dashing away from the crowd, down into the hall.

“We’re gonna miss the rest of the talk!” I exclaim, while trying to make sure I don’t trip over myself. “He was just about to do Q&A!”

Lin laughs.

“You really want to sit around for that old bird?”

We move further and deeper through the art gallery until the sound of the crowd has all but drowned out. We’re walking side by side. I’m trying to catch my breath. So is she. Despite her having taken my breath away, somewhere inside of myself is oddly at rest.

These are still waters. Friendly waters. My head starts searching for the right thing to say, to try wading in. I wait a moment, but nothing good comes to my recognition. Stupid precognition! Honestly: if there was ever a time I needed it to bail me out, it’s now.

“How you liking life so far?” Lin asks, her eyes scanning the paintings in the exhibit.

The pieces around us are mostly abstract. This section is focused on warmly colored lobes, configured in circular patterns. I can barely make out what any of it is supposed to be. Total enigma. But, I can tell that Lin is into them.

“Good,” I say.

“Only good? Wow!” she says, feigning excitement.

I laugh and shake my head.

“Okay, I’ve been a little stressed lately,” I say. “Dr. Skully wants me to start assigning tasks for one of my design projects. They’re going to other people in the group. But, I’m just not sure, you know? I don’t like meetings.”

Lin gives an awkward smile.

“I thought you did a good job with the documentation you sent the other week,” she says. “Was a big help.”

I nod with my eyes on the linoleum floor tiles.

“I just know how to do basic corrections and fixes,” I say. “Useful I guess, but not all that important. Also: I don’t want to be stuck leading projects. I’d hate that.”

Lin laughs. “What do you want?”

The question hits hard, even in the face of the hard hits I’ve taken this past week. I look at Lin. I look back to the floor. She has a point. What do I want in life?

“It’s been going better,” I say, trying to sound positive. “Just need to take more initiative, I guess. Anyway, how about you? I thought your presentation the other day was awesome!”

Lin shakes her head.

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” she says, giving another laugh. It’s weaker this time.

“What do you mean?” I say, scratching my head. “Everything coming from your side of the group is amazing. Honest. I’ve never come close to doing anything as good.”

Lin’s face contorts, going from awkward to annoyed.

“I don’t want to talk about work,” she says.

“I thought everything was going well for you though,” I say.

She nods.

“I don’t want to talk about work, okay?” she repeats.

She turns away to study one of the art pieces. It’s a green blob which looks like it’s being swallowed by a larger white blob.

“So, you like art right?” I say.

Lin nods, still studying the piece intensely.

“What do you think of the art here?” I persist.

“A lot of it is really good,” she says. “A lot of it isn’t. Regardless: lots of pieces to consider, even in a single piece.”

“What’s your favorite?” I ask.

“Maybe this one,” she says. “Still deciding. I really like the abstract, though. Always a fun puzzle, and rarely is there a wrong answer.”

I nod. “It’s a green egg,” I say, pointing at the blob.

Lin snorts.

“Green eggs and ham,” I continue.

Lin squints then puckers her lips, as if she just ate something really sour.

“Definitely a ham in there,” she says.

I chuckle.

“You like to work on abstract art as a hobby?” I ask.

Lin nods.

“What type of designs have you worked on?” I continue.

Lin gives a sly smirk. “I can’t just describe it,” she says. “It’s abstract.”

“You can try.”

Lin shakes her head. “Can you describe the way that warmth feels? Can you describe the color purple?”

My face twists. Quite the puzzle.

“I, uh… I can give it a wavelength,” I say. I pause. “Can you show me?”

Lin grins and her eyes go to the floor, shading her eyes with her lashes. She pulls out her phone.

“Finally, you’re on my wavelength,” she says.

She holds her phone out to me, using her thumb to flip through various pictures of paintings she’s made. I come closer to her as she does this.

“These are really good. I really like that one!” I say, stopping her on a picture with a spray of rainbow.

The rainbow twists in and out of itself. Lin’s eyes light up.

“I really like that one too,” she says. “Took me a whole weekend to put it together.”

“It definitely looks like a lot of passion went into it,” I say, nodding. “Reminds me of rainbow skittles.”

This time, Lin forgets to laugh at my dumb joke. Dang it.

Lin closes her phone, now beaming, then looks at me. “What about you? Any interesting hobbies?”

I give a sheepish grin.

“Uh… tech?”

“Yes, of course. Beep boop bop. George needs a battery.”

I laugh. “I also like to do MMA.”

Lin smirks. “Still technically battery.”

She takes a quick glance at one of the bruises on my arm but says nothing.

“So, MMA,” she says, “tell me more.”

I begin giving her details of the various awesome practice sessions I’ve had during my weekends, as we make our way from the hall of abstract paintings and into a hall of illusions. An applause echoes softly from somewhere, barely audible over the sound of our steps.

“The Q&A session must’ve ended,” I say. “I guess the dinner should be starting soon.”

Lin runs down the hall, clearly distracted.

“Hey, look at this,” she says. “Trippy.”

It’s a set of mirrors within mirrors, which are configured in such a way as to almost move in and out of one another. I rub my eyes, beginning to feel like I’m going cross-eyed.

“Ooh, look over here!” Lin says, her attention now on an entirely different piece.

I force myself out of my mesmerized daze and follow Lin. She’s studying a painting that features spirals within spirals.

“I’m starting to get a headache,” I groan, rubbing my eyes even harder.

She reminds me too much of my mom.

“Oh my God, look at this art that Byrd made,” Lin says, having jumped to yet another painting.

I instantly burst into laughter.

It’s a rip-off of the old lady and young lady illusion. Only, it’s constructed from very shaky and scattershot linework.

“For all of Byrd’s supposed genius, definitely a bit stiff,” I say, inspecting the painting closer.

There are a few addendums to the painting, such as a chimera and a bird-man hybrid. Most of the painting is in harsh reds and blacks. These contrasts only serve to detract from the main illusion on display though.

“The Vitruvian was always one of my biggest heroes growing up,” I say. “But, I guess the myth really was just a myth after all. And, it’s not even the painting: his speech was a farse too.”

Lin shrugs and gives me a playful pat on the back.

“Hey, you know what they say,” she says, “never meet your heroes.”

Somebody clears their throat from behind us. A sudden jolt moves through me and I feel blood drain from my face. My precognition beams me a vision of who it is, but I can hardly believe it.

I shift. I turn. It’s the Vitruvian, flashing his thousand watt smile.

How did he just appear? Did he hear us speaking about him?

“Why, hello there,” says the Vitruvian, with a fine baritone to his voice.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly.

“Hi,” Lin says after me, feigning a playful wave.

This guy is setting off all my alarms. Lin’s body goes stiff, and I can tell she feels just as awkward as me.

“Have you enjoyed the illusion I created?” the Vitruvian asks.

I give a slow nod. The Vitruvian clears his throat again and tilts his head to the ceiling. What could be up there? I’m guessing ceiling fan.

“I call it the Cogito,” the Vitruvian says, now resting his right hand on his chin. His fingers nimbly rap along his cheekbones, as though he were trying to play them as an instrument. “In reference, of course, to the phrase ‘cogito ergo sum’. I think. Therefore… I am!”

I give a thin smile. He gives one in return.

“You paint this all yourself?” Lin asks.

The Vitruvian gives a firm nod.

“That this is my handiwork, let there be no doubt,” the Vitruvian says, now moving toward Lin. “I love my craft. Here are the real mysteries: what is my motive, and how do all the pieces connect?”

He then grabs Lin by the hand and grins so wide that his large canine teeth are showing.

“Oh, where are my manners?” the Vitruvian says.

He plants a kiss on the back of Lin’s hand, and Lin lets him. She’s blushing. Why is she blushing!?

“I must have you know, I am a gentleman of the first order,” the Vitruvian says, with an odd rumble in the back of his throat. “I am a gentleman to end all gentlemen.”

He seems to put on a fake British accent. Or is it a speech impediment? There’s a sudden chiming of a clock, from some far-off place.

“Ah, time to feast!” the Vitruvian says, letting go of Lin’s hand.

He turns away, his cape swooshing behind him. I swear I hear Lin give a swoon. But, when I look over to her, her face is blank. Maybe I’m just hearing things.

“Good timing too!” he continues. “I’ve worked up an appetite.”

The Vitruvian disappears into a dark hall. It’s just me and Lin again.

“What was that?” I say.

The echoes of my voice sound more forceful than I expect.

“Uh, no clue,” Lin says with a laugh.

The Machine

I’m standing in the back corner of a lavish dining area. People are everywhere and keep trying to take pictures of me. At any other point in my career, I’d oblige my adoring fans. Today though, I can’t take my eyes off my phone. All the chatting, cheering, and chorusing is secondary to the stress coursing through me.

“It’ll all be fine,” I mutter to myself for what is probably the hundredth time this week.

I scroll past yet another photo of my rocket explosion. It’s been nonstop coverage these past few days. Constant dogging and logging of my mistakes. I scroll past an article entitled Everman Tech or Everman Blech.

“That’s not even clever,” I growl to myself.

My one reprieve is knowing that all this coverage has taken attention from Byrd’s big week. I’ll never let him make me feel weak! Everybody remains entranced by me and the dozen plates I’m spinning, even if they all seem to be spinning out of control.

I sigh. To be fair to Byrd, maybe I’m being too harsh. Too hypercompetitive. We’re good buddies at times, and this whole art gallery showing is his big day. But then, he has always been so hard to trust.

My eyes laser in on another article entitled Doped Blackmarket Brainchips: Digital Drug Addiction? and a churning forms in my gut. I’ve been seeing more articles like this lately. Especially over the past day. So far, a widespread issue with blackmarket brainchips only seems to be a rumor. But, from anonymous tips I’ve been receiving from police, it might be more than that.

Moreover, the cyborg issue has only gotten worse, and I’m worried it’s all connected somehow. Cog and my staff have encountered new issues and confirmed that blackmarket brainchips are using Everman Technology designs.

How though? Where am I being hijacked? What am I doing wrong?

There’s a round of cheers and applause as Byrd walks through the crowd, on the other side of the dining area. My muscles tighten and my eyes narrow.

To calm myself, I check my communicator for any messages from Cog. According to his anonymous tip, some sort of threat could happen any time tonight. We need to be ready.

Nothing from him, oddly. Then again, maybe I should just try to enjoy the night. Police have already been alerted. Byrd always runs a tight ship and puts on a good show. I think Cog even said he’ll be hanging out with one of his friends for tonight’s dance.

I smirk to myself. Dancing with a friend, eh?

With everything going on, everybody deserves a good time.

“Everman, there you are!” somebody says, chuckling like they’re God’s perfect chucklehead. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

My face contorts. Unmistakably Escorgier. Reluctantly, I turn to find him with a greedy gleam in his eyes. Despite being my board chairman, he constantly looks like he needs a chair thrown his way.

“What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?” Escorgier asks, giving a playful punch at my armor.

He immediately winces and pulls his little fist away, cradling it in his other hand. Tough as he may want to play things, he’s about a foot shorter than me. And I’m the Machine, for crying out loud. Who does he think he is, trying to mess with me?

“Sorry, just checking for any messages from my sidekick,” I say. Escorgier rolls his eyes, but I continue. “News is nuts too – I just gotta stay on top of things. I’m really worried the company has been hijacked. All sorts of weird reports and incidents involving our quantum chips and brain computer interfaces. To be honest, I’m also worried about tonight.”

Escorgier clucks his tongue. “We’re at a party right now, why talk business?”

I want to slump my shoulders but I force myself to stand tall.

“I’m worried that my technology is being put on the blackmarket to hurt people,” I say.

“My?” Escorgier snorts. “My, my, my… You sold most of your stake, friendo.”

I bite my tongue. He acts as if I haven’t had that emphasized to me by my friends and lawyers a million times this week.

“Anyway,” says Escorgier, leading me into the center of the dining area, “the Vitruvian wants to have dinner with us.”

Escorgier takes a seat at a table. My eyes go wide – the Vitruvian almost never wants to meet these days. Nevertheless, I find myself standing in front of a seat I don’t remember reserving, which has my name on it.

“Hey Hugo,” Boris says from a seat on the other side of the table. He shifts about, then scratches his bush of a beard.

Boris? What is he doing here?

I go to say hi, but Boris is already chugging down a beer. He gives a resounding burp, and I take my seat. I feel the seat is straining beneath my massive frame, but it’ll have to do.

“You planning anything for boating season?” Boris asks.

I shake my head and start filling my plate with some of the bread and vegetables left out as appetizers.

“I’ve been boat shopping,” Boris continues. He gives an enormous belch, and I can smell halitosis all the way across from him. “I want a huge boat. Like a… Like a yacht, ya know?”

Boris spreads his arms way out, nearly knocking his glass over. He swiftly grabs at it, then takes another swig.

“You seen Denny’s yacht?” Boris says.

I don’t think I have. I don’t even know who Denny is.

“It’s huge, like a giant floating football,” he says. He pauses. “Uh… Stadium. Yeah.”

Boris elbows Escorgier, nearly knocking him from his seat, then gives a broad gesture in my general direction.

I remember nights with Boris as being less of a bore. Then again, I’m generally drunk when I’m with him. Tonight, I’m not in the mood to drink.

“We could all play golf on it!” Boris slams a fist on the table, and Escorgier nearly tips over again. “I’m tellin’ ya, my farm and my fam have been doing doggone good this year! I’m gettin’ a boat!”

I wince.

“The stock is crashing though, Boris, and you’re currently our biggest shareholder,” I say. “This really isn’t the best time to be buying boats. We’ve got a company to keep afloat. We can’t risk having your stake at stake.”

Boris gives me a funny look. Then it flickers away, and he gives another belch.

“Yeehaw!” Boris shouts, before grabbing more bread. “Eating good, eating good!”

I’m about to press harder on Boris when Escorgier interrupts, his fingers intermeshing into a sausage web.

“You sure you don’t want to start reconsidering your own assets?” Escorgier asks. “The ground is shifting beneath our feet as we speak. And, what way can you hope to profit from a nonprofit?”

I clench my jaw firmly.

“It profits the soul,” I say.

Escorgier gives a hoarse, “Wha?” then whinnies like a horse.

“Tax breaks? It’s the tax breaks, right?” Escorgier says, rubbing tears from his eyes.

I say nothing.

“Clever man, Everman,” Escorgier continues. “That said, if you really want some fun funneling funds, I have a few –.”

“It’s not about the number of zeroes,” I say. “The biotech division needs to be run ethically. It can’t be made commercial. If we do that, I don’t know if I could live with myself.”

Escorgier gives a wide smile. Too wide. He licks his chops, then takes a chomp into a carrot.

“With our quantum chip breakthroughs, we also have something very rare,” I continue. “If luck permits, I want to expand the nonprofit into serving the community. I feel like the wealth disparity is getting worse. We need better equality, ecology, technology, sociology… Shelters. That sort of thing. It’s what Polka would do!”

Escorgier’s eyes go dark as the few hairs from his combover manage to blot them out.

“Shelters are for dogs,” Escorgier sneers. “And Polka? He’s half-dead.”

Escorgier is about to take another bite of his carrot, then stops. I’m staring him down.

I could punt this runt into the Sun, easy. So easy. My muscles are begging me to give it a whirl. It’d just take a moment to show this Escorgier jerk who’s boss – to make him lick my balls. He can tell too. My fury is radiating through the air. If the world was just a little less civilized, all of these lies would’ve had Escorgier torn asunder.

“Anybody want to go to the strip club when this is over?” Boris says, leaning back in his chair while picking his nose. “I’m sick of waiting for this Vivian guy. Name a place, and we’ll go. I’m a VIP pretty much everywhere, thanks to pops.”

I raise an eyebrow, while trying to force myself to cool down. Boris starts a new chorus of burps.

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,” Boris says in burp, “merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream!”

He’s about to start again when the divine finally intervenes.

“It is I, the Vitruvian!”

At the very least, it’s somebody who thinks they’re the divine. And, to be fair to the Vitruvian: there’s only one man quite like him.

I stand from my chair to meet the Vitruvian, looming over him. As usual, the Vitruvian feels the need to subtly stand on his toes, to get an extra half an inch of height. He attempts to stare into my soul with that charcoal gaze of his.

I grip his hand. He grips mine tight. I grip his tighter, until I hear his knuckles crack a bit. His gaze withers and the smile fades.

“Hey Qbert,” I say with a chuckle.

Boris roars with laughter from behind me. “Ha! He called him Qbert!”

The Vitruvian rolls his eyes. “Cute, right on cue. I’ve told you before: only call me by Byrd.”

He mutters under his breath.

“Don’t sulk Culver, it’s uncool,” I say, still chuckling.

The Vitruvian brushes away from me with a huff.

“Come on Viddy, I’m only playing around,” I say.

“I know,” the Vitruvian says, in a voice barely audible.

Escorgier rises to greet the Vitruvian.

“Great Vitruvian!” Escorgier says, raising his hands in the air like a brainless automaton. “The man with the photograph memory!”

The Vitruvian takes his seat, ignoring Escorgier’s advance. I also retake mine.

“Camera memory. Video memory,” the Vitruvian says in a steely voice. “Don’t ever call it photographic memory. Get. It. Right.”

Escorgier sinks back into his seat.

“So,” Escorgier says, rubbing his hands together gingerly. “Let’s talk business.”

As he says this, a robotic waiter places plates of noodles at each of our spots at the table. It also places down a bowl of condiments and mustard seeds.

“We’ll all have water, waiter,” the Vitruvian says, holding out his glass.

The robot is an egg shaped rover, and a robotic arm retracts out from its center. A nozzle at its end-effector sprays into our glasses until they’re full.

“Excellent,” the Vitruvian says.

I try to sort out whether he’s making an egg pun as he tries to discretely wipe specks of water from his face.

The Byrd Enterprises waiter could clearly use some work. It is only serving one meal tonight, and its articulation is jerky. The stuff Everman Technologies works on is clearly better. But I know I can’t say anything, or else Byrd will flip his lid.

“Vitruvian,” Escorgier says with a squeak, not even touching his noodles. “I – I was wondering whether you wanted to start talking business. As you know, Everman Technologies has been struggling with its nuclear reactor business, biotech business, electronics business…”

Escorgier pauses and looks at me. “What exactly is our specialty again?”

“Everything,” I say.

“Everything, Everman?”

I give a stiff nod. I’m not liking the attitude from Escorgier or where this is going.

“Ah yes, thanks for the reminder,” Escorgier says, looking smug. “Anyway, a little birdy told me that Byrd Enterprises has been doing really well lately.”

Escorgier glances at Boris and jerks his head in an awkward gesture. Boris gives a gag, having been caught while shoving a waterfall of noodles down his throat.

“Yes, mmrff,” Boris finally manages, struggling to talk through a noodle-and-hair hybrid of a beard. “You rolling in cash amiright? Packing a lot of dough Qbert?”

Escorgier glares at Boris, then clasps his hands as though he’s about to pray.

“Please excuse him,” Escorgier says.

Boris slurps his noodles up, then burps again.

“Yeah, excuse me,” says Boris.

Escorgier’s face goes white.

“Look sir,” Escorgier says, “we were thinking we could—.”

“Everyone quiet,” the Vitruvian snaps, putting his head in his hands. A hush falls over the table. “Everman. I only want to talk to Everman.”

The Vitruvian then looks at me as though I’m the most important thing in existence. Flattering. But then, I didn’t like what I was hearing from Escorgier. I hold back a frown. Escorgier and the board aren’t trying to strike deals behind my back, are they?

“What did you think of the unveil?” the Vitruvian asks.

I look across the room to the ugly red blotch of a painting the Vitruvian showed off. I look back to the Vitruvian.

“It’s alright,” I say. “Name is a bit on the nose though, don’t you think?”

The Vitruvian snickers. “You don’t like me calling my work the Overman, Everman?” He gives a smile that has a spice of spite to it. “I thought about calling it the Übermensch, but I’m too nice to completely steal Nietzsche’s niche.”

We glare at each other for a moment. Then, we burst out laughing. Our laughs grow ever louder, filling the dining room. I stop as we risk overpowering all other sounds, and I’ve made my standing clear.

“Phew… Man… Hugo… man!” the Vitruvian says, regathering himself as we come down from the high. “I didn’t realize until now how much I missed this intermingling of ours.”

I nod. “We do make a solid pair. Me, being the greatest hero in New Vinci. And you, being the greatest hero in the world. These days I’ve got Cog, but…”

The Vitruvian almost seems to sneer at that. But, maybe it’s just a veneer.

“We do share quite the history, don’t we?” the Vitruvian says.

I give a chuckle, then take in a fresh breath of air. “Remember back when they were still building this place? This was all just forest, mountain, and ocean. I still go to the nature preserves to remind myself of how far we’ve come. Granted, I also love to reconnect with mother nature and all that.”

“The artificial bedrock developed by Polka was definitely an underrated miracle,” the Vitruvian says, looking off in the distance wistfully. “None of this would be anything without that.”

The Vitruvian takes a sip of his water. He drinks slowly. Cautiously.

“On the subject of none of this being anything…” he says. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck as he glares at me. “That day when the hydrogen bomb was about to be launched on the capital, all of this… All these grand dreams of utopia that we talk about… It all nearly went up in smoke, didn’t it?”

I clear my throat, and my suit begins to feel suffocating.

“I get it,” I say, “you saved the world from the H-bomber. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“You should’ve been there,” the Vitruvian says, with a shadowy smirk.

“Look, how was I supposed to know to take that threat seriously? The public was told that all nuclear capabilities had been disposed of, when the Global Federation was formed.”

The Vitruvian scowls. “The entire world, and everything we’ve struggled for, was going to be turned to ash! All it was going to take was the press of a button by some mad man! And you were a no show!”

I’m starting to feel dizzy. I expected this night to be tough, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

“I was in the middle of a bunch of other things,” I say. “Honest. I didn’t realize. Besides: you’re the world’s greatest hero now, full-stop.”

I think I see the Vitruvian’s eyes go blotchy. Are those tears? He wipes his face with a napkin before I can discern for sure.

“You’ll never know how hard that day was,” the Vitruvian says. “And I’ll never let you. The things I was forced to do…”

“Look, we need to move forward. It was a mistake. Stop talking about the past, okay? We’re futurists, after all.”

The Vitruvian smiles again. “Yes. My camera memory has made me into a great futurist. I can forgive. But, keep in mind: I can never forget.”

His eyes go darker still as he picks up his knife and turns it near his face.

“We might’ve stopped the H-bomber and Armageddon,” he says. “But, the price was Esther the Athenian… Esther the Aetherial…”

It’s my turn to fight back tears. Why did he have to bring this up? And why here? Why now? Why not some other place, some other time?

“I’m sorry about what happened to the Athenian, I really am,” I say. “If you want to finally talk about it, I’m here.”

The Vitruvian bites his lip and shakes his head.

“The Athenian was definitely an amazing soul,” I say. “The smartest of us too, for sure. I still spend nights wondering what happened. What went wrong?”

“I loved her,” whispers the Vitruvian. “That was my first mistake. And so, she left us. She’s now some other place.”

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. What exactly is that supposed to mean? The way he says things, I often feel like he’s saying several things at once.

“Really though, what happened?” I press further.

“You should’ve been there.” The Vitruvian looks at Boris, then Escorgier. “Even if I thought you had the guts to know, I know that they wouldn’t.”

A silence falls over the table.

“Anybody want to talk about my plan for a golfing yacht?” Boris pipes up. “Yahtzee!”

Everybody stays quiet, but Boris somehow still laughs.

“Haha, get it?” Boris says, waving his hands in the air. “Yahtzee? Yacht? Ya?”

“Nobody gets it,” the Vitruvian says, his eyes downcast.

“It beats what he’s planning on spending his money on,” says Boris, pointing at me. “Other day he was telling me he wants to waste a bunch of cash on shelters made of food. Like, woof. Can you believe that?”

“I was talking about food shelters,” I explain.

“Exactly,” says Boris. “Now, I ain’t no instruction worker, but I’ve heard the tale about the three piggies, okay? A food shelter ain’t gonna work Hugo!”

The Vitruvian shoots me a desperate look.

“How’d he get his money again?” the Vitruvian asks.

“We’re all very savvy investors here,” Escorgier cuts in, “and I agree that Hugo’s moves have been dicey lately.”

“It’s what has to be done,” I grunt. “Wealth inequality is at an all-time high right now. Also, I believe poverty is getting worse, even if it’s subtle.”

The Vitruvian snorts. Escorgier copies him.

Boris burps.

“This is the most prosperous time in history,” says the Vitruvian. “Suffering is a choice at this point.”

I furrow my brow. “Look, I’m just saying, we could be doing better.”

“And I’m saying we don’t need to. I, at the very least, am content with keeping my charitable contributions as is.”

“I’m going to buy a new golf club,” Boris butts in.

I sigh, relenting to the attempt by Boris to change the subject. I can smell in the air that the Vitruvian is readying for a verbal strike, and I don’t want to deal with him.

“Okay,” I say. “Like, a golf club golf club? Or, like a club club?”

Boris pauses, his face twisting in confusion and consternation.

“Both,” he says.

“How’s Cog, by the way?” the Vitruvian says, his eyes laser-focused on me. “How much you pay him?”

I shift in my seat. It’s extra wobbly right now. “He’s a volunteer. I thought about making him my ward, but that’s just weird am I right?”

I’m hoping Boris will laugh at the attempt for a joke, but he’s dead silent. I guess he’s finally had too much to drink.

“And yet–,” the Vitruvian begins.

I cut him off. “Cog is great. That’s why I gave him his cool sidekick name.” The Vitruvian gives a groan but I plow ahead. “The name Cog is his cognomen, if you will. This might sound funny but, way back when, I thought that you and I could’ve been a Machine and Cog. That would’ve been fun, right Viddy?”

The Vitruvian shudders, clearly put off by the very notion.

“Viddy and the Orange,” he says. “I wanted us to be Viddy and the Orange.”

It’s my turn to give a groan. I’ve told Viddy a million times: I’m known as the Big Tangerine, not an orange. What kind of fruitcake calls themselves an orange?

“Long story short, Cog is a solid adapter,” I continue. “Can we get back to talking about golf clubs?”

“Let’s stay on the subject actually,” the Vitruvian says, resting his elbows on the table. “This Cog guy really strikes me as something special. Did Everman Technologies build that gadget I see him swinging around?”

The Vitruvian’s face develops a tinge of something beastly. Angry. Fierce.

“The fluxion-drive? No,” I say hesitantly. “Like I said, he’s a big help. I’d rather have him out of the spotlight, though. He’s young, you know? Also, Viddy: this isn’t your business, our discussion should focus on other things.”

The Vitruvian nods slowly and starts playing with his silverware. “I’ve been diving deep into philosophy again. The Philosopher’s Stone. You mention the being upset by world’s problems… I think it could be the solution.”

Oh great. This again. Whenever the Vitruvian starts talking about the Philosopher’s Stone, he almost never shuts up.

“Viddy, we’ve been through this, over and over again,” I say, “even if it’s somehow real, who cares? Let’s keep it light.”

“I’ve tried everything,” the Vitruvian rasps. “I’ve even tried squaring the circle, ad infinitum. I’ve tried new ways to unveil the secret, but to no avail.”

The Vitruvian’s eyes are wild now. Veracious.

“All my life I’ve chased the chaste lifestyle,” he mutters. “I’ve chased the dream of the perfect sphere. Yet, even with my camera memory, it remains a chimera! Oh, the ein Stein! The one Stone! The Philosopher’s Stone! Why do you evade me!?”

The Vitruvian is standing in his chair, shaking his hand in the air. His hand has taken the shape of a claw. Who is he yelling at? Does he even know?

“Viddy,” I say softly, “are you okay?”

The Vitruvian sits back down, acting as though nothing has happened.

“Please pass the mustard seeds,” he says.

Escorgier passes them, brimming with devious delight. Does Escorgier not notice? Does he not care? Does nobody care about what just happened?

“I told you to keep it light,” I say in a low voice, nearly at a loss for words.

The Vitruvian is sprinkling mustard seeds into his food.

“Everybody is so obsessed with the light,” he says. “Its wavelength, its intensity, its speed…”

His eyes seem to go pitch black and their reflection pervades the edges of his cup. “So limiting… Has anybody ever stopped and considered the speed of dark? The speed of shadow? It’s infinite. If I were to cast my shadow upon the moon, there’s no limit to how fast it could move.”

Okay, he’s officially nuts. I clear my throat.

“Have you been seeing a therapist?” I say.

The Vitruvian shakes his head.

“It might help,” I continue.

The Vitruvian shrugs.

“I just feel like I see you diving into these dark spirals sometimes,” I say. “You can think positive, you know?”

“I try,” says the Vitruvian. “But this world… It’s draining me.”

“Oh, come on Viddy. You’re like ten years younger than me. You’re not allowed to complain yet.”

“Fifteen years.”

“Ah, ok. No need to rub it in.”

The Vitruvian gives a weak laugh, then raises his glass to his lips. Somehow it slips and hits the floor.

“Oh great,” mumbles the Vitruvian. “Another mistake.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “They’ll clean it up, and mistakes happen even to the best of us.”

I pass him my glass. “Here, drink from this.”

The Vitruvian grimaces. “Germs,” he says.

I laugh and take back my glass. “You know, I get existential myself sometimes. I guess I don’t want people to just remember me for a bunch of commercials and magazine covers. I want something more. I sort of want to be remembered as that philosopher king thing I read about.”

The Vitruvian gives a slight frown, staring off into space.

“Viddy?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Look: I know you like to organize and tabulate everything. But sometimes you must live and forget the past. I like to think everything has a reason, but we don’t always need to know the reason. In many ways, our ignorance is our privilege.”

The Vitruvian grins. “You don’t like reason? Odd… Ah. A Kantian, are you?”

I return the grin.

“With how advanced everything is getting, I really think we need to emphasize our ideas and ethics. We’re looking at a world beyond the material.”

“But aren’t you called the Machine for a reason? Isn’t the material all there is?”

“I’ll always have the better stuff than you Viddy,” I say, holding my smirk, “and I promise you, it’s not about the stuff.”

The Vitruvian winces. “But without stuff, what is there, hmm?”

I groan. I scowl. “Look: you keep this up, and I’ll flip the table. I’m dead serious.”

The Vitruvian seems unphased by my iron ire. He places his hands in a steeple beneath his chin and raps his fingers together.

“I used to be annoyed by your posturing as king, leaving me to just be prince,” he says in a hush. “These days though, I’ve come to terms with being the prince.”

Escorgier and Boris keep their heads down, wanting no part in this. At this point, even I am ready to throw in the towel. Holding a conversation with the Vitruvian is borderline impossible.

I am about to stand from my chair when I’m interrupted by the blare of the speakers within the dining room. The room fills with a techno bastardization of Mozart.

“Ooh! The dance is starting,” the Vitruvian says clapping his hands together.

He then glares at me. As I’ve already had to do with him many times tonight, I dish back what he’s dishing out. I also clench my jaw for extra measure.

“Let’s dance Kant,” the Vitruvian says, jumping from his seat at the table.

At least, I think he uses the word Kant. However, it almost sounds like he says something else.

I’m about to snap at the Vitruvian, but the Vitruvian has already begun a broken attempt at breakdancing. His limbs flail, and he gesticulates back and forth at the waist. As he spins about his cape flaps wildly, like an injured bird wing. He points a finger into the air. It isn’t his middle finger, is it? He moves too fast for me to make it out.

The Vitruvian pulls another spin and makes a strange face. I can’t tell if he’s trying to mimic the sly snout of a fox, or if he’s had a hernia.

“Suit,” I say. “Unfurl my cape. I’ve got a dance off.”

There’s a whir as the motors to my suit unroll my cape through a slot in my suit’s backplate. It slides through the slot as smooth as the window to a car. I give a quick smirk at the glorious streak of red cloth, then stand from my seat. My cape whooshes in a flow behind me as I stomp onto the dance floor with my signature Machine shuffle.

“You might think you have all the moves,” I say to the Vitruvian, dancing toward him, “but I still have a few moves of my own.”

Chapter 7: Getting the Ball Rolling

The Cog

Her hands are on my shoulders and mine on hers. We waltz at the center of the dining area as crappy music plays.

I’ll probably never know why dance music usually sucks so bad. To drown it out, I’m forced to focus deeper on what’s right in front of me. Lin’s face is a painting. I pause to study the fine linework. I realize she doesn’t have much makeup, and somehow she becomes more than fine. I’m drawn to her. I want to kiss her.

But then, how would it feel? How would it go? Would we fuse or fizzle?

The room’s speakers fiddle a the air, the pitch climbing higher. As it begins to pierce our eardrums, I crane my neck toward hers and bring her close. I need to hold onto this moment.

The music begins to settle and Lin unveils her eyes from beneath her eyelids. I’m swimming in a deep sea of blue. There’s a whole other world in there.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

Her voice is sweet, but also a bit high. I guess she needs to overcome the music.

“I really, really like it,” I say. “Tonight is great.”

Our waltz stiffens up a bit and she tilts her head slightly out of my eyeline. The deep sea of her eyes is out of sight.

“What do you actually think about all of this?” she says.

I glimpse at her dress. It is a clean violet streak, glowing such that its outlines meld with the air and floor. My eyes go wide, and I return to her face. She has put on a smile.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“All of this. What does it mean to you?”

I shrug. “Not anything in particular. What about you?”

She gives a sly smile. “Not to put on airs, but I think it’s all air.”

I laugh. She laughs back. Her laugh is insane, and I laugh harder.

“I guess it’s how we choose to define it,” I say. “That’s the vibe I get, anyway. Life is only special if some parts of it are uniquely yours.”

There it is. Those eyes again. It’s a magnetic pull, nigh irresistible.

Maybe I need to get out more.

“I always wondered what it would be like to have somebody feel the world as I feel it,” she says, “or see the world as I see it. Ever been caught in a rainshower and thought how weird it is that each drop that falls was destined to only fall for you?”

I hold back a laugh and watch Lin’s face go red.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just thought—.”

“No – no, I totally get it,” I sputter. “You have no idea how alone I am. I wonder if that’s why each of us are here: to do something that nobody else is able to do.”

Lid’s face fades from red into pink.

“To make links,” I continue, leaning closer as our eyes lock. “To see something in a way nobody else can see it.”

Lin somehow is able to bat me away with her eyelashes. Her eyes go to the side, toward a long picture of the Vitruvian hung on the wall. I snort.

“I’ve always wanted the power to read minds,” she says. “I’ve always thought the little islands of consciousness the universe puts up are so weird. I want to understand what’s underneath. But then… Does that ruin the mystique?”

She stares at me with a wild, catlike gaze.

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?” she asks as the music picks up pace.

My ears burn. Gotta tread carefully here. I need to keep my Cog thing discrete as possible.

“No idea,” I say.

“Oh really?” Lin says with a wink. Why is she winking? “No power that comes to mind?”

“Uh – super speed,” I spit out.

Lin giggles. “Why that? What would you have to run away from? Or run away to?”

I blow a raspberry.

“Brain fart, I guess,” I say. “Maybe pizza delivery?”

“Pizza?”

“Beats – uh – beats the excuse for the food they have here,” I snicker.

She snickers back.

“You know what?” I say. “We should both get super speed. We should run away together.”

Her eyes go wide. “But where?”

“Anywhere,” I say. I take my hands off her shoulders for a moment and outstretch my arms. “We could see the whole world. Do anything. Be anything.”

“But what would we be?” Lin asks in a hushed tone. “Come to think, do we even know what we are?”

“I’m George Fletcher,” I say, giving a mischevious smirk. “Most fetching man in the galaxy. And you…?”

“All these identities we put on,” Lin says, “all these titles and words… If it were up to me, I’d take on a new name every day, and do whatever served that day’s flight of fancy.”

I snort. “Oh god…”

“You’d learn how to keep up, don’t worry,” she says, tightening her grip on my shoulders. “You’d have super speed, remember?”

I nod. “If it were up to me, I’d spend my life creating things,” I say. “Preferably with other people.”

Lin’s eyes study my face. “We’d figure something out. I like creating too.”

“Would it be you and me? Or, would it be you, me, and the many versions of you and me?”

“Like I said: it’s gonna depend on the day.”

Something bonds together, through these words of ours. How it happens, I can’t say. An energy teases at my mind. My precognition gives me a taste of something from off on a distant horizon. It’s both beautiful and horrible. It’s also a part of me now. I’ve found some kind of nexus, and I can’t imagine it feeling any other way.

So, we dance. We weave in and out of a river of people, synchronizing with the music from above. Sometimes I step on her toes. Sometimes she steps on mine. We’re not great dancers. But then, if we were, this place would feel less like play.

Off in the corner of my eyes, I see the Vitruvian strutting the dance floor like a peacock. The Machine shuffles him around, doing the robot with high intensity.

I smirk.

“What is that?” Lin says.

“Some things defy explanation.”

We lean close again.

“I’m really sorry about the other night,” I say. “It – it was just the wrong time, wrong place.”

Lin shrugs. “It was fine. Ethan was able to keep me company.” She pauses. “What was all that racket about, anyway?”

“I told you: some animals decided to make themselves a nest.”

“You’re lying,” she says, giving me a nudge. “You had way too much noise going on for that to have been a nest.”

I scoff and feign annoyance.

“Maybe I’ll need to take you back there some time and prove it,” I say.

She throws her hair back.

“Maybe you will.”

My phone chirps. I force myself to stop, stumbling into Lin.

“Sorry,” I murmur, opening up my phone

There’s an alert being given off by Bit-Bot. Some weird signal noise is being detected from the other side of the room. I swallow. The signal’s signature matches what the Machine’s people managed to map to the other cyborgs.

I check my feed – it looks like the warning message should’ve just been sent out to the Machine and Turtle-Dove as well. I find myself floating away from Lin as a current of other dancers flow by.

“I – I have to,” I stammer.

“No, it’s fine.”

I look up tot see that Lin is already scroling through her own phone, with an annoyed expression on her face.

“Something came up. Personal matters,” I say. “It – it’s not personal.”

My precognition is starting to flare up. It’s ablaze with scattered images. Screaming people. The looming figure of a cyborg. Chairs and tables flinging everywhere. The visuals are noisy, but they’re unmistakably there.

Lin repels further away. If only I could tell her what I know. If only she could see what I see. But then, she’d just think I’m nuts. And, even if she didn’t, would she ever feel safe near me again?

“I have to go,” Lin chokes.

Her eyes are misty and I watch her fade into the crowd like a fine mist.

“Lin, wait!” I say, wading through.

Gah! Where is she? I wasn’t done explaining!

Must’ve just missed her.

My heart is pounding and my precognition’s signal is getting stronger. But, I can’t help but feel I should fight it. Ignore it. Saving the day might sound important. However, maybe I also need to start thinking in terms of saving my relationship.

There’s another chirp from my phone. Turtle-Dove has been messaging me.

“I’m at the back of the ballroom, near Bit-Bot,” the message reads.

She sends another message. “Cog! This might get bad, and time isn’t going to stop for you! Where are you?”

I send a wink emoji, then begin to scan the ballroom for where the bathrooms are. I really need to find a way to change. Also, I need to pee.

Err… Okay, bathrooms at back corner. I readjust my backpack and move toward it.

Time to go incognito mode. Time to go in Cog-neato mode.

Ugh. I need to work on my catchphrase.

The Machine

“You look gorgeous tonight,” the Vitruvian says, slightly shielding his face with his wrist.

My face contorts. Is he trying to insult me in some way?

“Thanks,” I manage.

“No need. I was referring to myself.”

Of course he was. The Vitruvian swipes his wrist watch past my face, showing off its mirrored surface.

I grunt.

We’re dancing underneath a large chandelier as he flashes a Chesire grin. Sweat beads down my face. We’re moving at too fast of a pace. I’m a better dancer than the Vitruvian, to be clear. He’s just trying to push me around too much, that’s all. I push back.

“How is Everman Technologies pulling everything off?” the Vitruvian asks as I pull him toward the center of the room.

The crowd’s attention is on us and they can sense our tension. People crane their necks and stop in midstep to catch our every misstep.

“Luck and pluck,” I say. “Looks like it pays dividends in innovation.”

The Vitruvian clucks his tongue. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Byrd Enterprises is close on your tail.”

I move ahead of the Vitruvian, forcing him off his rhythm. “Our quantum chips have leapfrogged yours. It’s going to take you years to catch up, I bet.”

“How do you figure your figures are doing?” the Vitruvian presses.

I readjust my collar.

“With quantum tech? Really good,” I lie. “Hard work pays off. You know me: I’m the perfect mix of a Hugh Everett and a Howard Hughes.”

Byrd brings his face closer to mine, his hair feathering and visage weathering.

“Byrd Enterprises won’t acquire, just wanted to inquire,” the Vitruvian says in what I can only imagine is a lie of his own. “Your chips might be key for compact brain computer interfaces and AI—.”

“Aye.”

The Vitruvian eyes my neck. “But I have my ways of getting what I need.”

The Vitruvian’s eyes flit from my neck to my face.

“What is your secret anyway?”

“Design,” I say with a gesture to my armor. “Above all, my companies push on the merits of design. The grand design is the whole reason we’re here, after all. Each of us are gears, in service to the universal clockwork.”

The Vitruvian smuckers his lips and snatches a glass of wine from off a table. Bubbles burble over the glass’s rim, due to the turbulence the Vitruvian introduced into the glass. The Vitruvian slurps the wine up before any of it can spill onto his clothes.

“I always thought your secret to innovation was high energy,” says the Vitruvian, handing me his glass. I’m not sure why, but I oblige. “That particle smasher you have is just smashing.”

“I guess the government is into it,” I say with a shrug. “Personally, I’m not even sure why the powers that be are interested in high energy. But hey: my company built it for cheap, and it’s a nice paycheck.”

The Vitruvian’s pupils turn to small pinpoints, and he nearly stumbles into one of his own robots as we walk by.

“And – and that nuclear reactor of yours, at the city center,” he stutters, “how are you managing that?”

“I always wanted to get a reaction out of people,” I chortle. “As it turns out, it’s much easier than it seems. I poke a little bit, and they do the rest.”

I hand the glass over to the Vitruvian’s robot, which just barely manages to get a grip. The Vitruvian’s nostrils flare as I do this.

“It’s all too much,” the Vitruvian says. “There’s no way you can possibly have control over it all. And the biotech, on top of that?”

“That’s exactly the point,” I grunt. “You can’t have control over it all. Nobody can. Trust me, I worry too sometimes…”

My mind jumps back to the warnings Opal gave me about the biotech treatments I’ve been trying. Also, the resource troubles my various divisions are facing. My body is so doggone tired these days.

It really is too much, isn’t it?

“But time marches on,” I insist. “Much as I don’t like to work like a machine – to be the man – this universe is all one great machine, isn’t it? A giant clock? It’s my role to courageously weather storms as they come. It’s my duty to handle my problems as best as I can. As for the true engine of things, that’s out of my hands.”

“Kafkaesque,” the Vitruvian coughs.

“Bless ya. Need a tissue?” I retort.

“Kafka. Esque.”

“I don’t speak French.”

The Vitruvian throws his head back and gives a squeal of delight. “The system is becoming an overbearing beauracracy. Haven’t you been paying attention? Surely a man as powerful as you has noticed where this is all headed. You’re the Machine, after all.”

My stomach churns. “I’ll admit that there’s a bit too much inequality. But, technology always fixes that.”

The Vitruvian rattles his head. “Cattle. Technology always makes better cattle for us, the elite. Honestly, stop and think for yourself for a second: bioengineering, brain computer interfaces, machine cognition… Put it together. Get it together!”

“We’re about to achieve a new stratum of consciousness – uh – together,” I say, gritting my teeth. My hands clench around the Vitruvian’s shoulders, but he seems unfazed.

“No,” he says. “Stop lying to yourself. All these sacrifices us technologists are making? It will result in gods and monsters. Man? Emancipated from existence. There will be nothing left for man to do that the transcendent won’t be able to with a snap of their fingers.”

“But what about creativity? Passion? Soul? These technologies are going to be capable of making life easier and giving people more ways to express. To explore.”

I stop and begin gesturing at individuals dancing by us, as the temperature between us rises.

“Idiots!” the Vitruvian cries. “We’re surrounded by idiots in this culture, don’t you realize? And, the system is ultimately designed to irradicate them in the end!”

He chuckles. The people around chuckle along, nervously. Some even pause to pat the Vitruvian on the back. I’m strangely both disgusted and flattered. It’s nice to know that the Vitruvian thinks I’m worthy of him. But then: what of everybody else? Why isn’t anybody angered by his words?

I blink. It hits me.

While the Vitruvian might insist we’re all idiots, all of us listening to him want to believe that we are somehow his exception. I feel my blood pressure rise.

“Don’t delude yourself, you are part of the problem,” the Vitruvian sneers. “You are the system. You are the Machine.”

I shake my head and scowl. “We can fight it. We can change it. If we had more equality – better opportunities – things would change. Humanity would rise above.”

The Vitruvian stops and whips out his phone. It’s tough to tell whether he’s shaken by my defiance, or just annoyed.

“This is the final era where a human can hope to surpass an AI,” the Vitruvian mutters. “Your juggling act is admirable Hugo Everman, I’ll admit. One of a kind. Alas: you are the last universalist. It’s not to last.”

“Alright, that’s it!” I snap.

I’m about to lift him up and throw him over my shoulder. If he wants to just rag on people, maybe it’s time to ragdoll him.

The Vitruvian shrinks back with an odd gleam in his eye. The room suddenly erupts with screams and an intense screech. I turn around and find a cyborg moving through the corwd. His torso is hooked into a makeshift chassis and a large ball-shaped roller has replaced his lower body.

I wince. Similar to cyborgs I’ve seen recently, his body is destitute and drained of energy. His eyes are glazed over and aimless, as though an invisible wall has been placed between him and the world around him.

A bunch of metal foil has been sloppily taped over his head, and I can make out the blinking red light of the characteristic brain chips for these cyborgs. Shock shoots through me. There’s a key detail to this cyborg that’s different from others I’ve seen: massive Everman Technologies logos are emblazoned across his body.

“One of yours?” the Vitruvian asks, with a tone of surprise that’s phonier than his lip fillers.

I glare at him. He must have something to do with this. But why? How could he?

“We’re in this together,” I growl.

The Vitruvian snickers and pulls a taser from his pocket. He wields it in the direction of the cyborg. “Don’t I know it?”

The Cog

The air is cloudy. Chaotic. Try as I might to mediate a sense of order from out of it, things are ultimately out of my control.

I readjust my goggles and start scanning the room for potential threats. Thus far, all I can discern is wild concern in the eyes of the crowd. They stream toward the exits in concert, toppling anything and everything in their path.

I’m hopinh to find a sign of this Turtle-Dove character. I’ve never met her in person before, so I hope she’s nice. At the very least, I want to find the Machine. Yet, they’re nowhere to be seen.

There’s a quack, like from a duck, which I manage to make out from all the ruckus. I look at my feet to find Bit-Bot bumping up at them. He glances up at me with his chunky, digital pupils. As he gives another quack, I scoop him up.

“You do a good job scouting things out for me?” I say as I unzip my backpack.

Bit-Bot’s flippers for feet give excited little kicks, as if to answer in the affirmative.

“Cool robot you go tthere,” a woman says.

She’s standing to my side, wearing a jumpsuit that’s colored red and white. The upper half of her face is obscured by a bandana mask, but I can make out her eyes from beneath. They gleam like sapphires. Her hair bunches out from beneath the mask – a fine gold. Her features and her eyes are extremely distinct and familiar.

Just going to put it out there: she looks like Lin. Am I going crazy?

“Yeah, he’s a lot of help,” I say, putting Bit-Bot back in my pack. “Also, learning new things all the time. You Turtle-Dove?”

She nods, then gestures at the bird logo across her chest. “You Cog?”

“The one and only!” I say with a laugh.

Yeah. She totally sounds like Lin. Maybe she’s a clone? She laughs back, a little longer than me. What’s so funny?

A fresh stream of screaming people run by. The center of the room opens up to my view. There’s a cyborg shooting bursts of flames and molten metal. I tremble, but force myself to stand tall.

“What’s the plan?” I say.

Turtle-Dove’s jaw hangs open. “Wha?” she manages.

“This Nimrod guy… You said he had a way to help, am I right?”

Turtle-Dove shakes her head out of a daze.

“Oh, right.” She taps a band hooked into the bandana across her head. “Nimrod wants to transmit signals at this cyborg thing and see if he can hack into it. The last few cyborgs had electronics which were too damaged for proper analysis.”

I yawn. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. How long does that mean we need to hold this guy off for?”

Turtle-Dove’s face twists in concentration as she taps at her headband and earpiece in her ear.

“What type of transmitter is that anyway?” I say, focusing my goggles in and drawing closer.

“Nimrod’s junk,” she mutters. I give a funny look, and she groans. “No, I didn’t mean it that way…”

She pauses, then puts a hand up. “Okay, Nimrod says he needs at least five minutes. Also, we need to get closer in for better signal strength.”

Turtle-Dove clicks the heels to her big red boots together and a pair of skates pop out from the bottom.

“Keep up,” she says with a wink.

There’s a motorized whir and the skates send her faster than Hermes.

“Hey!” I say, chasing after her.

I unclip my fluxion-drives from my belt and pulse their triggers. There is a crackle, then a buzz as I’m sent through the air like a dart. I’m flying.

Drawing nearer to the rogue cyborg, I notice how it has logos for Everman Technologies plastered all over it. Great.

The Machine’s face is heavy, and his frame is in a slump. He’s totally ticked. Oddly, the Vitruvian is right beside him, and has somehow managed to put all signs of frustration aside.

“What’s up everybody?” I say, falling into a smooth landing as I turn down my fluxion-drives.

Okay, I stumble a bit. But, it’s fine. The Vitruvian and the Machine are both preoccupued by driving the cyborg back, anyway. The Machine is pumping his power fists, and the Vitruvian brandishes his signature taser. It might not be their finest hour, but pretty cool to see them together like this.

“I’m Cog, by the way,” I say, standing behind the Vitruvian. Turtle-Dove glides to my side. “Oh, and this is Turtle-Dove!”

Turtle-Dove gives a little wave, and I can’t help but smile. The Vitruvian turns to face us and gives a slight smile of his own, before returning to face the cyborg.

“I’m a huge fan, by the way,” I say, “one hero to another.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” the Vitruvian says, with a slight laugh.

The Machine turns to me now.

“Cog! Thank God you’re here!” he shouts. “This cyborg thing is a complete mess. You think you can do that EMP thing again?”

I shake my head, prompting a look of defeat from the Machine. Odd. Generally he is not so easily distraught. These cyborgs are really doing a number on him.

“Calm down,” I say, “We have a different plan.”

“I’m going to try hacking in with a transmitter,” Turtle-Dove adds, “Ideally, we shut this cyborg down without breaking anything.”

“Huh? What?” the Vitruvian grunts, as a he dodges a blast of flame from the cyborg.

“It’s already in process,” Turtle-Dove says, her face frozen in focus. “I’m in communication with another teammate. I just need you guys to hold him in place. Keep anybody from getting hurt.”

The Vitruvian furls his lip. “Well, in that case…” He unclips an electronic brick from his belt, and begins fiddling with it. “I have a transmitter of my own. Completely slipped my mind! I can totally help hack this thing.”

The Machine shoots the Vitruvian a look of incredulity, which is immediately diverted by a shot of plasma. No clue what’s up between them. Probably better to ignore it right now.

The Vitruvian whistles at me.

“Hey, you!”

“I’m the Cog, not a dog,” I say, trying my best to sound upbeat. “You can call be by my name.”

The Vitruvian gives a sly grin. “Kay, you and Everman hold off the cyborg. I’ll help Mrs. Dove with the hacking. Got it?”

Turtle-Dove’s head is down and the Machine is sweating bullets.

“Ok,” I say, turning the dial to my fluxion-drives and running to the Machine’s side. “Let’s get a rhythm going.”

As I say this, I also turn a dial on the music circuits for my fluxion-droves. It begins filling the air with an electrified remix of my favorite dance songs. I dance to its beat, sending out sprays of electricity to help drive the cyborg back. The Machine works with me, helping to direct the crowd toward exits and also trying to keep the cyborg back. We each take great care to steer clear of the flames and plasma blasts.

My head buxxes. An image tears through my mind of a metallic boulder, tumbling down a slope. It hurtles into a crowd of people.

I shake my head out of the hazy vision and start running toward the statue of the boulder held at the center of the ballroom.

“Where are you going?” the Machine calls out.

“Precognition,” I call back. “Just trust me!”

“Ok,” the Machine grunts, as his armor is grazed by a plume of fire. “But hurry! Don’t get too cocky Cog!”

I whoop, making my way up the slope. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

As usual, the Machine is second guessing me. Why can’t he ever just trust me? We could get so much more done if we just worked as straight up partners.

As I near the top of the slope, I notice how a weld at the base of the boulder is shearing and partially melted. Molten plasma drips along its surface, courtesty of the cyborg. The boulder groans and shifts from its place. My precognition is sending off all the alarms.

On instinct, I link the two butt ends of my fluxion-drives into one another. Their force emitters face in equal and opposite directions. Looking at the size of this boulder, I’m going to need it that way. I point one end of the linked emitters toward the boulder, and keep the other end pointed away from me. Hopefully the fluxion-drives don’t crumple in on themselves under the loads of force I’m about to have them emit.

“Machine!” I shout, as the weld begins to give out.

I don’t have time to check if he heard. The boulder has broken away from its weld and is rolling toward me. Immediately, I pulse the force to my fluxion-drives, cranking up their power. The boulder picks up momentum at first, then steadily slows. Cautiously, I use my fluxion-drives to bring the boulder back to the top of the slope. I take care to keep a safe distance.

“Look out!” the Machine cries.

A blast of plasma hits the boulder, and some of the plasma ricochets toward me. I slip and fall to the surface of the slope. My fluxion-drives give a whine, then sputter.

I scramble back to my feet. The boulder is rolling back down from the top of the slope, and my fluxion-drives are misbehaving. Their music has gone out.

“Come on, you sissy force,” I mutter, smacking the sides of my fluxion-drives.

The percussive maintenance fails to awaken them, and the boulder is tumbling toward me at full speed. I sprint down the slope and find that the Machine is stanidng at the bottom, his arms at the ready.

“Move!” the Machine shouts.

I dive from the slope and back onto the ground. Somehow, I manage to land on my feet and I keep on running. I have no clue whether the Machine will have the strength to hold this boulder, but I can see the cyborg coming up from behind his back.

I pulse my fluxion-drives toward the cyborg, but nothing comes out. They’re officially fried.

“Crud!” I exclaim.

AS I say this, the boulder rams into the Machine and he manages to lift it above his head.

“At last!” I hear the Vitruvian announce, and the cyborg crumples behind the Machine at the last moment.

Turtle-Dove and the Vitruvian must’ve finally hacked into the cyborg’s chip. Luck. Pure luck.

I give a triumphant yelp, and I hear Turtle-Dove give one after me. The crowd of people who remain in the ballroom break out into cheering too.

“Machine! Machine!” they chant.

Some of them are taking selfies and recording video as they do this. As for the Machine, his face is beet red and covered in sweat. The veins in his neck and forearms bulge. His hands keep an uneasy grip in the grooves of the metal boulder.

He smiles, taking in the mix of pain and praise like a champ. It’s as though as he holds the boulder he also holds the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

“Anybody able to help?” the Machine bellows, between grunts.

I desperately want to pitch in. However, all my best tricks are broken. I glance at my baston sticks, still latched to my belt – useless, as usual. Maybe I should start carrying an extra pair of fluxion-drives instead.

The Vitruvian gives a whistle, managing to overpower the cheering people. He pauses, then whistles again.

“Where are my robots?” he groans. “Why aren’t they acknowledging me?”s

As he says this, a robotic bed rolls to the Machine’s side. The Vitruvian gives a cry of delight and the robotic bed sprouts forked arms, like from a forklift. They tilt up toward the Machine, and the Machine slowly lowers the boulder onto them. The robotic arms take grip of the boulder, settling it at the center of the bed.

“Ugh, finally,” the Machine heaves.

He rests his hands on his knees, collecting himself with deep breaths.

“Give me a long enough lever, Everman, and I can move the world!” the Vitruvian shouts, striding up to the Machine.

The Virtruvian gives the Machine a firm pat on the back. The crowd bursts into another round of cheering for the Machine and I join in with them. Oddly, a flash of envy crosses the Vitruvian’s face. Even odder: I feel envious of the Machine too.

“Alright, settle down everybody,” the Vitruvian snaps.

“Yeah, it was a team effort,” the Machine declares, regaining his height. “Everybody deserves the credit.”

The Machine looks at me and Turtle-Dove. Somehow, Turtle-Dove is standing right next to me – where’d she come from, and why is she standing so close? My eyes go wide for a second.

“Seriously, thanks guys,” the Machine says. He looks over to the cyborg, which still has the Everman Technologies logo clearly emblazoned all over it. “This would’ve been a hot mess without your intervention.”

“It’s fine,” the Vitruvian mumbles.

My gaze jumps between the cyborg, Turtle-Dove, and the Vitruvian.

“How – how’d you guys,” I stutter.

“It was cake,” says the Vitruvian. “I was stressed for a minute there, but we eventually hacked in easy peasy.”

Turtle-Dove doesn’t say a word. She’s just studying her hands for some reason. The Vitruvian leans toward me, appearing to leer.

“Interesting gizmo there,” the Vitruvian says, eyeing my fluxion-drives. “Novel capabilities, truly. Life saver, I’m jealous. What did you study to build that?”

“Mechatronics engineering, mechanical engineering,” I say, gripping my fluxion-drives close to my chest. “i.e., M.E.”

“Hmm, interesting,” the Vitruvian says, grabbing at my fluxion-drives. I let him hold it. “I went into philosophy myself. Philosophy of logic. That said: spending some days studying M.E. is always a fun exercise.”

The Vitruvian shoots the Machine a quizzical look, then returns to the fluxion-drives. He toys with the dials.

“It’s fried right now,” I explain. “Be careful, I’m not sure what broke.”

The Vitruvian nods as though he heard, but I can’t help but feel uneasy. He unclips the fluxion-drives from their cabling to my power-pack, then turns the fluxion-drives over in his hands. He’s studying them at every angle.

“So, this thing can shoot electricity… And force. Seriously, how could this possibly work?” the Vitruvian grumbles. “Radiation pressure? Some sort of ion propulsion?”

My hands tingle. I need to grab my fluxion-drives back, but I keep my lips sealed. Turtle-Dove is becoming noticeably distant, drifting away from our group.

“Can you – can you grab things with this too? Tweeze things?” the Vitruvian persists.

My muscles twinge. I’m repulsed, but I relent with a nod.

“It’s sort of finicky, but it can grab stuff if the force pulses are properly directed,” I say with a quiver in my voice. “It’s much better at pushing things forward.”

The Vitruvian licks his lips. “But… But the energies to do that… They’re insane. You’d need to know how to turn matter directly to energy!”

The Vitruvian shoots another look at the Machine. “You sure that your companies don’t have any other breakthroughs you’re not letting me in on?”

The Machine gives a nervous chuckle and shakes his head. “It’s all Cog. Anyway, shouldn’t we stay focused on this cyborg issue?”

The Vitruvian scowls at me. “There’s no way he built this by himself.”

“The Machine is right,” Turtle-Dove cuts in. “If we’re not going to focus on resolving the problem at hand, what are we doing here? A lot of people could’ve been seriously hurt by that cyborg, and we still have a bunch to sort out.”

The Vitruvian yawns, then gives that unhinged laugh of his. “We can settle that in a split. That tech is bland. Seen a million things like it. This though…”

Turtle-Dove rolls her eyes before rolling off with a huff on her electric skates.

“Wait!” I shout after her.

I force a growl and snatch my fluxion-drives from the Vitruvian. As I do, he gives a ferocious glare. He looks like he wants to devour me. Fortunately, the Machine yanks the Vitruvian back at the shoulders.

“Go catch up with her,” the Machine says. “Good work tonight. The Vitruvian and I can take care of everything else.”

“You too, Machine,” I beam, before running across the ballroom.

For all the wonkiness between me and the Machine lately, I’m gonna be real: it’s great to hear him give some credit for once. Maybe the guy runs on something more than engine oil after all.

I think I hear the Vitruvian give something of a whine, but I’m already sprinting through the hall and toward the exits. Turtle-Dove is not far off, but something deep inside me says that I’ll lose her if I don’t act quick.

“Hey, don’t leave me!” I call after her.

I’ve bursted through the exit and I’m making my way up a stairwell. The steps creak beneath my feet. Old brick crumbles off the walls, following after my upward stumble. I’m huffing and puffing. I can just barely make her out. She’s far above.

“You know, for a turtle you’re pretty fast,” I cry, my voice echoing through the musty stairwell.

“It’s Turtle-Dove, love,” she echos back.

I fake a scoff, then fight a cough, Awful. Running up stairs is just awful. To only add to the annoyance, my fluxion-drives still won’t turn on no matter how much I fiddle with them. Gah!

Turtle-Dove’s silhouette disappears through a door onto the roof. Somehow I manage to slip through just as it’s closing. A storm god is raging at the air, exerting its reign with a slurry of rain. The flow from the heavens gushes at me.

My goggles cloud with speckles of water and the hairs on my arm stand up. There’s a distinct scent of high voltage in the air. My precognition jolts me with the image of electricity. A massive spark is on the horizon.

I’m beamed back to the present, and the sky is torn through with two lightning bolts that could only be from Zeus. They cross into eachother and crackle like fireworks. For reasons that are unexplainable, the bell of a clocktower strikes with them. The light is brilliant. The light is blinding.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Og,” Turtle-Dove teases.

“Ugh, Cog,” I correct.

How come so many people don’t get that right?

“Then what’s with all the ogling?” she says. She gives a grunt. “Just want to make sure you’re aware: I can see you oggle behind those goggles of yours.”

I look over to find her hooking herself into a psychotic apparatus. It’s a massive robotic ornithopeter, with a wingspan that stretches several car lengths.

“How’d you fit that onto the roof?” I shout over the rain.

“The same way you fit that head of yours through the door.”

She finishes strapping into the ornithopter and the silver wings beat against a silver evening sky.

“Where are you going?” I say.

“Gotta meet up with Nimrod,” she replies, her eyes now focused on the sky.

My eyes burn. “Then take me with you!”

She shakes her head. “Too dangerous. Also, whatever you do: don’t trust that Vitruvian guy. In fact, be careful around everybody. Whatever this is that we’re dealing with, it has deep roots.”

I groan. “But I trust you!”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t know how deep this goes. You don’t know how lonely it is.”

“I’m a reckless recluse. I can take it.”

The wings are beating harder now, as Turtle-Dove hovers into the air.

“You don’t understand!” I shriek. “I feel empty and isolated so often! The people I meet – they’re just repeats of other people. They’re walking mimics. They’re mirrors! Mirrors of my thoughts, and the thoughts of others!”

“We’re all mirroring, some way or another,” Turtle-Dove says, raising higher still. “And, oftentimes things in life don’t turn out as fair as we want them. Mirror, mirror…”

A mix of rain and tears streams down my face. A mix of rain and mascara seems to run beneath the edges of Turtle-Dove’s mask, but it’s hard to say for sure.

“I often feel like a lone candle, burning in a dark room!” I shout, raising my voice above the ornithopter’s thrum. “Others I interact with are just other dead candles that I used my flame to reignite. But you? You’re different! You’re my twin flame!”

Turtle-Dove shakes her head. “Oh Cog, you’re wrong. You need to be careful. Whatever you think is between us? There’ll always be so much more to your life than that. The ideal is only ever ideation. Ideals are made to fade.”

There is a crack of thunder, and Turtle-Dove is carried away on a gust of air.

“I’m sorry,” she says, flying further away. “I have to leave you!”

She flutters into the arms of the storm. She starts as a gray streak on the sky, looking like a mix of rain and mascara. Then, she disappears.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to myself, spittling rain from my mouth as I do. “I have to love you.”

Chapter 8: Parks and Recreation

The Cog

Why is it that, on a work day, the clock always feels clogged?

Cog. I just want to become Cog again.

The keyboard goes click clack as the office clock goes tick. But, something about me just isn’t keyed in. I rub the side of my forehead where the old wound from the particle accelerator accident is. The accident still haunts me. How could I have been so careless and scatter brained?

The wound is scarred over, but still tingles sometimes. Today it’s a bit hot.

When I received the wound, the doctors thought I’d never be quite normal again. They said that there was trauma inflicted upon my prefrontal cortex. At least, that’s the bit I still remember. My memory and precognition are pretty hazy from that time.

My face was all swollen. I could barely talk for awhile.

Thankfully, I recovered.

At the time, there also weren’t many people to talk too. I was mostly alone in that hospital bed. Friends and family are really busy people.

Nothing has been quite the same since then. But, I recovered. I recovered. I moved forward. That’s what matters at the end of the day.

I’m better now, for better or worse.

I yawn as I skim over the documentation on my computer screen. Looks like we’re upgrading some vacuum pumps and related components. Whoever drafted this was careless – quite a few typos and misspellings.

Whatever. A “va cum pump” is close enough to a vacuum pump I guess.

Suddenly my cranium transmits me to an old mission with the Machine. The wind beats against me. I’m gripping two large vacuum-powered suction cups, which sucks brick. They link along the length of my forearms. I move my left forearm upward, having its vacuum pump suckle a glass window. It is the window of a skyscraper.

Two more vacuum pumps are strapped to my shins.

“Great work Cog, keep it up!” cheers the Machine.

I look down and feel queasy. The Machine is standing on the side of the building, gripping a tether that feeds through the vacuum pump on my back. I gulp. Below him is a raging gulf of city. A deep basin of business.

The tether feeds above me, grappling the roof of the skyscraper. But, I’m not sure I trust it.

“Are you sure about this?” I whine. “I want to go back inside!”

The Machine shakes his head and stomps on the flass window beneath his feet.

“The Window-Dresser is hiding here somwhere!” he declares. “He must be addressed with justice!”

My mind tunnels me back to my office chair and I try to catch my breath. Up until that adventure from about a year ago, I’d always wanted to climb a building. Never again!

I lean back and draft an email to one of the office managers with my corrected documentation for the vacuum systems. A few design ideas are listed with them. Maybe they’ll listen and really make some changes!

Probably not.

As I do, I let my precgonition slip back to another adventure with the Machine. My seat turns to a hard plastic and rattles violently. The Machine is to my left, throttling a jammed stearing yoke. Air rushes by with high intensity over the wings of the Machine’s biplane. It’s painted a bright orange, which is slightly chipped and rusted at the edges.

The Machine likes to call his plane “The Flying Machine”. Bit dumb, but not my place to butt in. I’m in charge of steering a turret below the plane, which sprays a dense ttrail of mist into the air. It’s bug spray. Also: the air is filled with a field of giant mosquitoes. The Machine probably should’ve mentioned that on the job application.

We dive just as a couple of mosquitoes are about to mash into the wing.

We’re totally gonna die!

“Focus on your controls, you’re supposed to be spraying these things!” the Machine grunts, unjamming his yoke.

I know my eyes should be on the controls of the sprayer, but I can’t take my focuse off the Machine and his yoke. The Machine shoots me a grin.

“I’ll show you hwo to fly some other time,” he says, before returning to his steering. “Now, get back to the spraying or I’ll send you down into the belly’s ball turret!”

My stomach cramps. Ugh – not the claustrophobic ball turret! I swallow. My veins are pounding. A behemoth mosquito screams as I spray it in the face. Why mosquitoes? Why?!

I shield my eyes, then reopen. I’m standing in a boxing ring now. Another memory from the old memory box.

“Introducing,” an announcer bellows, “The Machine vs. the Log!”

“It’s Cog,” I whimper to myself.

The Machine is across from me, polishing his gloves with spit and vigor. This is not just a normal boxing ring. The boxing platform hovers in space, purplish lava and stardust surrounding us. Overhead is a twisty being. It appears to be some kind of crystal liquid. Various images and environments burble along its surface – restaurants, farmlands, yards. There are even other planets beyond Earth that are mixed in. My head aches.

“Don’t worry Cog,” the Machine says. “We just need to play the Dreamweaver’s game and he’ll free us from his web.”

I bite my lip and tighten the straps to my gloves. I don’t believe a word.

“Just one KO and we’re okay,” the Machine isnsists.

Dreamweaver is a funny fellow, but can also be the worst. Just the worst.

I already know he’s lying. If we carry out this fight it’s gonna suck, my precognition knows it.

“Go! Entertain me!” Dreamweaver gurgles. “Just one KO!”

Blech, I don’t want to deal with this.

“Knock yourself out,” I mutter.

I muster my precognition to blast my consciousness to a different memory, and my body falls toward the floor of the boxing ring. As my body falls I feel Dreamweaver relent, freeing me and the Machine from his landscape. The Machine will need to resuscitate me once Dreamweaver has finished sending us back to New Vinci.

But, that was then. This is now. As my body sits in the office, my memory is tunneling me into the future.

I’m relieved to for my precognition to tunnel me into an icy tundra. I sit in an igloo, my fingers being threatened with frostbite.

Okay: I’m semi-relieved.

In front of me is a warm fire. The carcass of a giant ice slug hangs over along a spike, its yellow guts oozing into the fire. The Machine sits next to the fire, rotating the slug like rotisserie chicken. The guts slosh around, but the Machine rotates the slug fast enough so that most of the guts aren’t lost to the fire.

“You gonna finish that?” the Machine says through a frosty beard.

I shiver and my teeth chatter. I and the Machine have been chasing an Abominable Snowman for a week, and no luck. I glance at the platter near my feet. It’s filled with the yellowish glop from the slug.

“Uh…” I groan.

“Well, if you’re not going to finish…” the Machine begins.

As he says the word finish, the air goes static and I fuzz back into my boring old office chair.

“Well, you finished with it or what?” I hear Ethan say.

Crud. Ethan – I totally forgot!

“I sent you the code the other night,” I say, spinning in my chair before finally facing Ethan. “You didn’t get it?”

Ethan’s eyes glaze over but he gives half a smile. “That was crud code. You gotta commit!”

“Yeesh,” I grumble. “It took me several hours to write that thing, and I do not want to look at it again. It did the job, didn’t hit?’

Ethan scratches his head. “The movements of the motor are still jaffed. I thought you knew of a smoother control scheme.”

I sigh and close my eyes. “Sometimes things are just going to be jagged. I’ll send you some of the forums I was using for the motor. Hopefully you can make it better, but it took me forever.”

Ethan bites his lip, gives a reluctant nod, then takes a look at my computer screen.

“Hmm… You got a minute?” Ethan asks.

I laugh. “I’m kinda busy procrastinating, but sure.”

The clock says 5 minutes until 4:00. The day is basically over anyway. I stand from my chair and Ethan is already walking down the hall.

“Dr. Skully is out of town and he needs me to go pick up a package for him,” Ethan says, hitting the up button for an elevator at the end of the hall.

His hand goes to his pocket and he slips a silver passcard between his fingers. He swipes his hair out of his face. I catch the name “Dr. Skully” on the passcard as he does this.

“Get out of town!” I say, ogling at the passcard. “Is that—?”

I’m interruped by the ding of the elevator as its doors whoosh open.

Ethan enters. “Yep. Dr. Skully gave me his office card.”

My eyes are still fixed on the passcard. “He did, did he?”

We stare at each other for a moment as my mouth goes agape. We burst out laughing.

“We’ve got only a few minutes before the mailroom closes,” Ethan says, collecting himself.

I step into the elevator just as the doors slide slyly into place. We both know exactly what needs to be done.

“How’ve things been going by the way?” Ethan says, going to button 74 on the elevator’s control pad.

The elevator responds with a tweet, then yeets us up. I settle into a lean on the armrest to Ethan’s left.

“Alright,” I say, casting my gaze to the roof of the elevator. “I’m liking life.”

In many ways, I’m being real with him. Life is steady enough. However, it gets harder for me to stay in the moment. Exiting the existential and just existing has never been my strong suit.

“You’ve definitely been a big help these past few weeks,” says Ethan, the gleam of the elevator lights obscuring his eyes from behind his glasses. “The way you talk, the way you present… You’re present again. It’s nice.”

His eyes go to a TV screen in the top corner of the elevator. It’s playing footage of the fight I and the Machine had at the National Art Museum. Quite the showpiece. That said, the news anchors on the screen don’t seem to appreciate it. All that they want to hit on is that the cyborg we were fighting came from Everman Technologies.

“Are we to believe this is a responsible use of our tax dollars?” a newscaster warbles

I shudder.

“This is definitely the end of the world,” their co-anchor snickers.

“Thanks Ethan,” I manage, taking my focus off the TV.

“No problem!” Ethan puts his hands in his pockets and gives a whistle. “Still a bit sloppy workmanship. But whatever you’re doing seems to be working.”

My eyes go to the floor. “Sorry that I can still be all over the place,” I sigh. “Been cutting back on stuff like social media. Gets me stuck in my head and all neurotic. I’m glad I’m not the only one noticing a difference.”

I pause and give him a pat on the back.

“Anyway,” I continue, “you give me something to shoot for. You’re always nailing it and have a great attitude about it.”

Ethan nods then gives me a grin. “I do pride myself on quality work,” he says. He gives another quick whistle. “Granted, sometimes I feel like it’s a bit much. I like to think I’m working for a good company, but there’s all this pressure I sometimes feel. And I don’t feel like Dr. Skully understands.”

Ethan glances at the newscast, then back to me.

“I know that feeling,” I laugh. “Feels like I’m always in a pressure cooker to perform somehow.”

Ethan snorts. “Bud, you might be doing a lot better. But, come on now. You got things way easy. Pretty sure half your work this week came from me asking for a favor!”

“Still needed my help though,” I wink.

Ethan shrugs. “Fair. Just don’t get too high and mighty about it. I get worried about that with you – you are too quite sometimes.”

I laugh weakly.

Ethan shoots another look at the TV screen. “Just look at what’s happening with the all-powerful Everman. I don’t like the news, but they have a point. Nobody can do it alone.”

I stay quiet, twiddling my thumbs.

“Sorry, I know I should be more focused on boosting you up,” Ethan says. “Speaking of boosts: this elevator is taking forever.”

His hand moves toward a fiery orange button on the control pad.

“Oh no!” I exclaim.

“Oh yes!”

He hits the button and I’m floored. Literally. I fall on my butt as the elevator blasts sky high. The floor presses hard against me. Ethan clings to the armrests on the elevator wall. He is in a daze, his soul swept up in the thrill. I feel my soul pulled up along with his.

The elevator jerks to a halt. My stomach somersaults. The floor number listed on our elevator is 137.

“We overshot!” I cry.

“OSHA should… Oh shi—!”belts Ethan.

The elevator falls downward.

It’s falling faster than falling!

My body floats into the air, then slams into the ceiling. Pain twanging my veins, I push off the wall and swim through the air. I’m stimming. Ethan’s eyes are skimming the walls for a way out.

Gravity reenters the elevator as gracefully as it left, and I get a faceful of carpet. I look up to find we’re at floor 74. There’s a ding from the doors and they swing open, signifying the end of the ride.

“Never again,” I groan, stretching my muscles into place as I limp through the exit.

Ethan musters the will to pry his hands off the elevator handle and follows me out. “Elevator from hell,” he says with a shudder.

The elevator doors shutter closed. We make our way to the mailroom. Nobody is around, so Ethan just grabs Dr. Skully’s pacakage and signs Dr. Skully’s name on a formsheet.

“Forgery,” I mutter.

“Fortune favors the bold,” Ethan flushes with a fluorish of the pen.

Ethan begins filling out the form’s other entries and I chuckle. Checking my phone, I look for any new messages from Turtle-Dove. Annoyingly, none. Lin isn’t responsive either.

I frown. The only updates come from my social media streams, such as the Byrd app. Each one yields reams of negativity and fear towards the Machine. Towards the Cog – me.

I swallow. The toughest thing is that they have a point. I keep capitulating to the capitalist Machine, as the Cog… And, I keep getting disappointed. Much as I try to cooperate, it’s all clearly coopted.

“Come on George!” Ethan snorts, already halfway down the hall.

Dang – he finished that form fast! I run after him to catch up.

“How have things been going with Lin?” Ethan asks, his eyes following my phone as I put it in my pocket.

My chest falls. “Good,” I say. “We had a dance the other night. I might’ve already told you. I could’ve done a better job near the end of the night – I’m not good at goodbyes. But, we had a good time.”

Ethan nods along, occasionally pausing to check the names on office doors while we progress further into the hall.

“I know Lin said she had a good time with you the other night too,” I say, side-eyeing him. “Apparently this was after that dinner we all had together.”

Ethan shrugs and bits his lip. “Was alright. She was really upset after you had us leave, to be honest. You really hurt her feelings.”

I look at my feet. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ethan says, putting a hand up. “Just be more – uh—cognizant is all.”

Ethan gives an “Aha” as we reach Dr. Skully’s door, and he swipes the passcard across. The door pops open and I give a low whistle at the scene.

“Well, wouldn’t you know it?” I say, drinking in Dr. Skully’s office, “Mr. Physicist has lots of physical possessions after all.”

Ethan smirks then sets the podsized package on Dr. Skully’s glass pond of a desk. It’s only then that I notice a label on the package: Byrd Enterprises.

I shudder. Odd. But then, maybe it’s nothing? Byrd Enterprises sells a lot of useful tech, maybe it’s just a standard purchases.

“I haven’t been here myself either,” Ethan says, his eyes running along one of the bookshelves.

I rush to Dr. Skully’s whiteboard.

Scanning it, it’s a bit dry – some basic diagrams and equations. I snatch a dry erase marker up and draw a sloppy stick-figure, riding a racecar backward.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to mess with that!” Ethan protests.

He tries to growl, but it sounds like he’s holding back a howl.

I slot a permanent marker from my pocket and into a holder lipping the bottom of the whiteboard. I keep drawing in dry erase, my heart racing.

“It’s fine, we can just blame the janitor,” I say.

I scrawl the phrase “Yours truly, Janitor” next to my artpiece.

“Trust me,” I insist, “he’ll never think this was you.”

Ethan transitions from nearly rubbing my drawing away to rubbing his chin. “Good point.”

He snatches the marker from me and begins crafting caveman scrawls of his own. I move to Dr. Skully’s desk and litter it with a couple of paper airplanes formed of sticky notes. I also hang some pens to a lamp of his, using a mix of paperclips and rubber bands.

“Okay, we done here?” I ask Ethan, coming up behind.

“You gotta tell me what you think,” Ethan winks, stepping away from the whiteboard.

My face twists. Then, I chortle. It’s a picture of a giant brick, with a caricature of Dr. Skully’s face placed at its center.

“One more thing,” I say, taking the marker back.

I start to form a handlebar mustache right under Dr. Skully’s nose.

“Uh, what are you two doing?” a voice pipes up.

Ethan and I jump, then turn. Ethan rushes toward the door, and on instinct I follow after.

I blink. Lin. It’s Lin!

“How’d you—?” I begin with a grin.

“I came to pick up a package,” Lin explains, hugging a manilla envelope close to her chest. Her eyes go wide, her head peering deeper through the door. “Poor Dr. Skully! This office looks awful!”

She gives a giggle as Ethan drags me through the door and locks it shut.

“You saw nothing!” Ethan hisses deeply.

“That was definitely… Something,” Lin says with a raised eyebrow, as Ethan’s hands wave in the air. “You sure you want to leave things on such a low note?”

“Keep it on the down low,” I cut in.

“No clue what you two are on about,” Ethan adds. “And, on that note: George and I are leaving to—uh— the mountains for an evening hike. Want to join?”

“What?” I utter.

What is he talking about? We never agreeed to that.

“The hiking trails by Mount Brashly,” Ethan says.

I wince thinking about all the hobbies and responsibilities on my docket for the night.

“I’m not sure I have the time,” I grumble.

Ethan returns my grumble with a groan. “You said you’d come!”

Ethan jabs me with his elbow before I can jabber any more. Lin gives a smile.

I take Ethan’s hit. Also, his hint.

“Yeah, sure,” Lin says, checking her phone. “We taking the 4:15?”

Ethan is already sprinting down the hall toward our building’s highrise high-speed rail station.

“Better jump to it!” Ethan cries. “4:15! Let’s go for it team!”

Somehow we manage to whip through the gates and onto the train just as 4:15 is withering away. In my signature style, I hop aboard as the doors are closing. Magic! It’s as though time itself aligned for us.

Can time do that?

“We made it!” Ethan whoops.

We all share a laugh.

It’s basically open space on this train, so we take seats in one of the front rows. My seat feels cushy as I settle in. Nevertheless, I clench my body tight. My seat suddenly turns to rock and the train rockets forward. After about a minute, it achieves a steady speed.

I let the tension in my body subside and I look to my side. My friends are both at rest. Out the window, te city rushes by. It’s somewhow a blend of fairytale dreams and the stone cold rigidit of an unyielding black box. Stacks of blocky skyscrapers traipse between bubbly glass palaces. Many tracks run in parallel toward the center of the city, converging near the Everman Technologies nuclear reactor. The reactor pumps steam into the air, forming a milky swirl.

Byrd Enterprise’s building is also right by the nuclear reactor, a thin spiral aspiring for the mist. Though, it pales in comparison to the reactor, looking almost like its twisted shadow.

“Which trail are we taking?” Lin asks, poking her head into my view.

I’m still focused on the cityscape and try to get my head around her. As the city’s misty swirls eddy, sun rays stream through as rainbows.

“What say you, Edison?” says Ethan.

I shrug. “All fine by me. They’re all headed toward the same destination, more or less.”

Ethan groans. “Definitely not all the same. Some trails force you to ut in more effort – to be more active. Others, we can be more casual about things.”

“I don’t have all day,” Lin says with a twirl of her hair. “We should keep things casual.”

I nod. Ethan nods. The train seems to nod as it runs over some kind of speed bump.

“Wherever we go, it better not be Marshland Trail,” Ethan says. “I’m already swamped at work. Don’t need to be swamped outside of work too!”

Lin crinkles her nose, then crumples up a bage from a notepad in her lap. She scribbles something down.

“I’m pining after Pinecone Trail myself,” says Lin.

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Put a pin in that Lin. Last time I tried getting getting through it felt like it took forever. Hours. Also, so much of it is closed off now.”

Lin is still blockking the window, even as I try to see around her. I’m being a jerk – I know I’m being a jerk. But then, I’m so anxious.

I relent and look to the notepad on her lap.

“Right, a short trail,” Lin says with a quick stroke of her pencil. “Let’s try Black Swan trail.”

Ethan gives a half frown, then a “hmm…”, followed by a “mmm-hmmm.”

Like that, it is settled. We are going to Black Swan trail. What we still are sorting out though is what Lin is drawing a picture of. It’s cloudy. Hazy. All a silvery pastel from what I can tell, outlined with some blacks and grays.

Ethan pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and draws a crude square at the edge of Lin’s paper.

“Hey!” Lin says, giving Ethan a playful shove. I’m suddenly regretting having taken the edge seat.

“Hey,” Ethan says back. He eyes Lin’s hazy sketch. “If you could have a dream life, what would it look like?”

My face goes hot. What is he doing? These are the sorts of questions I’m supposed to be asking!

Lin grimaces, then shrugs. “I’m up for just about whatever life that’ll allow me to quit Everman Technologies,” she musters with a slight laugh.

I shift in my seat. Maybe Everman isn’t doing the best right now, but it’s still a great company.

“Have you thought about just using universal basic income?” I pipe up.

Lin snorts. “Come on, we all know that’s a joke. It’s a fast track to living with parents. And we all know how that goes.”

I shift again. “I mean, maybe moving back in with my parents wouldn’t be half bad. Would it? With the state of things, it’s a backup.”

Ethan and Lin both burst out laughing. I force myself to join in.

Stress in my muscles pique as the train shifts and we’re all thrust forward. Taking a peek out the window, it’s as though we’ve passed on to another world. The purple grandeur of mountain terrain surrounds our train. It’s clothed in lush greenery and jeweled with ponds and streams.

Miles behind us is the sprawl of New Vinci, looking like something from a child’s trainset. The air here is somehow both tighter and lighter. The train’s inertia finally goes inert. Its doors swoosh open, and Ethan rushes toward them.

I want to chase after, but something brings me in toward Lin. She’s still scribbling furiously at her pad. Her tongue is focused out the side of her mouth. I want to tell her we need to move before the door closes.

I take her pencil from her. I sketch a picture of two stick figures, standing atop a triangle. I give the triangle a smily face. She laughs, taking the pencil back and rushing after Ethan. I race after the door just as it’s closing, for the third time this day. Somehow, I know I’ll make it, and I do.

Some things are better left unsaid.

“What were you drawing a picture of anyway?” I ask, coming into the outside.

“Guess,” says Lin.

“Molten metal?” I say, squinting.

Lin huffs.

“Uh,” I say, “bottom of the ocean? Sorry, I’m scraping bottom of the barrel.”

We’re firmly along the trail, traintracks far back. Ethan takes measured steps toward the spot in the trail where several paths converge with one another.

Lin’s fingers ride along the lines of her inked figure. She winks.

“It’s the rainbow, like we saw on the ride here,” she explains.

I cock my head to the side. “You going to add color to that?”

We’re crunching through Black Swan trail, along its steady incline.

“Of course,” Lin says, putting the pad in her pack. “Something to know about me: it’s never finished until it’s finished.”

“I actually prefer a black and white drawing,” I say, itching my arms.

Mosquitoes nip at me and cicadas chip at the air. Ethan gives a playful roar as he fills the air with bug spray. Lin swats one of the bugs away from my arm and I can’t help but smile – she’s too sweet.

She looks at her pack, then back to me. “I like black and white too, George. But, only seeing the world in black and white is blinding. You can try swapping it for grayscale… But, grayscale is so bland. The world is so much more. It’s color! It’s rainbows on top of rainbows! And, rainbows never end.”

Ethan stops in his tracks, coughing through the bug spray. “Holy cow! You practice that?”

Lin laughs, her face going pink. “I have a lot on my mind.”

I try to hold her hand. She lets me hold it for a moment, before pulling away.

“So gorgeous today,” I say, breathing in the atmosphere.

It mostly smells of pinetrees and flowers that are in bloom. There’s still a hint of bug spray, which bugs me but whatever. Worth it.

As Lin’s face goes red, I bolt up the mountain trail. “I wonder how long it could take to run to the top!” I cry. “Maybe we could calculate it… Using the angle of the trees and stuff.”

I huff and puff, picking up my speed.

“Hey, wait up!” Ethan says.

“Yeah,” says Lin.

I shake my head. “There’s so much to see. We gotta get as close as we can to the mountain top.”

I slow my pace as Ethan grumbles behind me.

“We’re not doing a competition today,” Ethan says. “We’re just here to enjoy, you know?”

I stop and turn to see Lin nodding.

“Life isn’t a race,” she says.

“Yes it is!” I announce, clapping my hands together.

Lin gives me a disappointed look but says nothing. Dang, I really thought that’d go over better. I jog back toward her and Ethan, keeping with their pace as we scale the mountainside.

I gotta admit: sometimes I come off as an arrogant prick. In these important moments of exploration, I get tempted to act like I’m all important. As we stroll the mountainside, water winding by, I get the sense my friends care about something deeper than that: connection.

Why is the concept of connection so hard to connect with me?

We trod further into the wild, whiling the time away. There’s a tranquility in our trek that I rarely feel. I’m the sort of person who likes to go on long walks alone. Although I appreciate the peace within loneliness, it’s nothing compared to acting as a piece of the greater whole.

Ethan stops and stoops, pulling a baggy of snack bars from his bag. We’ve reached Black Swan pond. It stretches a few hundred feet in front of us, with a waterfall rushing down at the other side of it. The sun is beginning to set, casting the lake in a marmalade glow.

“We made it to our stop,” Ethan announces as we sit at the pond’s edge. He lays the baggy of snack bars onto the grass. “Snack break! I always like to come prepared.”

“Awesome, we got here quick,” says Lin, taking one of Ethan’s bars.

I take one too, but my gaze is still focused on the other side of the pond. Idyllic as it may be, there’s a blemish. A crowd of people are gathered. There also is what looks to be an intrusive machine penetrating the Earth and kicking dust into the air.

Swans are nearby, coated with white feathers that are regal and plush. They crane their swooping necks toward the crowd and excavator, then flap their wings uncomfortably. As another screech resounds, they fly off.

A little animal comes up to us from somewhere in the grass. It looks like a mix between a ferret and a beaver. I swoon. Lin swoons with me.

“So cute,” Lin says.

“I know right?” I nod. “What is that?”

I toss a nut from my snack bar toward the animal. The small animal comes close and sniffs at it.

“A marmot,” Ethan says.

“Aww,” I say. The marmot nibbles the nut away and I come closer to it. Lin giggles as I do.

“Careful,” Ethan says. “They’re cute, but they’ll bite your finger off if you don’t set your boundaries with it.”

I drop the nut with a grunt and my hand shrinks back. The marmot takes the nut. It then runs off as another mechanistic shriek echos from the other side of the pond.

I take a bite into my snack bar and look at Lin. She’s back at her notepad, making a sketch of our surroundings.

“You want to try drawing something again?” Lin asks.

I give a shrug, then scrawl another stick figure. This time, it’s riding a unicycle. I scowl, then spend another minute trying to flesh it out. Eek! It just won’t come out right.

Lin draws her own. Oc course, it’s a million times better.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” she snickers.

“Eh, I’m more daft than deft at drafting,” I say. “I’m more of a tech guy than an arts guy.”

I’m sort of lying. I can definitely draw better, if I just put in some more time. I make sketches for design work, occasionally. But, I’m not the most comfortable with it. Why try? What if I put in my best effort and it’s still not very good?

Deep down, I know my skill at art is no match for Lin’s.

“Art can be technical and the technical can be art,” says Lin, her pen moving off the edge of her page and etching slightly into the dirt. “Don’t put yourself in a box.”

Grr. Why does this girl always have to be so right?

“Okay, what is that?” Ethan says, between bites of his snack bar.

He points toward the crowd and an excavator that are across the pond. The scene has been doing plenty to call attention to itself. The drilling of the machine overpowers the burbling of the waterfall.

I squint. The excavator machine has many arms, needle-like and jerky in their motion. They toss rocks and debris into the air. The crowd appears to have breached a barricade, in a cascade of shouting and sign waving.

Just horrid. Why couldn’t everybody have just stayed home, instead of disturbing peace and progress? Totally backwards behavior.

“Looks like some kind of protest,” says Lin.

Ethan opens his phone and snaps a picture. “Surreal. I do hiking here a lot, and I haven’t seen anything about this on the news or social media!”

Lin nods. “Same! Just checked my Byrd app, and nothing. It looks pretty crazy over there too.”

I scoff and toss a rock into the lake. “Just ignore them. They want to make a scene? Let ‘em. Worst comes to worst, we can go somewhere quieter.”

Lin’s jaw drops and she glares at me. “Excuse me?”

Did I say the wrong thing? I shrug, then rub my eyes.

“They’re just working the land over there,” I say, feeling more and more like I hit a landmine. “I don’t see what all the commotion is about.”

Ethan throws his hands up, then shakes his head. “Okay. Yikes!”

Lin grimaces. “They’re just exercising their right to protest!”

I can feel the heat of her rage radiating from where I’m siting. I scooch toward Ethan, but he seems equally annoyed.

“I mean—but, like—it’s a disruption,” I say.

The excavator’s creaks and groans carry from across the pond. The crowd might just break it!

“It’s their freedom to express themselves,” Lin says.

“Freedom of speech,” Ethan adds, readjusting his glasses.

I swallow and put my head in my hands in submission.

“Sorry,” I say, looking back up to Lin. The look on her face says she’s readying for another pitch.

“Do you want to be stuck in a world where you can never just blurt out what you really feel?” Lin says, her tone sharp and final.

Man: this crush is really starting to crush my ego. I can’t say that she’s wrong. But then, as the superhero crimefighter Cog, I’m also familiar with how unruly protests can get. What about submission to the arbiter of law? To the police? I can’t help but feel that the police are usually in the right. Right?

I wince and Lin stands from her spot in the grass. She’s walking away.

“Wait, where are you going?” I say, faking a laugh.

Lin says nothing. Something in me burns and wants to shout. I’m angry. Why am I so angry?

I’m interrupted as a giant rock crashes into our side of the pond, showering us all with a splash of water.

“What was that?” Ethan splutters. “Was that rain?”

Above us, a maelstrom of more rocks come our way.

I glare at the machine across the pond. Some sort of switch within me flips. Those rocks could’ve hurt us—killed us, even. It’s not the protestors who are the disruption. It’s the machine!

I gulp. I’m going to need to do something. I’m going to need to become Cog. Wiping my thoughts for a clear mind, my precognition kicks in and all worldlines warp around me.

“George,” Ethan and Lin say in uneasy synchronicity, running toward me.

I dive out of the way just as a boulder is about to make me go extinct. Ugh, why not somebody else?!

Part of me just wants to play it cool as George Fletcher and hope divine intervention will stop the rogue excavator. But then, I’m sure the dinos also thought divine intervention would save them.

I need some kind of excuse. Some kind of out.

“Crap!” I shout. “I—I just crapped myself!”

“You what?” Ethan spits out.

I flap my hands wildly and start sprinting. Screaming. I scream like hell. I’m screaming better than the ultimate scream queen, I’d bet.

“George, we have to stay together!” Lin screams after me.

Too late babe. I have a date with destiny! I’m already many yards away, deep into an overgrowth of pinetrees. I yank off my shirt and pants, unveling my sweaty supersuit beneath.

I slap on my mask and goggles, pulling them from my pockets. Unzipping my backpack, I grab at my fluxion-drives. I zap them awake, then zip into the air. Branches smack me in the face as I burst from the trees.

My friends are far below and seem to be taking the trail toward the protestors. Odd. Anyway, I use my goggles to focus in on the excavator and the ugly drill it’s using. If I hook my fluxion-drives into its side, maybe I can emit enough force to tip it over.

I sigh. The excavator is so obviously an invasion of nature. Lin and Ethan were right. I was dead wrong. For some reason, there’s this part of me that likes to ignore problems. I pretend to myself that, if I imagine the world as different than it is, maybe the problems will exit existence. Nevertheless, the universe has its way of forcing my hand.

As I draw nearer to the excavator, I flit my eyes to flip through a social media stream on the Byrd app. So far, no reports on this excavator or this protest. Instead, my goggles bombard me with hitpieces on the Machine and Cog.

I gulp, sweat rushing down my face. I refocus on the excavator, and I land at its side with a clang. A throng of shouting people surround me as I grip ladder rungs in the excavator’s side. The excavator thrashes back. I magnetize the butt ends of my fluxion-drives into its metal paneling.

The fluxion-drive emitters purr while I turn their dials. I get a glance of a Byrd Enterprises logo on the excavator’s side and grin. Nice to not have this technological atrocity be the fault of Everman Technologies for a change!

“Go back where you came from, super cop!” a protestor yells.

My fluxion-drives are warming up to full throttle. The excavator’s many arms act to resist the force. It’s a battle of which will buckle first: the excavator’s robotic joints, or my fluxion-drives. As the excavator’s weight shifts against me, my attention shifts to the protestors.

“I’m no cop, I’m Cog! I’m here to help!” I cry.

“That’s cap!” I hear a different protestor bellow.

Several of their fellows join in. There’s a sinking in my gut. Maybe you can’t please all of the people all of the time. But, I’ve definitely figured out how to displease all of the people.

Waste heat from my fluxion-drives thrusts out their exhaust. Nevertheless, the excavator doesn’t seem to budge. My fluxion-drives crackle with energetic pulses, but the excavator bears its frame against them.

My fingers burn a bit, and I swivel my head to face the crowd. They seem to be cooling down a bit, even though my situation is heating up.

I take a moment to read the signs the protestors wave, and the protestors move toward the excavator.

Among them is a sign that reads “Worker’s Rights”.

“No Taxation Without Representation!”

“Tax Billionaires Their Fair Share!”

Each sign is painted with painstaking detail, vibrant and bold. It’s a gut punch. Despite all the villains I’ve stood up to, what do I really stand for when compared to these people?

The excavator pitches back as several of the burlier protesters pitch in. My fluxion-drives are also picking up steam, even though they’re hot as a stovetop.

Suddenly, the digital feed on my goggles is hit by waves of static noise. The excavator’s motorized limbs start to stall at the same instant.

“Well, hello there,” a voice warbles through my mask’s headset. “This is Nimrod: master hacker.”

“What the heck?!” I cry.

The robotic limbs to the excavator give out, and I feel myself yanked forward by its immense inertia. The protestors all fall behind.

“I’ve taken control of the excavator,” Nimrod continues in a nasally undertone. His face flickers across the screen – a man with a bushy beard and an unruly mane of hair, huddled behind a desk in a dark corner of a room.

“Now, I’m going to need you to do just as I say,” Nimrod whinnies. “Each move you make is critcally important.”

His words of advice come too late. With the excavator’s motorized resistance gone, the fluxion-drives are carrying me and the excavator into an upward arc.

The excavator is several tons of metal, and I’m a flap of flesh hanging to its side. There’s a coarse screaming from the excavator operator as we hurtle higher into the sky. I catch his eye – he’s clinging to his seat with the anxiety of a cat after being doused with water.

“What was that?” Nimrod yelps.

From the fuzzy video feed I’m getting, Nimrod looks like something of a mole man. Definitely an underwhelming unveil. Why do the best programmers always gotta be some neckbeard? Why not a gigachad?

“Sorta in fight or flight mode right now,” I manage.

Nimrod’s feed becomes a rage of static. “Tell me what’s going on! None of the gyroscope data I’m getting from you makes any sense! This is all over the place!”

“I—I’m in the sky!” I sputter. “I’m flying! Come on, you’re a master hacker and you aren’t checking my goggle cameras?”

Nimrod’s footage spritzes out, but his heavy breathing is still audible through my headset.

“Crud nuggets!” he cries.

“Crud nuggets?” I repeat.

“Scratch that—double crud nuggets!” he repeats, voice rising. I don’t think he heard me. “Is there some kind of feedback issue? You were supposed to hold tight and listen to my instructions!”

Sweat rolls down my face in a torrent and my body feels all tore up. I and the excavator are soaring and I’m not sure there’s a way out.

“Look man, I have no clue who you even are!” I shout. “You think you can just hack crap out of nowhere and everybody can somehow keep track?”

There’s a bunch of crashing and smashing over Nimrod’s audio feed. “Gah, my knee!”

Is this guy for real?

“I thought Turtle-Dove told you about me!” Nimrod moans. “We also interacted a bunch of times on those ethical hacking message boards!”

I give a groan of my own. He thinks the message board will massage this?

“Look,” Nimrod continues, “I know phreaking your goggles and this freaky robot probably isn’t the best first impression. But, desperate times call for desperate measures!”

I need this guy to just shut up. I’m shooting ever upward, still with no plan out. On the side of my goggles, I’ve also regained access to my social media feed. However, its negative headlines are getting to me. Now more than ever I need to find a way to tune it out.

“Ok, finally!” Nimrod exclaims. “I got camera access!”

“Uh-huh,” I bleat, air beating at my face.

The fluxion-drives are threatening to melt.

“Damn!” Nimrod says with intensity. “Yep, you’re high in the sky alright!”

My social media feed somehow grips my with a greater intensity. So many griping headlines. So many are directed at Everman Technologies and me.

Why me?

Why?!

“Ok Cog,” Nimrod says, his voice finally cooling down from its erratic flurry. “I need you to tell me if there’s anywhere or any way for you to land that excavator safely. You have to get down from up there, Cog.”

I breathe in. I breathe out. In the corner of my headset blares the headline “We’re Not Cogs in a Machine!”

The headline is oh so right. Yet, what am I?

“Cog?!” says Nimrod.

My breaths are rapid now. Unsteady. I’m pretty sure that the excavator operator is frozen in shock. I am too, my eyes primarily focused on the corner of my headset.

“I’m sorry,” I wheeze.

“Come on Cog! You gotta fix your mindset Cog!” Nimrod screams in a squeaky screed. “Your camera is showing me a lake just below you! I’m gonna need you to do everything you can to maneuver the excavator into the lake and get out of this safely! You got that?”

I swallow. My mouth is so dry. My eyes are too. Precognition has utterly blanked out. My hands are baked.

“Come on Cog!” Nimrod jabbers. “You gotta pull out of this spiral!”

My augmented reality feed undulates as Nimrod communicates, its social media images searing my mind.

“I can’t,” I whimper. “Too much negative feedback. Too heavy.”

“Cog!” Nimrod shrieks. “Stop it!”

“Stopping it… Nimrod, you’re asking for the impossible.”

“Cog, cut out the noise! Cut it out! Grow a set of balls!”

The words are a slap to the face. A slap I need. I snap back to reality. My mind flickers with the flickering of my augmented reality display, and I’m reminded of the ball joints in the base of my fluxion-drives. Of course!

I hit the buttons near their base, unlocking the ball joint mechanism. Slowly, I steer the flux of the emitters, changing the course of their path down toward the lake.

How I manage to do maneuver so smoothly, I’m not sure. Somehow, I intuitively know how to move. An energy vibrates through me and guides me. It feels like my precognition at work, but it could be something more. Hard to say.

“Eureka!” I resound, my body rolling forward with the body of the excavator.

“Yeah!” Nimrod joins in. “Whatever you just said! More of that!”

With the excavator hurtling toward the lake, I demagnetize my fluxion-drives from the excavator and push off.

“You’re doing it!” Nimrod says. “You’re doing it!”

I clip the fluxion-drives to my belt and take flight. As I do, the operator to the excavator jumps out, screaming his head off. Darting toward him, I manage to hug him in the gut. We whoosh over the face of the lake. The excavator crashes into the water behind. Approaching the shore and its protestors, we’re doused in a splash of water.

The operator slips from my grip.

“Screw you, Cod!” the operator squeals, falling into the water.

Oh my god—I just saved his life. Why can’t he at least say my name right?

I manage to slow my momentum from the fluxion-drives and pull myself into a hover just over the face of the water. The sole of my feet and the lake slightly kiss, sending out fierce ripples as they do.

I wave to the crowd, hovering over the ripples. The crowd raves, and Nimrod joins in over my headset.

I’m practically walking on water. The operator? He’s crawling toward shore, his bright white Byrd Enterprises suit all matted and muted. His hair hangs in his face, making him look like a wet dog.

Ha!

Ah!

My fluxion-drives spit spurts of random energy, then short out. I plunge into the waves.

I guess walking on water ain’t for me. At any rate, I’m in the shallow. The water only reaches my chest. Unfortunately, I can already tell that my fluxion-drives are completely drowned out. Probably should waterproof them soon.

“That was incredible,” Nimrod says as I clamber toward shore.

I try closing out all the apps and crap on my AR headset, but I can already tell that shutting out Nimrod will be a chore.

“Thanks,” I gurgle, splatters of water running down my face. “Now, can you please explain what’s going on here? How’d you get access to my stuff?”

The Byrd Enterprises operator is slinking into the forest as the crowd forms around me. Nimrod gives a grumble.

“Look kid,” he whines, “I had to do what I had to do. Byrd Enterprises monitoring is all over the place. I’ve been keeping tabs of my own on things – specifically, on you. But also, Everman.”

“You what?” I shout.

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, ogling all agog.

“Cog!” they chant.

Finally – they know my name. Took them long enough.

“I saw you’d need help, and so I stepped in,” says Nimrod. “Shouldn’t happen again.”

My headset flickers.

“Anyway,” Nimrod continues, voice fading, “that’s quite the crowd. Seems like you have your hands full. I’ll hop off.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” I say. “Thank you! Also… Still, screw you. Also, double also: you need to tell me what you and Turtle-Dove are up to! You need to keep me in the loop!”

There’s a low growl from Nimrod. “Look: you know what I know, and you’ll go loopy. If we need you, we’ll call you. Hopefully soon. Until then: live life.”

I snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The flickering on my headset stops. The static in my earpiece goes away. Nimrod is gone.

Brilliant! For a master hacker, dude seems like a total hack. Also, what does he mean that Byrd Enterprises has eyes everywhere?

Whatever. I push through the crowd, which is still electric with cheers and shouts. I gotta get out of here and go someplace quiet. Today has been too much.

“Cog, wait!” a gal’s voice cries after me as I turn away from the crowd.

I smile. I know that voice all too well. It’s my gal: Lin.

“And what can I do for you, stranger?” I say, folding myself back into the crowd and drawing close to her.

She’s sparkling. Ethan is at her side, and he waves too. His jaw is also agape, clearly in awe.

“Thank you so much!” Lin says. “What you just did there was a big help! Can you take a picture with me?”

Still smiling, shake my head. I can’t let Lin find out my secret identity!

“You can’t just leave! You need to at least get a picture with everybody!” Lin insists, her arm brushing against mine.

“I don’t – I don’t deserve it,” I stutter.

“Deserve what?” she snaps back, pulling her phone from her pocket.

I shrug and rub my shoulder, trying to ignore my slightly burnt fingers and burning face.

“I screw up a lot,” I say, clearing my throat. “I get self-conscious. Does that make sense? I’m trying to become more self-aware about it, but… Sometimes I can’t. Much as I try, maybe I’m too selfish.”

Lin is locked at my side, her phone screen’s camera facing toward us. I feel oddly comfortable. Granted, I look ridiculous in my wet costume, but what can you do?

“Yeesh, lots of negative self-talk over here,” Lin says.

I bite my lip. “I need to be real with you.”

“Smile!” Lin says, pretending not to hear. She pauses, then looks me in the goggles. “What you’re talking about isn’t real. It’s all in your head. You’re amazing!”

I clear my throat again. Getting choked up over here.

“I’m not sure,” I persist. “Have you seen what they say on social media and the news?”

Lin shakes her head, her hair flowing with the motions. “What does the news know?” she says with a rush. “Look, I won’t be coy Cog: you’re amazing to me. You matter to me. You’ve been tricked into thinking you need to beat yourself down. But, you’d see through it all, if only you could see yourself the way I see you.”

She laughs with a sweet cadence. I laugh with her. She honestly seems more into me as Cog than George Fletcher. Is it weird that some part of me feels jealous of myself?

“Okay, we’re smiling for real this time,” she says.

She snaps a photo of us two. Behind us is the entire crowd. Ethan too. It’s a moment. A wonderful moment.

“That was awesome!” Ethan says, catching my gaze.

I give a nod and laugh again. “Thanks man!”

Ethan shoots me a thumbs up and I look back to Turtle-Dove—err—Lin.

Screw it, she’s totally Turtle-Dove. At least, I’m pretty sure. Mostly. Maybe I’m wrong?

“Say,” I say to Lin, cracking my best smile, “you have a sister? Or, maybe a cousin or something?”

Lin twists her face.

“Uh, what did you just say?” she snipes.

Woof. Ok, I’ve really done it now.

“Cringe, sorry,” I wince. “It’s just, you look so… Eh, never mind!”

I run away from the crowd.

“Captain Cringe, up and out!” I shout, moving toward the forest.

My fluxion-drives are totally busted for the millionth time, so I better just book it.

“Where are you going?” Lin calls after me.

“It’s the call of the wild!” I whoop. “Until next time!”

I give my best wolf howl and make my way through the trees. To peace.

It was a long journey here. It’ll be a long journey back. But: all in all, I consider today with Ethan and Lin a win.

Uh… Screw Nimrod though. Like, seriously.

Chapter 9: Performance Review

The Vitruvian

Am I a cosmic joke? Some sort of comic relief to the universal web?

This fear of mine ebbs and flows. From logic, it follows that my concerns are just meaningless coincidence. In that, there is grand wisdom: all is meaningless. Yes.

Nevertheless… This vexes me. In the grand opera of existence, there’s an internal insistence that even the meaningless has a role to play.

Of course, I might be wrong. Ugh.

I’m sitting in my ice bath in the middle of my conference center. Is it confrontational? Yes. Would I have it any other way? No.

I shift through the stacks of ice uneasily, then begin typing away on my laptop. My muscles feal weak. Inferior. Sometimes I wonder why I torture myself with this ice bath treatment so badly. Then I remember: I deserve it. I need it.

My computer screen has a split in how it’s displaying itself. On one half are all of my business apps. Email, news feeds, corporate data, the works. On the other half is a videogame I’m playing: Super Strat. It’s a strategy game where I play against an advanced AI, vying for dominance of the world’s resources.

Right now, I’m using my most advanced AI: Maniac IV. All possible futures must be weighed and predicted, to have any chance against it. Right now, I’m winning.

“Hi sir,” Izzy says, resting her elbows on the side of my ice tub.

Clasped in her dainty hands is her clamshell of a purse. Why she doesn’t come to me with materials related to the organization? I have no clue.

Glancing at the heroic visage of Caesar in the corner of my screen, I jut my chin into the air and take in courageous breaths.

I am the alpha. The emperor.

The king.

“Glad you came, darling dear,” I say to Izzy, clicking through options on my game. I adore my game. She is nearing climax, and my heartrate climbs with delight.

Despite MANIAC being a master at implementing game theory to resolve problems, its knack for Nash equilibriums is no match for my button mashing.

“Are the doors locked?” I ask, my voice tight.

“Yes,” Izzy says, still trying to look me in the eyes.

I squint into my screen. MANIAC just took three of my cities in a single turn.

How?

I scrunch my face. I want to throw this awful trash at the wall. This doesn’t compute. It simply doesn’t.

“So, what do you want to talk about?” Izzy persists.

Wow, just wow. Can’t this chick tell that I’m extremely busy over here?

“Izzy,” I hiss, my voice thin, “do you think that the Author hates me?”

Izzy contorts her snout inward. She smacks her lips, which are doused in sparkly lip gloss.

“Uh, what?” Izzy titters.

Gah. Obnoxious. Obtuse!

“Obviously, the Author,” I repeat, my voice turning to a brash brass. “The Creator. The Designer. I think he hates me. He must! It’s the only explanation for my plight…”

Izzy gives a mousy sneeze, then bats her eyelashes at me.

“Ok pooky,” she says, “don’t get all poopy on me.”

She waves her purse in my face, bopping me in the nose.

“François De Boodle uses snake leather,” she says. “Do you really think a designer who uses snake leather would have hate in his heart?”

“Yes.”

Izzy itches her butt. I inch away.

Hopeless. She’s hopeless. Nobody understands my genius!

“Oh, come on Mr. Ice Cold!” Izzy says, grinning at me. “You’re the one who called me all the way over here!”

“Mr. Ice beats always pretending to be Mr. Nice,” I snarl.

Izzy whines. “You’re not making any sense!”

I blink. My gaming screen blanks out.

“Game Over!” it reads.

A replay begins – MANIAC nuked half my remaining cities, then took my capital.

It’s no fair.

IT’S NO FAIR!

I stand from my ice bath and lift my laptop above my head. There’s still ice up my Vitruvian themed underpants, but I don’t care. I’m going to toss this damn thing across the room! I—

“Culver! Culvie-pie! My lovey-dovey!” Izzy cries, groping at my wrists. “Not another one!”

I relent with a groan, setting my laptop on the bath’s edge and settling back in. There are still ice cubes riding up my crotch, but I’m just going to need to learn how to deal with it.

“MANIAC cheated!” I announce. “That move set… Positively impossible!”

Izzy bites her nails. “Maybe you just did a really good job training him,” Izzy says, her eyeshadow glimmering as she shimmies close to me. “How is he?”

“Her. It’s a her.”

I smell Izzy’s body odor. She has a rank stink that outranks most, mixed in with a flagrant helping of some fruity fragrance.

I force myself to give a tight smile.

“Do you know what MANIAC stands for?” I say through my teeth.

Izzy shakes her head. Ah, what a simpering simp.

“I thought so,” I mutter. “It’s the Mathematical Analyzer Numerical Integrator and Automatic Computer!” I beam. “Can you repeat that?”

Izzy squeals. “Ooh! There’s math in there?”

I nod, and Izzy laughs.

She flaps her hands like little wings. “You know me and math! You lost me there. I’m so bad at it!”

Oh Izzy, you perfect ditz. Couldn’t even get a word in?

“I thought so,” I say with a huff, leaning back in my ice bath. “Anyway, this baby– she’s top of the line. No other can compare.”

Izzy chews some of her hair while twirling the end of it. Her emerald eyes pierce mine.

“Wow,” she says. “Doesn’t that mean she’s way smarter than you?”

Izzy bats her eyelashes again. My face twists into a scowl.

“Also,” she says, holding her tongue to the roof of her mouth, “I thought Everman had a better computer pooter to play with? Doesn’t he?”

I elbow her purse into my ice bath.

“Hey!” she says, splashing after it.

Whatever. She needs a bath bad anyway.

My computer screen breaches my focus. There’s a garish gambit of videos and reports spamming through.

“Byrd Enterprises destroys ozone and violates zoning laws,” the reporter Amanda Taft grumbles into her microphone.

Great. Just great.

I lean into my screen and scroll through more images. More info. How can this be? My Byrd app is supposed to have the tightest regulations.

“Whargh!” Izzy screams, diving into my ice bath face first. “Brain freeze! My brain is frozen!”

Ugh. Is it ever not?

“Will you please get ahold of yourself?” I say, stepping from my tub with my laptop. “Act like a professional! Honestly…”

I can finally brush the irritating ice cubes from out of my underpants and try ignoring the goosebumps forming along my skin as I adjust to my new climate.

There’s footage of protestors and Cog destroying my latest excavation robot. The video quality is blurry and stilted, and the audio is overpowered by obtrusive protestors. Nevertheless, it’s clear that Cog used those weird gadgets of his to take my tech out.

He broke it! He broke my stuff! Mine!

My fingers go tight and knuckles white about the edges of my laptop.

“This makes no sense!” I shout. “Izzy, this is the last straw! You’re responsible for social regulation! You should be ensuring that info on the Byrd app is closely monitored and regulated. How could you let this get through?”

Izzy pokes her head out of the tub and makes duck lips. “Quack!” she says.

Incompetence. Utter incompetence.

“Enough,” I persist. “You want to know why we’re having this meeting? Get over here!”

I look over and Izzy is still splashing through the ice bath. “Gah! Get– come take a look at this, will you?”

She’ll figure out how to get over here eventually.

In the meantime: how could Hugo let that Cog kid go out wearing those cruddy pajamas? Awful design, just awful.

I let the footage loop. No matter how many times I play the video back, somehow Cog lifts my robot and dumps it into a lake. His motions are inexplicable. His tumble with my robot is utterly unstable, and a slight shift at any moment could’ve put him under.

It’s too coordinated. Too perfect. It defies logic. It’s as though it’s all prearranged.

I pause at the part of the video where he hovers over the swamp.

“How?” I whisper, studying his handheld thrusters. “I let it loop over and over again, but nothing yields.”

For those devices to defy gravity must break physics. They must be using a propellant. Yet, I’m compelled to somehow fully explain it. The way that air warps around the thrusters looks off.

Is it a new reaction? A new element? And, what is it emitting exactly? I must know. I need that tech, whatever it is.

“He’s cute,” Izzy says, looking over my shoulder.

I moan and close out the tab, diving back into the overflow of outrage being posted about Byrd Enterprises.

“You see all this?” I say, keeping a steely monotone. “This much negativity isn’t supposed to be getting through. How are these accounts not all banned?”

Izzy rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. Isn’t this supposed to go to tech support or something?”

I rove my head around the empty midsummer conference room. The carpet has been torn up, leaving exposed linoleum in its wake. The walls have also been laid bare. Usually it’s more crowded this time of year, but all this remodeling I’ve been doing is really taking a toll. Suddenly, I miss the days when this was all just a startup, and I was working in a dinky research lab.

I grumble. “Lots of talent is in flux right now: we’re poaching people, people are poaching us. I need you to sharpen your approach!”

Stepping back, Izzy examines her nails. “Got it. Duly noted.”

“We’re at a critical juncture right now,” I say, opening up my metadata feeds. “Also, some of the people criticizing our company are from within Byrd Enterprises. One of them was our chief scientists, using a sock puppet account!”

Izzy snickers.

“Don’t worry, I had MANIAC fire them all,” I say, lacing my fingers together. “I’m not afraid to keep going either.”

“You what?” Izzy says, hand over mouth.

“I’m surprised you’re surprised,” I say with a smirk. “You know how time sensitive this all is. We need the edge—the competitive advantage. Much as I’ve had myself and MANIAC game theorize all possible paths, there’s still no room for error.”

“But you’re already Earth’s savior– smartest man alive. Do you really need to be so rash? So rushed?”

I stroke my chin. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you that the chief scientist whistleblower is dead?”

Izzy stumbles back, nearly falling into the icy bath all over again. Oh Izzy: you haven’t yet figured out life is a meat grinder, have you?

I burst out laughing with a deep mirth. Ah, so refreshing. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to laugh like that. I hit a button on my laptop, turning on my playlist of the finest German expressionist music. Bach blares out my speakers, whisking my ears to another realm, sweet and fine.

“Big Byrd!” Izzy balks, ruffling her hair. “We talked about this! You can’t just do that!”

I lick my lips, then turn up the volume to my laptop. “It’s fine. The police report determined that he died due to unrelated causes, okay? Forget about it.”

Izzy’s eyes are blotchy. Great. Now I feel bad. I have to try and pretend that I don’t notice.

“Let’s make sure that we’re focused on the real enemy here: Everman,” I say, my voice rising with the swell of my music. “All of our AI resources and media apparatuses should be focused on taking him down. I refuse to let anybody else try controlling my story—controlling my narrative. You get that?”

I catch Izzy in the reflection of my computer screen, and she’s nodding submissively.

Perfection.

“You—you have a lot of Everman’s Tech now, don’t you?” Izzy says with a pout and a quiver in her voice. “And—and, with the meeting you have scheduled for today, I’d say you already have him on the ropes!”

Oh yes, our meeting! I chuckle. I’m looking forward to that.

I give a slow nod. “Yes, very true. But, bear in mind: I owe much of my luck to great corporate spies. Now, imagine a world where Everman has great spies too. Imagine what that might mean if he knew all my secrets.”

I struggle to hold back a shudder. Izzy shudders for me.

“And his tech—I’ve tested it on all manner of cyborgs,” I continue. “But there’s only so much that reverse engineering can get me. I can’t let there be a single crack in my operations. I need as much monitoring and regulation as possible.”

My laptop somehow slips from my hands and hits the floor. I tremble.

“As much. As. Possible,” I repeat, icy water and venom dripping from my lips.

“Really, why compare yourself with Hugo Everman anyway?” says Izzy, pitching up her voice.

I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve put in more time and effort than anybody! He’s a tabloid void who sucks up all the oxygen. All my life, I’ve been on this quest for fame and fortune… And the people, they never notice. They never care. They just give all their adulation to him! He does not know the first thing about anything, by the way.”

Izzy shrugs. “Everybody craps. Just because somebody has a successful story doesn’t mean anything. That guy has plenty of issues, I’m sure.”

“Thank you!” I cry. “Screw Hugo and his huge ego!”

“Also,” Izzy says, scrolling through her phone, “Hugo Everman apparently left a message recently. He congratulated you on the ball you held and your recent product launches. Said he enjoyed reconnecting. He also said he’s got your number, but you wouldn’t answer.”

I put my head in my hands and grit my teeth.

“He said he’s ‘got my number’, eh?” I whisper. “No… No, no, no.”

I kick at my laptop.

Izzy howls. What is wrong with her?

“He was just trying to be nice,” Izzy says. “I really think he cares. Here, I can play it for you if you want.”

I shake my head. “No need. I’m telling you, he’s onto me. First it was the protestors… Then, his lame sidekick… And now this? It’s a counterattack, I can smell it.”

There’s a heavy sinking in my gut. My mind begins flipping through all the things I’ve been doing recently– all the mistakes. My stomach aches. If people knew what I really am, would I be able to live with myself?

My face flushes. Izzy simply puts her hands on her hips. Good old Izzy – always able to bring me back down to Earth.

“Come on, Culver,” Izzy says, flipping her hair. “You know Hugo: he’s like a golden retriever. Loyal to the end, always looking for another squirrel to chase, kinda oblivious… You should know better than anybody. There’s no way this guy has any clue. It’s coincidence.”

I take a deep breath. She’s right. Hugo has no clue. He’s the mental equivalent of a blunt object.

I’m fine.

“Also, I really think you’re picking on the wrong guy,” she continues. “He’s so nice to people and everything. Life of the party. I know he’s got competitive tech, but…”

“This is personal, and having a bunch of sycophants means nothing,” I mutter in rapid-fire, as Bach soars to new heights through my cracked speakers. “The fact that Everman is a man of people says everything you need to know about people. Everybody wants to act like this beige soulless world is the fault of visionaries like me. But, the truth is that people like beige. They like bland. This world is the product of the people, and the people have no imagination. They take the most lazy-minded approach to things! They take shortcuts! Always on the path of least resistance… It’s practically a law of nature.”

Izzy is inspecting her nails and gives a yawn. “Come on: you know you weren’t raised to talk like this.”

“I wasn’t raised!” I say, my voice rising up. “The Byrd family—it’s just day after day of being bored. The Byrds are all soulless feudalists! Unbearable! When you have everything—all the technology, entertainment, clothing, and material comforts—you have nothing. You know this.”

My words are shooting out ever faster and may soon hit escape velocity. Maybe too fast?

Good.

Izzy unplugs her ears once she realizes I’ve stopped.

“I mean… Uncle Brad ain’t bad,” Izzy whispers.

“Screw Brad!” I shout.

My music cuts out. I take a moment to cool myself down, then pick up my laptop to get the music going again. It truly is medicine for the soul.

“Do you think Napoleon would care about people’s feelings? What about Caesar?” I announce. “I learned too late in life that society needs its slaughterhouses to make the bacon, awful as they may be.”

Izzy does a curtsy with her hands behind her back. “Understood your highness.” The music hits fever pitch as she does this. “On that note: your meeting with the Machine is in an hour. You want to take the private jets to his landing pad?”

I wipe a bit of snot dribbling out my nose – screw all these allergies. I flash a grin. “Fun as that sounds, it’s only a block away. And it’s so much fuel…”

Izzy saunters up to me. She snatches my laptop away, then scampers toward the door to the conference center.

“Come on, you know you want it,” she teases. “It beats bus. Or subway. Or… I guess blimp?”

I burst out laughing. “Good point. Honestly, what is up with this city’s culture and its transport system? Completely all over the place.”

I rub my temples as I follow after Izzy. “But, uh… Only the small jet. I can’t afford to do anything more expensive right now, especially with this massive company purchase that’s coming up.”

Izzy’s lips curl into a wide smile and she closes my laptop. “Big jet, big Byrd. Big. Jet.”

Her tongue coils around each syllable. My body tingles.

“Ok,” I say, pumping my fists and thrusting my hips. “You got me. Big jet it is. The biggest jet I have. Everman will be blown away!”

I suddenly stop, remembering I’m only in my underwear. “I will need a bathrobe though…”

“No worries, already on it,” Izzy says, slipping out the door. “We should be good. Thank you Cuthcake!”

I nod cautiously, closing the door to my conference room and taking care that nobody sees me.

“Yes,” I say. “And thank you, sister.”

The Machine

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Up and down she goes. Hnngh!

Ok, that’s 60 reps. Good. But, gotta keep going. Go! Gotta represent!

I wipe sweat off my brow. Good God! Hnngh!

“Impressive,” says Opal.

I give a sigh and relieve myself of the dumb dumbbell I’ve been fighting, resting it in its slots on the bench press. I let my arms fall at my sides as the cool wash of accomplishment flows over me.

“Wow!” exclaims my doctor who comes to me from Opal’s side. “A thousand pounds! That thing is a monster!”

It’s Dr. Livingston, my company’s dedicated MD – medical doctor. Also, he’s a bit of a mad doctor, as is the case with some of my best people. His eyes always have dark bags under them, which match his equally dark hair and grimy doctor’s coat.

He goes to yank the electrodes from my body. I brush him away, rolling off my back and onto my feet.

“Great to hear,” I announce. “I’m built like a tardigrade.”

I’m a bit surprised, since I haven’t taken treatment since the rocket explosion. Ugh… Rough.

Pulling my bottle from my pants, I attempt to cool my panting between gulps of icy drink.

“What are we looking at?” I say with a gurgle, my face now dripping in equal parts sweat and tap water.

“Your metabolic rates are great,” Dr. Livingston states, still looking somewhat stunned. “Same goes for the rest of your vitals.”

He pauses to do a double take at a sheet of paper he’s holding, before turning to view a table at the back corner of the room. He gives some mutters as he ruffles through them.

“Well?” I say, raising my voice.

Opal’s arm brushes against mine. She jerks back and brushes hair from out of her eyes.

I grin. “Boundaries.”

Despite the tightrope I walk, trying to keep things professional with Opal, I’m glad to have her by my side right now.

“Sorry,” she says with a huff. Bits of sweat are beading down her face. I struggle to place why – the air conditioning in this room is on full blast.

Admittedly, I’m pouring sweat since I just finished a giant workout. But outside of that, what is there to sweat?

We’re all in my building’s state-of-the-art recreation and health center. Floor to ceiling is decked out with AI enhanced workout equipment and amenities. Also, HVAC. Gotta love it!

“Hey, space cowboy, mission control needs an update,” I say, clearing my throat. “What’s going on over there?”

Dr. Livingston bobs his head and shuffles his paper into a neat stack, before staggering over. Poor Livingston– the man could clearly use a nap.

“On a positive note, your heartrate and blood pressure seem to be normal,” he says, licking his thumb before thumbing through his things again.

I raise an eyebrow. “Seems to?”

He leans on the bench press. “It’s a drastic improvement from what I was looking at earlier this week, I’ll say that much.”

The cool blue lighting seems to flicker along the linoleum floor and eggshell walls. I bit my tongue. Is this good or bad? Is he readying up for a negative note to go with this positive note?

“Let me say this much,” he says, “you’re looking better than lots of the athletes and astronauts I’ve worked with. If you stick with what you’re doing, you should be okay Armstrong.”

I give a half frown. It’s nice to hear him liken me to one of the astronauts. They’ve been heroes of mine since I was a kid. Nevertheless, something doesn’t quite sit right. I sigh and fix my posture.

“Give it to me straight, doc,” I say, fanning my shirt.

I feel wrong inside all the time and I never quite know why. It’s like some bolt or joint within me wasn’t screwed on quite right. My creator may have– just maybe— screwed up.

I look over to Opal, then to Livingston. They’re so quiet. Gah!

Say something to me! I’m the Machine!

I – I’m…

I’m human too!

Doesn’t anybody understand? Why is there so much resistance to getting what I want? Why does my body fight and wear on me when I’m trying to get where I’m going?

Whenever I move toward something, my motions get all stiff. Jerky. I need things to loose and I often lose. And my emotions. Ugh! They boil me up, from inside out.

My face goes tight.

“Why am I never enough?” I mutter.

Do I even matter?

My body itches from all my sweat and I can smell my own body odor. So aggravating – I need to just get this over with and get in the shower.

Opal checks her smart watch and awkwardly shuffles over a few feet, the knots in her hair springing as she does. Dr. Livingston is still scanning the page and scrunches his nose.

Crud. What’s the hold up? Why they holding off on me?

“Well?” I grumble.

“You stopped taking that gene therapy for performance enhancement, yes?” Dr. Livingston says, nose still in notes.

I nod. “Yeah. Earlier this week, when I noticed I was feeling weak and out of sorts, sort of.”

Dr. Livingston gives a sniff, then wipes his nose with his sleeve.

“Great. Keep that up. You might not want to hear this, but this data conclusively confirms negative side effects. You can’t keep taking that stuff.”

I stiffen. “We need some sort of compromise on this! Those enhancements – it’s about something bigger than just me. Progress on key medical issues is being accelerated. Also, they’ll help massively with space-mining initiatives for astronauts, protecting them against cosmic rays. Think about the future among the stars! You’re asking me to leave it on the table. It’s our future!”

Dr. Livingston sniffles and preens his hair. “I believe you that the treatment is important. I’m sure biomedical advancements will get us to this future you talk about. But, for the present moment, I strongly advise you stop the treatment.”

I rest my hand on my forehead and take deep breaths.

“You just don’t get it, do you? The world needs heroes. It needs protectors. Without this treatment, I’ll have to stop. I won’t be able to save the day if it ever comes down to the wire. I just… I just know it.”

Opal walks in front of me and gazes into my eyes. Her skin is flushed and her mouth twitches all flustered.

“This doesn’t always have to be about you, Hugo,” she says. “There are plenty of capable people and systems in place, keeping things safe. You don’t need to put yourself out.”

I rub my forehead some more, my mind going back to old footage of space heroes and astronauts I saw as a kid. Traveling to the stars and worlds of the heavens always felt so right to me. It can be here, if I just play hero a little bit longer. The celestial kingdom will be humanity’s with the right technology and science.

I side-eye Dr. Livingston, then look back to Opal.

“Everything in this world changes so fast. And, I need to be able to save things,” I say.

Opal gives a lopsided smile. “We can’t save forever. We have to savor what we have while we have it.”

I shake my head and look to the pale blue lights in the ceiling. “All my life, I’ve been fighting to be like one of those heroes from stuff I saw as a kid. You know, like the astronauts. Space men. Our future is up there, you know. I always feel like something keeps getting in my way. I can’t give up. That’s the only reason I’ve come so far. That said, maybe I’m missing something. Hard for me to say.”

Opal shifts her weight to one side, as though thrown off balance.

“I’m always wondering how to be more of a hero in daily life myself, haha,” she says, before pausing to give another soft laugh. “But, an enhancer isn’t the answer. No amount of strength can move heaven and Earth, but a single voice can.”

A rash tingles through my body and my face feels warm. Something shifts in my soul. Nevertheless, a strong part of me still feels agitated – off-kilter.

“I strive. I fly. I believe… And, success is out of reach! Ugh! No matter what I do to help, it’s never the right thing. I’m always falling short. It never ends!”

Opal makes a broad gesture with her arms. “Air hug, Hugo. Also, don’t keep saying that. You’re more than enough! Life isn’t meant to be Neverland, Everman.”

I give a snort, then make an air hug gesture back. I still feel a bit off and miffed, but she has a point. Maybe the reason things keep spiraling out of my control is that this control was never meant to be mine to begin with.

“Just sleep on it is all I’m saying,” says Dr. Livingston. “I’m sure you’ll come to the right choice.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t bet on that, Doc.”

“I mean, it’d certainly help clear up your ethics questions, right?” Dr. Livingston states, scribbling something that appears as a smudgy riddle to me. “Useful technology, but you need to be careful with how it’s deployed and wielded.”

I force a smile. “True.”

This is all a bit depressing. But then, what else is new? I tried convincing myself that, if not me to use it, then somebody worse gets it first. Maybe I was shortsighted. All the heroics and triumphs I’ve been chasing are artificial. Something within me has gotta give. Deep down, I know the truth that nobody else is willing to say.

Opal checks her watch again, then clucks her tongue. “We about done here?” she asks. “I have a quick errand to run, and then Hugo and I have a business meeting with the board.”

Dr. Livingston gives a thumbs up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. By the way, did you want to see how the guest patients are holding up?”

I blink as I feel a sudden weight settle on my chest. I wipe the sweat from my brow. “Of course.”

I let Opal and Dr. Livingston ahead of me, toward the exit. “Thanks, by the way,” I say as the automatic doors swoosh open.

“No problem,” says Opal.

Dr. Livingston says nothing, his motions distracted and impatient as ever.

We make our way into a ward where there are patients laying in stretchers. We’re separated by walls of brick and glass, but I somehow am still able to feel twangs of pain reach me from where they’re sleeping.

There are three of them. They’re the cyborgs that I’ve fought with over the past week. However, most of the haphazard weaponized limbs have been replaced with proper biomedical prosthetics.

“Those are new to me,” I say, my eyes still scanning the scene.

Dr. Livingston gives a slight grin. “Yeah, we had them sent in from top medical centers.”

“That Everman Technologies?” I ask. “I don’t recognize it.”

“No,” Opal and Livingston say in unison.

“And… I’m footing the bill?” I chuckle.

“Yes,” says Livingston. “That’s what you—.”

“Sorry, just messing around,” I say, taking a deep breath as my chest goes rigid. “Cover every cost, don’t worry. I know I really need to work on my Hugo humor.”

“Hugo humor?” Opal says, scrunching her face.

“It’s patented, don’t steal it,” I say, drawing closer to the windows.

I want use to all break into laughter, to relieve the tension. I want the darkness in the air to somehow goa way. Instead, it stays lying among us, unflinchingly.

“They okay?” My voice has a quiver in it, and my face is nearly pressed up against the glass.

There are various wires and tables deeding into the patients, and a long array of biometrics line the walls. The patients are withered and frail, almost devoid of muscle tone. A slight reassurance is that they’re breathing more steadily than last time I saw them. The color is also returning to their complexions.

One of them seems to open their eyes from under gauze and gaze at me. I think they give a smile. Eh, could be in my head. Still, they’re all positively glowing relative to their condition when they got here. I lose my tough guy guise and smile back at them.

“You are going to be able to cover these healthcare costs, right?” Opal says with a nudging gesture of her shoulders. “The shareholders got wind of this, and they are refusing to pay.”

I grimace. Oh, they’ll pay. One day, some way, they will pay.

“For the time being, the charity should be able to cover it,” I say with a forced shrug. “You can have fun funneling funds. I’ll try talking to them when I get the chance.”

Yeesh, that wooden board. Not looking forward to the meeting I’ve got scheduled 15 minutes from now.

“You might also want to consider upping security and lawyering up,” says Dr. Livingston. “The police have a warrant out for their arrest. You might be looking at a little litigation.”

My face contorts in disgust. “Utterly unwarranted. Also, you know I don’t like lawyers. Justice should be self-evident.”

Dr. Livingston gives a soft guffaw. “You should know all too well that law can easily be bent. The justice system is only as just as the money justifies.”

“Fine, we’ll get it sorted,” I say. “Money is no object. These people aren’t going in a prison.”

Money, money, money… Man, he ain’t making my day easy.

I peer into the window again at the victims. They have the laminar flow of youth running down their skin. Can’t be much older than Cog.

“This isn’t right,” I say, my voice cold. “This isn’t fair. And it was my company’s tech. My tech. My fault. I refuse to let these people take the fall.”

Dr. Livingston gives me a warm smile, then pats me on the back. “It’ll be alright. We’ll get there.”

He better be telling the truth. I turn away from the window, my vision blotching.

How could my tech have gotten hijacked like this? How could this happen?

“I think it’s time,” Opal says. “We gotta go to other meetings. Keep your spirits up Dr. Livingston, and good work.”

“You too,” Livingston chirps.

I follow Opal out of the health center and into the hall, lumbering with the energy of a zombie. My head is still in that patient ward, but good old Opal is a master at bringing about peace.

“You ready for this meeting?” Opal asks. “I’m going to try my best to help, but I’ve got a ton of other things on my plate. I heard they want to pivot on some things after the mishap at the Byrd showcase.”

I bite my lip. “I’ll do my best, but can’t make any promises. Last thing I want on my mind right now.”

Opal laughs with a wide smile. With everything I’ve screwed up, it’s nice to see her be herself again.

“I’m dead serious,” I say, keeping just a hint of sarcasm. “I’ve got all this robot rocket stuff to deal with. And the charity… I don’t have time for another chairman battle.”

“You check your stocks?” Opal asks.

I grimace. “I can’t look at that stuff these days, things are way too insane.”

“Stock just jumped up 10%,” Opal says. “Maybe the product announcements and public appearances you’ve made are finally paying off? Hopefully that keeps your spirits up.”

She turns the phone back toward herself, studying the data in disbelief of herself.

“Ok, I really have to stop,” she says. “Other things to run to, see you soon. Good luck!”

Opal whips out her phone, displaying a graph with a whole lot of green. There’s a slights pat on the back and then she’s off, jogging down the hall to who knows where. Business—why must you come with so much busyness?

I take measured breaths and make my way toward the main meeting room, my mind bouncing between various initiatives and pressures I’m gonna get hit with. I’m barely ready, and I’m still shocked my stock is not in the red this morning.

I chuckle to myself. Wall Street suckers. Whatever, I guess I’ll take it. Uneasy as I am, maybe my heroic efforts are finally paying off.

Reaching the door to the meeting room, I pause and begin to breathe. In and out. I just need to clear my mind. Time begins to cool and peace washes over me. All will work out.

“Stop right there bitch,” somebody caws.

My face puckers in on itself. Stopping in my tracks, I look about my marble hall.

“That’s right, you big bitch!” they repeat.

Something slimy gets me in the forehead, then splats on the ground. I turn around. There’s a man stuffed in a banana suit, which is a size too small. His yellow tights have holes in them and the suit is colored a dull beige. Wilkins. The tip of the banana suit slumps to the side, and stains dot its seams. His face barely fits through the hole in his costume, and he wears a yellow bandanna over his forehead that is cinched too tight.

“It’s the Banana Bandit baby!” Wilkins cries, bandying his phone about in one hand and his oversized banana cannon in another. “Your greatest nemesis! It is time for the battle of the century: a bad, bad banana vs. the big tangerine!”

I groan, then roll my eyes while rolling up the sleeves to my orange shirt. Wilkins and I go way back. But, our relationship is totally not what he makes it out to be.

“How’d you get past security?” I grunt, wiping some of the banana gunk off my face.

Wilkins doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s twerking in the middle of the hall, making sultry kissy faces through his five o’ clock shadow.

“Na-na-na-na-na,” he sings to his phone, waving it around. “This banana is feeling real fame hungry today, subscribers! I’m down bad! Bad banana bad!”

Well, okay then. Looks like this has been is still trying to go viral?

He gives a tragic attempt at moonwalking on his banana peels for shoes. “I’m over the moon, Everman!” he declares, just as I go to snatch his phone away.

Wilkins staggers. “Hey, you can’t just jag stuff from the next Mick Jagger like that!”

I turn his phone off, then scoff. “Excuse me? Last I checked, I thought I had a restraining order on you!”

“Wilkins laughs. “It’s going through the court of – uh – appeals!”

There’s another splat at my head of banana peel, shot from the banana cannon.

“And that!” I shout, pointing at his cannon. “The banana cannon! I thought we banned it!”

“Well, I am a bandit,” he says in sing-song. “Also, it’s called the unappealer!”

“Onion peeler?” I snort.

“Unappealer!” Wilkins whines, stomping a slimy foot. He pauses to cock his big floppy head. “Banana cannon… BC… It made me sound like I have a big ol’ complex!”

My mouth gapes a bit as my eyes run over his big banana suit. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but…”

Bah! I’m hit with another banana before I can finish. Why does he keep doing that?

“Time for me to peel out!” Wilkins says, sliding down the hall. He shoots bananas wildly into the air, blotting doorways and lamplights alike.

I jog after the joyrider. I need to get that cannon!

“That’s right you monkey, come get the banana!” he says with a giggle.

I’m just about to get at him when I slip on one of his banana peels.

Yow! I hurtle onto my back. My legs manage to kick at the Banana Bandit, toppling him over.

“Ungh!” he guffs, falling on top of me. “Can I—can I have my phone back?”

My eyes burn and narrow to thin slits.

“Get. Off. Me,” I say, my voice stiff and rigid.

“Make me!” the Banana Bandit says with a wink.

Holding the phone away, I clench my jaw. “I’ll have you know, I’m a black belt in ninjitsu!”

Banana Bandit’s gangly arms outstretch for the phone. “Come on, you wouldn’t bruise a perfectly good banana would you?”

“Uh… Perfectly good?”

“Fruit punch!”

The Banana Bandit gets me in the wrist. A successful block! Much as I’m getting sick of this coconut’s puns, I can’t complain if he wants to announce all his punches before he makes them.

He grumbles, catching my smirk. “You think you’re a master fighter, eh? I can fight you blindfolded!”

He pulls his bandanna down over his eyes and begins wailing at me, feigning a powerful roar. I feint. He fights back. I counter.

I give a whoop of laughter, and he rejoins. We’re really at it now. Two men, wrestling to the end!

Bam! Blam! Pow!

Yahoo!

“You’re stupid!” Banana Bandit howls as I pin his elbows in a bind.

“No, you!” I snap back.

“Yo mama!” he grunts.

He kicks me in the groin.

Oh. Oh no. Not the balls!

Owweee!

Oh, the heavens… Heavens why?!

I fart. I groan. I moan. A stargate portal seems to open up in the corner of my vision. Waves of pain. Unngh!

“What in the world are you doing?” the voice of Escorgier booms.

My ears pound and I groan, barely gathering myself to my feet. I and the Banana Bandit are still close to the meeting room’s entrance, but a gaggle of shadowy figures have gathered around. I blink, clearing my vision of sweat, spit, and adrenaline. I gag.

It’s the business brigade – a bunch of animals wrapped up in tight business suits, a harsh clash of black and white. Also, Peter and Opal—chief engineer and chief technology officer, side by side. I give a limp wave, then readjust my sleeves.

“Supervillain,” I mutter with a weak laugh, pointing at the Banana Bandit. “You know—the usual.”

Something in my chest sinks as I read the faces of those around me. Pure disappointment is upon them. Even the Banana Bandit ain’t buying my excuse.

“You couldn’t have just called security?” Escorgier asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving a droll grin.

Total troll, this guy. The toll of dealing with him—it’s too much.

“You know what?” I say, my voice soft. “He’s fine. He can stay, he’s my guest today.”

I hold back a snicker as I unlatch the meeting room door an unleash a rabble of grumbles from the group. Banana Bandit gives a whoop. I can feel the fury burning off Escorgier at the notion, and I’m loving it.

Here comes everybody! Each board member waddles beneath my smelly armpit as I keep the door propped open for them. Escorgier gives a glare, and I just try to pretend I don’t see him.

Gotta give myself props: earlier this month, I would’ve blown my top. At this point though, I can only accept whatever happens.

Peter and Opal take uneasy steps as they enter last. I try to give a comforting nod. It’s the best I got. All I can do is try to speak softly, and carry a big stick.

“Where’s Boris?” I ask, scanning the room.

Silence greets me as I make my way to my seat at the far end of the table. Behind me is a taped up window, still broken from my battle with a dragon a week or so back. Escorgier grabs a seat at the opposite end. Banana Bandit is right by him but somehow Escorgier doesn’t seem to care. Something in his eyes crackles with a cracked delight.

“Where’s Boris?” I repeat.

Escorgier shrugs. “He’s out, as of today.”

Peter and Opal are seated near me, wound up like compressed springs. Peter opens his mouth to say something, then sucks in his cheeks.

I glance at my initials etched on a plaque that distinguishes my seat: H.C.E.

Escorgier is still staring at me, clutching his mechanical pen. Ech. He’s giving off bad chi—a bad energy. He’s gonna make me justify everything, from my latest tech to my very existence, isn’t he?

“Machine, egos are going to clash today,” Escorgier decrees with a scree. “Let’s eschew the pleasantries: we’re starting an executive search.”

I feel as though I’ve just been hit by a truck.

“Excuse me?’ I say, my voice icy. “Are you questioning my authority?”

“I’m surprised you take issue with this!” Escorgier neighs. “Don’t guys like you like the hero questing, questioning thing?”

His mouth twitches. “Anyway, the search is on. I know—I’m being a tough man. But, this is how all things are. Start, then stop. Is, then isn’t You’ve had a nice run Hugo, but we’re thinking it’s time you go.”

I lean back in my chair and kick my feet up onto the table.

“I’m sticking around,” I say. “Maybe this has been a rough quarterly cycle, but it is still just part of a cycle. Things come back around.”

There’s a snapping of the handle on Escorgier’s pen, from him picking at it too intensely. “That’s the problem, Everman: you let problems and things go on for forever. Your insistence on continuing your way… Always forging ahead, despite requests to slow it down. You keep foregoing and forgetting that all is tentative. You’ve rode out your peak and your tenure must end.”

“I don’t have to stand for this,” I snipe back, holding my palm in the air. “The company has quintupled over the past five years.”

Escorgier laughs. “That’s the trouble isn’t it? For a man who wants to stick around, you’re not putting much stock in your own stock, are you?”

Escorgier pounds a button on the table, blasting a hologram of charts and metrics into the glass pyramid at the center of the table.

“You can’t force me out,” I say, my voice breezing as wind. “Between I and Boris, there should be a majority stake. While I and Boris have our differences, he’d never…”

I swallow. Even as I say this, I already sense I’ve made a mistake. Deep down, I know the truth.

Escorgier gives a Cheshire grin. He’s about to make me pay. But then—if my blunder of words forces the truth out of him, it might be worth the price.

“Weren’t you listening? Boris is out,” Escorgier says with a hum. “He sold. Everman Technologies has absorbed his stake.”

Holy crap Boris! You moron!

“We’ve been riding high,” Escorgier says, adjusting his chair to ascend with his condescension. “But, your role as this heroic Hugo figure—go figure—is played out. Sales on your merch are down. The Machine franchise is trending as white bread and inauthentic. People see the Machine as a manufactured persona, and your attempts to branch out as a desperate attempt to escape typecasting.”

Escorgier scrolls through a bunch of social media impressions, sneering as he does. Much of the board joins along. My veins flare up with fire. I close my eyes to regulate myself. His angle of attack is difficult to deflect.

When did saviors start serving mankind through subscription services?

My mind winds back to when I was young, biking around rural Lanesville. Back then, I always thought it was Lamesville, but those winding dirt roads and ephemeral forests always had a place for me. Every day there was something new to discover.

I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to discover myself through money and performance. But, it’s all a front, and it’s time to explore the frontier beyond it. What does it mean to be Everman? Am I an overman or an everyman?

I was once entranced by tales of rags to riches. But maybe my rags were never the problem. Maybe the problem was the riches.

I chuckle. Rich, isn’t it?

“I mean, this was inevitable: your strength comes from rehearsals and exercises,” Escorgier says, grinning madly as he digs the proverbial knife in deeper. “When you couple in the annoying sidekick, the string of public controversies, and your corrupt transfer of wealth into the nonprofit… You’ve jumped the shark. The brand damage is simply irrevocable.”

I shift in my seat. My friends shift with me. He might say I’ve jumped the shark, but I feel I’ve jumped into the shark tank.

“My sidekick needs a mentor,” I state firmly. “And, the nonprofit—it’s a matter of principle. Biotech is a public service. The true measure of wealth isn’t how much can hoarded, but how much can be given away.”

“So I’ve heard,” Escorgier lisps. “Look, Cork…”

“Cog.”

“Gah—Okay? You should’ve gotten a super pet or something instead, this kid is really messing with the brand synergy.” Escorgier chortles. “As for the rest of your prattle: you need to look at your business catalogue like cattle. Your flagrant misuse of company resources and security protocols will not stand!”

Escorgier might talk a big game, but I can’t help lasering in on the 10% uptick featured on the holographic stock ticker. I rise from my chair. My palms plant solidly on the table surface and I hold my arms in a truss.

I have one power move left.

“The cyborg and chip leak mishaps are a massive mistake, I agree,” I say, the words flowing low and heavy. “And yes, our spending outstrips our revenue. I’m struggling to keep it together, I won’t lie. I don’t know how this all slipped through the crack, and I’m sorry.”

I give a sigh of relief. My friends and some of the board seem on board. Escorgier isn’t buying it, but what does he know?

I clear my throat. “Mistakes happen though. Also, you need to spend money to make money. I have a vision of where everything is going. There’s a pathway to onward and upward, you have my word.”

Ungrounding my right hand from the tabletop, I gesture at the stock. “Even the public seems to believe in where we’re headed. The stock jumped 10% today! That simply doesn’t happen unless things are going well.”

Escorgier gives a snicker, and my face goes hot. What is he laughing about?

Escorgier takes a chomp at his pen. “You’re not in on the loop. The big movers and shakers are.”

A lump forms in my throat. It has become too dry to even swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re not just performing an executive search!” Escorgier bellows. “You’re being ejected from the board, and we’re looking to perform a new merger. Wall Street clearly got the memo before you did.”

He squints at the uptick in the graph, then gives another snicker. My head spins. What was the wrong turn I took to get here?

“What is this, a Banana Republic?!” the Banana Bandit shouts into Escorgier’s ear, bouncing from his chair.

Woof. I almost forgot he was even in here.

Escorgier rolls his eyes, then hits a button in his chair.

“Somebody get this fool out of here,” Escorgier says into his armrest.

“You tech oligarchs can’t just get rid of me,” Wilkins says, dashing to the corner of the room. “Somebody needs to keep things regulated! Keep things regular! Also, if you get any closer, I can shoot antimatter out my banana butt!”

A couple of security guards emerge through the entrance doors and grab at Wilkins.

“Hey!” I say as they carry him off.

My voice is utterly drowned out under the tumult of Wilkin’s protests.

“This stuff should be handled by vote! By a process among the people! Among all!” Wilkins presses.

The security guards drag him into the hall.

“You might think more robots and AI will increase freedom, but innovation is not always this way!” Wilkins whimpers, his voice nearly echo. “The invention of the cotton gin initially increased slavery! Increased bondage! What do you think the next great revolution will do?”

Escorgier closes the door.

“Seriously,” Escorgier says with a hum, before retaking his seat. “This is the sort of thing I’m talking about. Why let that nutter in here?”

I can’t take my eyes off the door.

Aww man... Poor Banana Bandit.

I scratch the top of my head. “He’s mostly harmless. Mostly… Besides: he has a point. Sometimes the wisest among us are those we deem fools.”

My eyelids hold a new weight, and I let them hood my vision with a hint of darkness. “You better make sure he’s safe.”

This comes more as a declaration to myself than anyone else. Escorgier and the board don’t seem to hear me, their eyes glued to the data flipping through the holographic display.

“I’m sure you must be on the edge of your seat as to who we’re performing the merger with,” says Escorgier. “The board has decided it’ll be Byrd Enterprises. Surprise!”

The holographic display flickers, opening up to a video call. The back of a chair emerges, held in steady high definition. The familiar backside of a head covered in jet-black hair pokes overtop.

“Everman,” Culver Byrd grumbles through the conference room’s loudspeakers, my name rolling off his tongue.

His voice is inescapable, coming at me in pressurized surround sound.

“Ever. Man,” Byrd repeats, rolling my name in another direction as though it were a hard candy. “Ever… Everman.”

The chair spins with a creak. It’s him, unmistakably.

It’s so over.

“Why, hello Hugo!” declares Byrd. “What a coincidence! I was just talking about you! Almost didn’t see you there!”

I just gotta let this pass. This’ll blow over.

Escorgier is beaming, and his eyes brim with avarice. “Yay! It’s the big Byrd brain! You finally made it!”

Byrd gives a hiss and the camera flickers. “Don’t call me Byrd brain!”

Escorgier readjusts his collar and bobs his head. “Of course, of course. On that note: we were just talking about the Machine hero, mascot, branding thing. Did you want to look at all that?”

“No,” Byrd says with a swipe of the hand. “I want to take a tour of your latest tech prototypes. Who cares about the stupid action figure brand?”

Escorgier gives a sniffle, then gestures at Opal and Peter. “Yes, yes. Our best techies are here, no worries.”

Byrd juts his chin in the air, proud and foreboding.

“First order of business though, I need to set some boundaries,” Byrd says, before giving a whistle. “Time to begin an inquisition on this acquisition.”

A woman enters the meeting room holding a towering stack of papers. She’s wearing a snowy fur dress, which drags behind her and spits sparkles with her every step. On her head is a bunny ear head band. The papers land on the table with a thud and Escorgier passes them around.

“This is my sister, Izzy,” Byrd says with a smile. “The Velveteen.”

“Hey y’all!” the Velveteen says with a jump. “I’m his sis!”

“You didn’t want to do this in person, Viddy?” I say as a stack of papers comes my way.

Byrd shudders, then shakes his head. “No, in person break ups are so awkward!” He laughs. “Also, germs. I don’t want to get stuck dealing with a bug. Viddy is partial to video, what can I say?”

As I skim the paper, electric shocks run through my body. While much of the document is gibberish legalese, one thing is certain: my company is out of my hands, and all the pieces are already in place.

“Uh, who is Mr. T, Mr. G, and Mr. V?” Peter says, reading off the title of the document.

“Mr. T and Mr. G are my two layers, Mr. Teller and Mr. Gallagher,” says Byrd. “They get things done and do a lot of heavy lifting on my behalf.”

Peter scratches his head. “Err, why list them that way? Also, Mr. V?”

“Mr. V is me, the Vitruvian, of course! I needed the contents of this report to be kept confidential. It’s a stylistic thing, okay? I’m sorry if these names are a big distraction, but I have too many other things to get to right now!”

The Velveteen nods. “Boss is right. You guys have no style!”

My mind runs back to notes and evidence given to me by Cog, surrounding chip robberies at Everman Technologies facilities. Some of these nicknames and abbreviations have come up before, as clues. I now realize that Byrd has been after me and my company resources for far longer than I’ve given him credit for.

“Why are you doing this?” I say, my voice streaming as molasses. “You realize that, deep down, you and I are the same… Right? Don’t you?”

“We couldn’t be more different,” Byrd says, leaning back in his chair. “I am one of the fiercest thought leaders in the world. I will stop at nothing to ensure my impact on history is storied and exceptional. You? You’re a dropout. You want a system of handouts. You’re not built for this high-paced atmosphere, and you know it. You promote the average median, mediocre person instead of people like me, and pretend like it’s some virtue! You need to get over yourself and stop posturing as my equal! Everman, we will never be equal! We will never be even, man!”

I hang my head, letting my shadow cast across the table. This is so unlike him. I always have seen him as a friend, even if a rival.

“Byrd, please,” I say with a slight choke. “Have empathy. Think about everything we’ve done together. Consider your morals. Morality – it’s the highest modality of reality. The rest is just window dressing.”

Byrd groans. “Give it a rest. Your company is all but mine. It’s all there in the black and white. Our corporation creations, Byrd and Everman, are to merge into the same entity. It’s fate!”

Byrd pauses, then scowls as though annoyed with himself.

“But then…” he says, “maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all there is. Wrong and right. Black and white. Of course, maybe there’s also a twist on this. It’s so constricting to always be in the right. You ever think about that, Mr. Righteous? There might just be a dark side to light! Maybe I’m allowed to be wrong!”

I wince and wipe the hair out of my face. “Between good and bad, bad is a bad look Byrd. It’s risky business. You can’t just run around stepping on everybody. It’ll catch up to you eventually.”

Byrd bows his own head. Parroting me? Parodying me? I’m not sure.

“It’s just business,” he says. “I’ve measured the business risks. I need your tech, and this is what I must do. If this risk makes me a reckless and evil man in your eyes, Everman, oh well. It’s the price I’m willing to pay.”

Escorgier and the board are all squirming and murmuring among themselves. I’m sensing some buyer’s remorse over here.

“You tell him, hot stuff!” the Velveteen says while skipping around the board room. “My bad boy!”

Gross. Isn’t she his sister?

“Insist,” the Vitruvian says, with a wide grin. “Err—you always insist upon yourself. It’s your greatest sin. Hugo always needs to be the hero… To be the bigger person… To be the better man… Somebody else always needs to be the bad guy! It’s sickening Everman, it’s sickening! Your days of playing king are over!”

The Vitruvian stands from his chair, his cape flaring behind him, harsh and terrible. Most of the light is blacked out from the video camera, leaving the hologram of a smoky figure.

“There’s an asymmetry tucked away at the base of existence,” the Vitruvian growls. “You see it in the stars. In the atom. In the heart of all things… Imbalance. Such is the nature of chirality. Such is the nature of time. Spin… There’s no other way to spin it.”

The hologram is looming ever larger. Inexplicably, a cloud passes by the sun through the window and the room dims.

“Did you know there’s a highest possible temperature in the observable universe?” the Vitruvian inquires.

I refuse to answer. I have nothing left to say to him.

“There’s also a lowest possible temperature,” the Vitruvian continues. “Between the two, when you look out to the sky, you see the universe is so much colder than it is hot. All but absolute zero. Cold… Oh so cold. This is the true nature of things, which we so often try to hide away from ourselves. Do you have an answer to that?”

I can’t let myself take his bait. He has a point, but so do I.

Byrd pulls back from the camera and settles into his chair. His form has returned to that of a mere man, dressed in a trim black and white business suit.

I smirk. His cape completely contradicts with his put-together performance. But, who am I to judge?

“One more thing,” the Vitruvian says, resting his hand on his chin. “The Machine brand goes to us. Your likes, your likeness, your frame, your fame… We now reserve all rights! You’re now property of Everman Technologies, Machine!”

I suck in my cheeks and clamp down with my teeth.

He deserves to be chewed out so bad. He needs to be chewed up, then spit out!

Okay, I need to get ahold of myself.

I’m starting to understand why Viddy insisted on a video call.

“Here’s the best part…” The Vitruvian sways toward the camera, then away again. “The stuff that’s in your blood? Those experimental bio-enhancers? You need to stop taking them. Come on, you gotta have a response to that! We’ll effectively own your body. Ha!”

I give a soft laugh. Didn’t want to stop taking the enhancements, despite the advice of Opal and my doctors. Though, the universe is really forcing my hand.

The Vitruvian only laughs louder in response. “And that brings me to your tech people: Opal and Peter. I want to start with learning more about the biotech treatments from Opal, then work my way to Peter on your applied research prototypes.”

I finally raise my head, then my voice. “The biotech division is squarely within the domain of my nonprofit. You can’t do that, it’s illegal.”

The Vitruvian’s laugh turns to a wolfish howl. “Illegal? Everman, this is the law we’re talking about. Anything can be made legal with the right lawyers in place. We’ve already discovered a zillion ways you’re in violation of your contracts, which renders all stock agreements with you null and void!”

I lift my chair into the air, then toss it at the holographic pyramid. The schema bursts into a million pieces.

I walk toward the exit without another word. The entire room is frozen in shock. They get the message.

“I have defeated you Hugo!” the Vitruvian’s voice warbles through the room’s speakers as a phantom. It catches me off guard – for a second there, I thought it could be a voice in my own head. “I have vanquished you! Do you hear me!? You are about to go down as the greatest failure the world has ever known! It’s over man!”

“Never man,” I say. I stop at the exit. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe none of this is working. Maybe I’ll fail at making my dreams a reality. But, to try for a dream is one of life’s greatest privileges.”

I walk out the door and slam it shut. My veins throb and my muscles tremble as I make my way down the hall. The walls seem to wallow with me as I walk by, the paneling dry and cracked. My fingernails run along the paint, scraping some of it up.

Several of the paintings that hang to the walls are tilted a bit off center, and the glass is smudged with fingerprints.

I furl my lip at what somebody has done to a painting called the Wick Rota– a tunnel painted out of cubes, embedded within a translucent sphere.

I give a weak chuckle. Maybe I don’t like things being slightly askew, but it actually adds a new dimension to this picture. Much more dynamic, somehow.

That said, who’s putting their grubby hands all over my stuff?

There’s a squealing of rubber. It’s at the end of the hall – a man, vacuum sealed into a Byrd Enterprises uniform. He’s carrying some sort of device. A robot?

Is that my tech? Is this place being infiltrated?

The man disappears behind the corner. Sprinting to the end of the hall, I call after him. “Wait! Stop!”

Turning the corner, I watch the man slip through the entrance to the company’s delivery bay. The door took his biometrics without a moment’s hesitation.

I stumble a bit as I slow myself and skid into the bay window. My nostrils flare and my ears get hot.

The delivery bay is flooded with vans and trucks, all labeled Byrd Enterprises. People skitter about, carrying a mixture of Byrd and Everman hardware. It’s hard to watch. Clearly, I’ve been slow on the uptake. If my company was infiltrated, the time to sort it out must be long gone.

“Fuck!” I cry out, kicking at the wall.

My foot leaves a dent. I stub my toes as I do this.

I don’t give a fuck anymore.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCCCCK!!”

I’m panting. Seething. Writhing. My fists curl in on themselves with such force that they start to stall out. My body locks up.

“Hugo?” a soft voice comes to my ear.

I turn, pulling my face from the glass.

It’s Opal. Opal, and a kid. Why is there a kid here?

Opal wraps her arms around the kid. Fuck. It’s her kid. It’s bring your kid to work day, isn’t it?

“Sorry about that, stubbed my toe,” I say, my body sputtering toward them.

It’s at least partly true. That said, my chest wells with guilt. I can’t take my eyes off the boy. He had to see my ugly side—hear me blow a gasket. Old memories from when I was a kid scratch at the back of my mind.

There were so many authorities and father figures who I held up on a pedestal. All were flawed. As I travel deeper into the boy’s eyes, something in there is shattered. I’ve joined the pantheon of failed men and ideals. My anger got the better of me.

I’m the bad guy, aren’t I? This whole Machine thing… Trying to live up to some timeless image of a man that the world could never give me… It was all a farce, wasn’t it?

“Go to the waiting room honey, I need to talk to the Machine,” Opal says to her son, patting him on the head.

He takes his mother’s phone out of her jacket pouch, then skips off with a sort of glee.

I activate my signature smile. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe my outburst hadn’t been so bad after all?

“How’d you get here so fast?” I ask, “The meeting over already?”

Opal puckers her lips, then brushes her willowy hair to the side. “They’re still going I bet, but I couldn’t stand it in there. I quit on the spot.”

She pauses to blink. Her lip quivers, then she places a hand on my shoulder. A warmth fills my cheeks.

“How you doing Hugo?” she says, peering into my eyes. “I’ve never seen you look so afraid of things.”

I grimace. “No. Not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything.” I stop myself and give a dejected look. “What I’m afraid of, if it is possible for me to be afraid… It’s not a thing. It… The physical, it’ll always ebb and flow. However, what lives deep within an imagination? What hides within the consciousness of others? What hides within myself…? I’ll admit, sometimes that scares me.”

Opal’s face sharpens and floods with a ruddy ferocity. “Don’t ever let them talk to you that way again. You hear me? You don’t have to listen to that bullshit. Next time, just leave.”

She pulls her hand back. I offer a crooked smile.

“It’s fine. Sometimes I gotta take the L and let all this stuff sort itself out. None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t let it,” I say, giving a shrug. “Day after day, I insist on my way or the highway… I refuse to bend. I opened up the doorway for all of this.”

I bite my lip. “Also, my body needs a break. I need it all to slow down. Byrd has me pegged. I want to solve all the world’s problems, but it’s too much for me. I tell myself I’m essential, but what I do will only ever be a drop in the bucket. I’m like an old piece of tech, Opal. Maybe it’s finally time for me to go on a shelf.”

Opal looks to the side, then back to me as a twinkle forms at the center of her pupils. “You love it though. You love this place.”

I itch my nose, then nod. “I do love this. We’re a merry band of wild Muppets! But… There’s always going to be this part of me that thinks being a leader is trying to be a one-man-band. I forget to care about others. I need to hit the brakes. I need to find that part of me that cares again.”

Opal opens her mouth, then zips it shut. She zips her eyes shut with it, and slows her breaths. When she reopens her eyes, her face is telling me goodbye.

“Hugo, I have to go. My son has soccer practice to get to,” she says. “Take care. For what it’s worth: you’ve left a mark on me. Or, maybe a scar… At any rate, I care. I hope you can find a way to care again too.”

She walks off. It’s just me now. Me and my thoughts.

I can be just the biggest downer, can’t I?

Eesh – my toe still hurts like crazy.

My feet stutter over to another window in the hall, overlooking the city skyline. There’s nothing quite like it. My eyes dance about the sprawling grandeur of architecture, drinking in the light that runs down them. Shadowy as my mind’s eye might be at the moment, it’s good to see that the world I’ve helped build still stands strong and proud.

I gotta leave this place soon and head back home. I’m hungry and I’m tired. But, for the time being, I just want to be right here. I want to stay standing in the glory of this view.

I need to hang onto the moment. I must. It’s the only thing I’m certain I know how to do

Chapter 10: Open Workspaces

The Cog

Bobbin Locke is back. Him and the garlic breath. Blech.

How he was let out of jail or brought back, I have no clue. Being real, I’d love to try kicking his butt again. But then, this is an office, not the real world.

“You sure that you put it in, right?” Ethan asks Bobbin.

Bobbin bobs his stupid head, as a bit of drool dribbles out the side of his mouth. Must still be recovering from our battle a week back, when he tried raiding the office in the night.

It seems that he has amnesia, because he has yet to acknowledge that I’m Cog or that we fought. There’s a grapelike welt dwelling on his forehead, purple and puerile.

“I only know how to do things the right way,” Bobbin says, rolling back his broad shoulders to pat Hand-E on the tip of its lil’ head. “You know me! I’m Mr. Straight-and-narrow.”

Yeesh. What a load of crock.

Bobbin winks at Lin, then lumbers closer to her. Lin readjusts her turtleneck. Oh brother…

“You sure we should even be installing these chips?” Lin asks, shuffling away from Bobbin, then back toward him a bit so as to not piss him off.

Bobbin stomps a foot. His face is beat red, swollen with what I assume is high confidence and high cholesterol.

He gives a wheeze, then a woof. Oof. I know he’s supposed to be feigning laughter, but I thought he was about to drop dead for a second there.

Bobbin is the one man who could put fun in funeral.

“Of course, losers!” he bellows. “Dr. Skully handed me this package himself! All defective Everman chips in the robotics division are to be replaced with Byrd chips!”

Ethan wipes sweat out of his face, then sputters. “I– I thought Byrd’s tech was incompatible with our stuff. Also, this is the research division. Are—are you sure we want this linked to Byrd’s data?”

Bobbin smacks himself in the forehead. “Byrd is the best in the world. You guys just don’t get it. Byrd provides a zillion features, widgets, and user interfaces for a chip, all in one package. Everman chips… He’s got none of that!”

Bobbin’s stomach gives a bad gurgle at the word chips.

“Don’t they experience lots of dysfunction?” Lin says, now edging Bobbin.

Bobbin scratches his chin. He scratches his groin. “Err… Eck… I tell ya, dysfunction is a touchy subject.”

“I just don’t feel comfortable doing all this without Dr. Skully’s explicit approval, this seems rushed,” says Ethan, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t be safe or reliable.”

Ethan shuffles in place, body swaying side-to-side.

Bobbin blows a raspberry, then smiles to himself as though it were the master stroke of a silver tongue.

“Why, this is the most safe and reliable setup of all time!” he announces, giving Hand-E another violent pat on the head. “Byrd is… Uh… Lion!”

Hand-E gives a sudden whip, whacking Bobbin in the forehead. Instinctively, Bobbin blows another raspberry before he falls backward with a hellish scream.

Landing on the table, Bobbin causes the table to fold.

I rub my eyes. I had a hard time sleeping last night, and I wonder whether I’m still dreaming.

“How the who’ll did me?!” Bobbin splutters incoherently as he staggers to his feet.

Bobbin is now more red and swollen than a tomato.

Ethan, Lin, and I huddle closer together, unsure of what will happen next. My precognition is buzzing.

A roving robot zooms from the side of the room and toward Bobbin. Bobbin is left to run away, screaming ever louder. His pace is stilted, but he manages to stay ahead of the robot as they move in circles about the center of the room.

“Could’ve sworn he was the picture of health before being sent to prison, only a week ago,” Lin says.

“Prison does that. It’s a rough place, trust me,” Ethan says.

I raise an eyebrow. “How would you know?”

Ethan gives a half-frown. “The internet… Let’s just say there are some mysteries in life I wish I could unlearn the answers to.”

Bobbin’s screaming hits a fever pitch, his arms flailing spectacularly, before he finally breaks out into the hall. The roving robot barely manages to slip through the door after him.

“On that note, Bobbin is walking internet meme,” says Ethan. “So many forced revelations he’d share in restrooms that I’d love to forget.”

There’s another scream from Bobbin that leaks into the room, as though he somehow agrees. Then, nothing.

Sweet, maybe he’s finally dead.

Eh… With my luck, probably not.

“When I took this job, I really thought I was looking at a stable paycheck,” says Lin.

I snicker. “Nobody is stable in the adult world, let’s not kid ourselves.”

My precognition blares, and I shift my body to face the back door.

“Dr. Skully is about to enter in a few secs, just a head’s up,” I announce, before winking at Lin.

She scowls, bemused. This switches to bewilderment, her mouth going agape when Dr. Skully’s footsteps resound and he opens the door, like clockwork.

Even Ethan stares, clearly impressed.

I hold back a laugh. Maybe I shouldn’t be using my powers as a party trick. But then, a guy has to have fun with things at some point, right?

Dr. Skully’s brown blazer is marred by grease stains and crumbs. His face is crumpled, holding the weight of a martyr. Catching the strange looks on our faces, he pulls his glasses off his own face. An attempt is made to clean the smudges off them with a mixture of his breath and the cloth of his breast pocket.

I’m not sure whether he succeeds, but he has managed to clear the air of any suspicions of magic Lin and Ethan were feeling toward me. All focus shifts on Dr. Skully.

“What was that noise? Everybody okay?” Dr. Skully utters, his eyes aflutter.

“Bobbin. Bobbin is back,” says Ethan.

Dr. Skully mutters something about boobs under his breath.

Err– maybe he’s calling Bobbin a boob?

The muscles in Dr. Skully’s neck go tense as he cleans some of the scraps Bobbin’s “repair” left on the table with Hand-E. Dr. Skully tosses these debris in a wastebasket.

“You sound enthused,” remarks Lin as she joins in to help.

I stay back. I have a reputation as a useless wallflower, and I’d rather not give Dr. Skully any sense of the contrary.

“You not a fan of Bobbin?” Ethan pitches in.

Dr. Skully simply shakes his head and gives another grumble.

“He nearly broke a few of the robots with his recent mods,” Ethan continues, brownnosing to the max. “Violated the hardware safety protocols we have in place. Did you authorize those? Also, did you let Bobbin back in?”

Dr. Skully uses a hand to flatten out rumples in his pants, while using the other to try cornering Hand-E. I force myself to jump in, gingerly nudging Hand-E alongside Dr. Skully.

“Seriously, you normally keep such a tight ship,” Ethan presses harder. “This guys was ruining the lab’s resources. How could this happen?”

Dr. Skully finally steps away from the table. He glares at the ceiling before offering each of us a warm smile.

“I’ll say this much,” he rumbles, “throughout my professional career, I’ve convinced myself that there’s no such thing as a stupid person. Everybody in life is merely at a different stage of knowledge, with infinite potential for learning. Bobbin Locke though? He just might be truly stupid person.”

Wowie. Really not pulling any punches for the Bobbin roast session, are you Dr. Skully?

Ethan’s eyes well with sadness. “Then why would you approve of these awful chip replacements?”

Dr. Skully readjusts his glasses. “It’s not up to me,” he says. He pauses to itch his beard. “Byrd Enterprises just took control of the company, as of today. There’ve been rumors about this shakeup for awhile from the higher ups, but now it’s official. Can’t say I’m happy about it. Hopefully things work out, but we’ll see. This corporate politics stuff has always been too complicated for me.”

We all shuffle about as a chill passes over us.

“Don’t worry, things will sort themselves out,” says Dr. Skully. “I’m sure I’ll find a place for you wherever I wind up next, if worst comes to worst.”

“Thanks!” Ethan says with a thumbs up.

My guy is way too excited for Dr. Skully’s approval.

“On a lighter note, any good updates you guys have for me?” asks Dr. Skully. “I have a packed schedule today, but should have enough time to help guide where you might need it over these next few minutes.”

“Good. Things have been going good,” Ethan blurts.

Dr. Skully raises an eyebrow. “That’s surprising. I mean, I’m glad to hear it. But, I know the organization has been a mess recently…”

“It is what it is,” I say, patting Ethan on the back. “I’ve been helping out with some software patches and stuff, where I can. Not perfect, but… It works.”

Dr. Skully smiles through the bushy beard of his. Buddy could really cut it down a bit.

“Glad to hear you guys all found a way to work together and help each other out,” he asays. “You never know how these connections might serve you down the line.”

We’re all so close together in this moment. The air is electric. And I should know— I’ve accidentally shocked myself more times than I can count.

I give my friends a grin. They grin back. Somehow, in some small way, a part of each of ourselves is being shared when we’re in this place.

Nevertheless, I can’t shake the feeling that this is all impermanent. How much about my friends will I ever really know? How much have I bothered to try knowing? How many friends from my past have stuck around?

Not many. Not much.

And that brings me to Lin…

It’s so hard to stop my feelings for her. But then, am I doing right by her? Am I to learn that relationships at work can never work?

Probably.

Probably definitely.

Cunning as I like to think myself as, there sure is a lot about life I’m always struggling to make sense of.

Dr. Skully seems to have picked up on my angst and flanks around us.

“This is all somewhat my fault,” he says. “Somewhat. I should’ve been more transparent with the team about what I thought was going to happen. Lots of programs are being reshuffled or scrapped entirely, in the name of artificial intelligence. This merger is pretty ruthless too.”

Lin and Ethan rejoin with annoyed grumbles. I attempt to add grumbles of my own, but my mind beams back to conversations I’ve had with Hugo. He’s seemed so off lately. Worn out. The pieces are all coming together. I feel bad for not noticing sooner.

“What happened to Everman?” I say with a wince.

Ethan and Lin are groaning now. Suddenly I’m the suck up, eh?

“Seriously, nobody cares,” says Lin.

Dr. Skully gives one of his signature huffs. “Agreed. Greed… Pure greed at the top. Everman is a funny character, I’ll give him that. But also, total nutjob. If you had to deal with half the insanity I’ve had to deal with, you’d now that he had to go.”

Ugh. If only I could let Dr. Skully in on my time as Cog.

Dr. Skully catches the downcast look on my face, then pauses to stroke his beard. “The ejection is a bit of a paradox though. This place will probably collapse faster without him than with him, I’ll give him that. Not sure what the business strategy is.”

I feel like a kid again, being told Santa isn’t real. Of course, this was all just a sham. How is it that I was the last to catch on?

To placate myself, I check my phone. As I do, I find a message that has been waiting for me over the past few hours from the man himself: the Machine.

“Meet me at your apartment in an hour,” it reads. “We need to talk.”

A fire brims in my chest. Maybe the myth is still kicking after all?

“Well, I gotta go,” I say. “Dentist appointment this afternoon. Forgot to tell you guys.”

I scuttle out the door Bobbin took. My exit is likely just as disruptive as Bobbin’s was as well. That said, I don’t care. I can’t let myself feel guilty. I’m not going to bother pretending to be happy about work when it’s simply not working. Life is too short for that.

Making my way down the hall, I feel my throat go dry. My chest sinks. I think back to all the wild stuff that’s been happening. Could I be doing more to keep a handle on things? What if my standoffish nature is putting everybody out? I like to be self-defined, but how expensive is this for others?

My mind burns, running through all the possibilities. It feels like it’s on fire.

I stop at a water fountain and dunk my head in. I drink. I drink and I drink, until water fills my stomach and the awful dryness goes away.

I lift my head and make my way down the hall. It’s okay. None of these problems were of my choosing. I’m just a cog. I can relax.

A bit of burning remains at the back of my mind, but I feel better now. I’ve cooled myself somehow, through the water and the fountain.

I put my hand through the fingerprint scanner of the building exit, then head out of the Everman Technologies office building. I’m out of the manilla mindscape, escaping into a vanilla sky.

Above me, the sun is razzling from a venue of clear blue and through the web of city. My eyes sizzle in delight. All clouds are on vacation. The air is as free as my spirit. New Vinci has no room for clouds in this vicinity now.

A siren calls out as I make my way toward the maglev station, but somehow I feel at rest. My spirit feels whole.

“Hello,” Lin calls out by the train stop, with a wave.

“What are you doing here?” I say, trying to stay nonchalant as I stride to her side.

Lin shrugs. “Also got a dentist appointment.”

I smirk. “Right.”

“Just a coincidence,” Lin adds. “Don’t get any ideas.”

I scratch the back of my neck. Sure would be nice if my precognition could tell me if this gal likes me or not. Would save me a lot of hassle

Honestly, I’m a busy guy. Also, low-confidence. Also, also… Love has yet to have worked out for me. Screw it, I should still say something.

“I’m nothing if not ideas,” II say, filling the dead silence between us. “Also, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Oh?”

Lin’s hands are in her pockets, and her eyes are coldly trained on the train tracks.

“That said, I’m sorta nuts,” I continue. “Just want to make that clear.”

Lin bites her lip. “Figured. Figures.”

Grr. Should I ask this girl out again? Is that what she wants?

Is that what I want?

I’m often flipping polarity on this question. I’d love a relationship. I’d love to no longer be lonely. But, do I really have enough time to give? Enough heart?

Plenty of other guys out there would be better for Lin, I’m sure. Surely she deserves the best?

“Do you want to go somewhere to eat together, some time?” I blurt.

Blurgh. Didn’t think that through at all.

“This weekend,” I clarify.

Lin gives it a second, then a weak smile. “Camping trip, can’t do it. Maybe some other time. Also we’d need to bring Ethan along!”

I grimace, then check the time. Wow, this is awkward. Was really expecting my natural charisma to do me a solid for once.

“What train you taking?” I ask. “Mine arrives in about a minute.”

Lin twirls her hair. “Mine arrives in 15 minutes.”

My face goes hot. Lin turns her head, nestling her chin into her shoulder. She’s being a bit of a poser, but cool at the same time. “I thought about taking the same train you are taking. But then I realized I had a better option based on where I’m going.”

I brush some hair out of my face, then try pulling off her shoulder move. I’m guessing it’s not as cute as when she does it, but it gets a crick out of my neck.

She doesn’t laugh. I totally expected her to laugh! Even my precognition is telling me that something is off.

Man – I miss some of that magic we had when we first met. Me and my big head really ruined it.

“I’m surprised there’s no rain today,” Lin remarks. “Was really hoping for a rainy train ride.”

She pauses, then looks at me. I look at her. We look away.

“I love a good rainy day,” she continues. “What about you? Do you like rainy days?”

I shrug. “I like sunny days myself. There’s nothing quite like looking up and seeing a sea of clear blue.”

Lin snorts. “I don’t like when there are no clouds. Not much dimensionality. Just a bit weird, you know?”

I brush my hair to the side. There’s only one blemish in the clear sky, hiding in the margins: the moon. It’s decided to show up today, and rests there as a pearl. Or, maybe I should look at it like a neighboring planet, which likes to stay close for some mysterious reason. Is it lonely?

Fuck.

I use my hand to squeeze my cheeks together and rub out some of the funk I’m feeling.

“Lin… I love a blue sky, actually. Especially as things get dark. When you can finally see all the stars, you realize the dimensionality is insane.”

My train pulls into the station. It’s time for me to go. Yet, as I head toward the doors and Lin stays standing at the train stop, I can’t help but feel like I’ve forgotten something important.

I check my pockets. Odd— everything is there.

“Bye!” says Lin with a wave.

“Bye!” I wave back.

I probably should say more. Share more of what’s within me. But the doors close, and our moment is over.

Why must my attempts to play Casanova go supernova?

The Vitruvian

My ears are still ringing from Everman’s shattering of the holographic display. I turn the volume down on my earpiece and struggle to pick up the pieces from the outburst.

“I was really expecting him to put up a bigger fight,” I announce. “I mean… It was like he was barely paying me any attention. Surely he realized how special my visit was? Doesn’t he usually have more fight in him? More fire?”

“I mean, you did fire him,” Izzy blurts, wiggling the bunny ears to her headband as she does.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I grumble. “Hugo Everman always finds a way. He’s annoying like that.”

“Hugo Everman? Blasé,” Izzy continues. “What kind of name is that? Honestly, everything about the Machine is so clunky.”

I laugh the boincy, boisterous laugh I always do when Izzy makes a joke at Hugo’s expense. But, for once, something feels hollow.

Hugo gave up too easily. No fun.

My eyes water a bit as I stare deep into the abyss of my laptop’s screen. It feeds me finicky footage of Hugo’s meeting room. It’s a mess of shattered glass, and all the businessmen have moved their chairs away from the meeting table by a foot or two.

“He seemed pretty ticked,” Escorgier lisps through the warped audio systems.

I pick at my fingernails.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m just glad that I streamed from my jet instead of visiting in person. I mean, when he threw that chair… Could you imagine if I had been in the room?”

I give a weak chuckle as I rise from my chair. “Thankfully there is no possible way he can get me from in here!”

There’s a thud. The top of my head rings with pain, and I tuck myself back into my seat. I scowl at the low jet plane ceiling above me as I rub my fresh welt.

“Fergher—fuggin!” I shout.

Fuck Everman! Fuck him! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Are you okay?” Escorgier gasps.

“I’m fine,” I manage with a moan.

The pain is already subsiding, but I might as well milk it. “I bumped my head, but I’ll make it through.”

I’d forgotten that they can’t even see me, since Hugo broke the projector. The posturing and subsequent bruising I just did was all for nothing.

Ah well…

“You poor baby,” Izzy cries through the speakers.

I snicker. “All is well.”

I drape my cape across my chest and over my face as a blanket. My brain-in-a-jar, Carl, jostles on the desk in front of me. I pull Carl off the table and cradle him close to my chest. My chin rubs against the jar’s glass rim, cuddling him.

“Bwa-bwa,” I whisper, my cuddles intensifying and the pain fading away.

Carl jostles and sloshes in protest. Oh well. He’ll get used to it.

“What did you say?” Escorgier gurgles through my earpiece.

Ah great, they heard me.

“Sorry, bit of turbulence,” I pronounce. “I need the tech support guy to give me the rundown on all the tech that Everman has been cooking up!”

Everman’s employee readjusts his baseball cap and gives a snarl in Escorgier’s direction.

Wonderful… Hugo hires people who are just as ill-tempered as him. When will he finally wake up and realize that robots are a million times better?

“I’m chief engineer, not tech support,” the man says with a laugh. “Also, my name is Peter. Nice to meet you!”

Oh wow, he can talk too! Well, isn’t that just gravy?

“There’s no difference between engineering and IT, let’s be real,” I snicker. “It’s all the same to me!”

“Excuse me?” Peter protests. “I am aware of your reputation as a bullheaded businessman. But I like to think my contributions to innovation demand more respect than what you are giving me.”

Ugh. I hate people so much! Exhausting! Honestly, nobody cares who this Peter guy is. He speaks in total monotone, despite his dude bro demeanor.

He’s a charisma vacuum. Whatever happened to shoving guys like him in a corner to sort screws or whatever?

“I hear you, I’m in your corner,” I chuckle. “That established, you are extraordinarily lucky to be speaking with somebody as important as me, let’s not get things twisted.”

Escorgier groans. “Byrd, don’t be a boor.”

I snuffle some of the snot dribbling down my nose. Is that dissent I sense from Escorgier? Clearly it’s time to start putting people in their place!

“Just telling it how it is,” I say, as I flip Carl around in my lap. Such an adorable pet to snoodle with, I must admit. “We are talking corporate jobs here. The cubicle rules the land and that’s how it’s meant to be. The people love it! They like their prison! Hugo running around as hero in some orange jumpsuit only reinforces this. Such an awful example he’s setting… For real, when did people suddenly get it in their heads that these jobs are supposed to be important or something? Why does everything suddenly need mission or meaning to it?”

My audio feed is dead silent, save for static.

Good. Maybe they’re finally scared straight.

“What have you got against Hugo?” Peter finally pipes up, flipping his ballcap around.

I snort. “Those claims of my jealousy or rivalry with Hugo in the medium of media are just part of the propaganda machine. Greatly exaggerated. Our real relationship is actually friendly!”

Peter rubs his chin. “But you just booted him from the company!”

Brilliant observation. Just brilliant. Honestly, these tech people can be quite slow, despite the whiz-bang gadgetry.

I smile. I suppose I’m smiling more to myself than to anybody else, seeing as they can’t see me.

“Dr. Opal Winslow just left,” I say. “She quit and followed Hugo right out that door. Tell me now Peter: why didn’t you? Answer me that and I’ll be able to answer your question with no problem.”

Peter stands from his chair. “Touché.”

He shuffles a bit, but stays in place.

Hopefully this means I’ve earned his loyalty. Or, maybe he’s just married to the company. Who knows?

“I’ll help you, but only because I still believe in a lot of what we’re doing here,” Peter grumbles. “I won’t stand to see all the hard work done by good people go to waste.”

I lean back in my chair and form my hands into a steeple, my fingers rapping against each other.

Sucker! Such a sucker.

Lifting Carl into the air with one hand, I guffaw softly.

Doesn’t he realize how futile and illusory this whole thing is?

To be or not to be… That is the question. Oh Carl, do you know the answer?

I shake the jar, letting the brain bounce around with that question. It’s a tough cookie, no doubt.

“I want to know a bit more about the quantum computing division,” I say with a smacking of my lips. “How does that feed into your AI?”

He’s squirming. Oh well. I love a little smack talk.

Peter claps his hands together like he’s some trained seal. Wonderful.

“We managed to achieve quantum advantage by applying quantum computing to our machine learning models,” Peter states.

One thing I love Hugo for is that when the hero looks like him, people will fall over themselves to follow his whim. He receives unchecked power toward his goals without any questions.

Such gullibility to deify a man… Can’t believe that this was once me.

People never take me seriously in my grand personal narratives and missions, no matter how much I invest in making them work.

“Oh?” I say. “Playing devil’s advocate: my impression was always that quantum computing is nifty, but an unworkable waste of time.”

Peter gives a slight laugh. “Everman’s bullishness definitely lost business revenue,” says Peter. “Not sure if we’ll ever see a return on investment. The computations are good at functions involving optimization though.”

“So it is just huckster hustling?” I say, adding a rattle to my prattle.

I refuse to be played a fool.

“I mean, clever… Err… Classic computing architecture can definitely replicate the data scaling from quantum, most of the time,” Peter says, his voice shaky. “Getting the quantum circuitry to work was also borderline impossible. Our lasers still require certain superconductors to be cooled with helium to nearly absolute zero, and maintaining entangled states is a juggling act. Nevertheless, yes: we’ve noticed some nice improvements in the general performance of our AI. For all chemical and material simulations we do, we’re also experiencing a massive edge. It also helps with building hyper-realistic world models – we notice that our AI isn’t acting as parrot as much.”

Peter flashes some performance charts onto the screen.

Ok… Bingo. While my AI algorithms are better than Everman’s, this clearly is the AI hardware breakthrough I’ve been looking for.

It’s all coming together now.

“Excellent, excellent,” I say. “Pairing that with your research in brain chips and biotech, I suspect you have some interesting ideas rolling around the lab to blab about.”

Peter scratches the back of his neck. “We’re really not supposed to talk about those divisions too much. They predominately exist with philanthropic aims in mind.”

“My AI agent prompts me to use the same double-speak around tech,” I state. “It’s okay. My main focus for the rest of this meeting is the high energy division. Specifically: nuclear, your accelerator programs, and the compact fusion reactor program.”

Peter leans back in his chair, spinning side-to-side.

“Alright,” he says. “What do you want to know?”

“How?” I say. Snot is streaming down my lip and I wipe it with my sleeve. “Byrd Enterprises has tried to compactify fusion so many times… Also, I thought Everman gave up on fusion for fission decades ago, and insists on building out fission infrastructure. Thus, the big fission reactor at the center of our city.”

Peter laughs. “Oh, it was rough. See, we wanted to get compact nuclear devices for the space-mining program. Basically: we can use nuclear thermal processes— compact fusion in this case— to superheat hydrogen, which is a massive boost in propulsion tech. Good for powering the next generation of robotics too. We started with trying out fission reactors, or fission-fusion hybrids… But, the shielding required was just too heavy and complicated to keep compact. We needed lots of lead, which is a very dense metal.”

I stroke my chin. “All adds up so far. Yes. Fission leads to lead, a dead-end for compactness. Continue…”

Peter spins his chair all the way around and fiddles with a pen, a grin on his face. I grin with him— this hardware talk is the stuff of life.

“Fusion was the only way to go. Hugo had always secretly wanted to building working fusion anyway, due to the existing risks with fission reactors,” Peter continues. “Specifically, we needed aneutronic fusion since we want to minimize shielding for gamma and neutron radiation. More specifically: deuterium and helium-3 fusion, because it gives the best energy yields. As it happens, we were already mining for lots of helium-3 to use in our superconductors.”

“Superconductors to help with magnetic fields to sustain the fusion?” I surmise.

“Sort of. In general, the company is using superconductors for the laser accelerators, to generate entangled states for quantum computation. These entangled states are sort of like intermeshing cogs – if you turn one at random, the other one turns in kind. This only works if we’re using something like helium-3 to achieve ultra cold temperatures. And, if we can also use the helium-3 we acquire as an energy source, it kills two birds with one stone.”

I wince. The conglomeration of technical resources and initiatives makes so much sense. These problems of fusion and quantum computing connect up quite nicely. But, the expenses and technical hurdles to solve these problems—it had always seemed insurmountable.

“You still haven’t answered my question on how you compactified fusion,” I say, with a firm thunk of my tongue.

“Hold that thought, we’re getting there,” says Peter. “We’ve built prototypes using inertial confinement fusion— laser-driven fusion—since experiments historically give the best gains in energy. I expect you’ve seen those specs.”

Ah, I know so much more than Peter can hope to suspect.

“Yes,” I say with a laugh.

My spy Bobbin Locke has snitched on all kinds of prototype specs kept under lock and key.

“Anyway,” says Peter, “we looked into lasers and decided to use our existing laser technology for radiation pressure and plasma wakefield accelerators. They’re much more efficient than standard laser tech, and we’ve already been using them to help the superconducting entanglement in our quantum computers out. These lasers can hold immense pressures required for high temperature superconductors—albeit, the lasers themselves still require ultracold superconductors to maintain efficiency. Anyway, we can maintain entangled states in electrons, and also at the scale of nuclear spin. We essentially have a hybrid approach to entanglement being utilized in our quantum computers, thanks to these lasers…”

I rub my forehead. This guy is all over the place, and it’s seriously giving me a headache. “Okay… Laser beams?”

Peter hangs his pen in the side of his mouth. “Yessir. We bundle a bunch of fiber-optic lasers into a coherent laser beam, to hit insane power outputs. Like, petawatts and beyond. They give pressures that are used to drive accelerators which can hit super high voltages! We’re talking energy gradients on scale of teraelectronvolts. We can do this in distances that are on the order of a meter or less. To put it in perspective: teraelectronvolt energies can normally only be hit via one of our kilometer long accelerators.”

This guy is intensely excited, but he seriously needs to get to the point. I’m picking at my nails again. Ugh… Why do I keep doing that?

“What’s the point?” I mutter.

“Efficiency!” exclaims Peter.

I roll my eyes. For all this talk, it certainly doesn’t seem to me that efficiency is top of mind.

“Does the reactor work or not?” I say.

“Works, we had several good prototypes,” says Peter.

Escorgier and the rest of the board are ogling at him. It seems even they didn’t know.

Peter’s pen is quivering like a lone branch in the wind. “Extreme materials like superconductors and a bit finnicky, but all promising. You should see the lab sometime.”

I give the snot running down my face another wipe. All these little germs are just awful.

I replay the conversation in my head and loop back to the section involving the particle accelerator.

“Such extreme energies on the laser accelerators, even for fusion or quantum computing,” I say. “What does Everman think he’ll find, a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

Peter itches his neck more fiercely than at the start of our conversation. I must be getting to him.

“The emphasis on high energies is more for the theoretical stuff,” he says. “You want to talk physics? Dr. Skully is great for that. That said: to my understanding, we’re trying to hit energy scales that allow for gravity wave emission. Warp tech. Everman wants to build a warp drive. He keeps a tight lid on our propulsion research though, so who knows how true that is. Officially, they only research superheated hydrogen propulsion.”

Warp tech… He’s building warp tech!?

That must be how the Machine’s elfish sidekick is doing it!

“The Machine’s selfish hoarding of knowledge cannot stand,” I declare.

Peter stands from his chair.

“Honestly, you’re super rude,” he says. “Hugo always said you were cranky, but he generally gave a good impression of you. This is something else. While Hugo might be the reason we’re always on the verge of going under, he put his heart and soul into this place. Why dog on him so much?!”

“I used to be a forgiving person, but not anymore,” I say, pursing my lips as I do. “It only leads to coming in behind. Fact is this: nobody becomes a multibillionaire without cheating a bit. He has screwed my companies out of contracts more times than I can count. Everman might try to rewrite history with charity and such, but I’m not so easily swayed. Much as he pretends to be like everybody else, always forgetting and making mistakes… It’s an act. There’s much more to him than meets the eye.”

“You don’t have to be so ruthless though,” says Peter, inching away from his spot at the table.”

“When you go into work, do you have much choice? How about this parable… When you throw a rock, does it have a choice on its parabolic trajectory?” I smirk. “Or does it do what it must do…? What it is forced to do? This question is rhetorical, but to be clear: one does what one must do.”

“You still have a choice though,” says Peter. “We’re all more dynamic than a simple trajectory, most of the time. The arrow of entropy generates randomness and whatnot. Certain decisions are between only you and the universe, up until you make them. Surely you feel guilty, don’t you? Don’t you feel bad about how you treated Everman? And, on the subject of trajectories… Haven’t you considered the karmic trajectory that you’re on?”

I burst into snickers. It’s a sea of laughter that I’m sure will confuse and that not even I can fully understand.

“I’m aware of karma,” I say, sharpening my words. “But… Life is more dynamic than a simple trajectory, as you yourself brought up. Even if it wasn’t… I’m willing to pay my karmic price. I want what I want, and I can take the pain. Why should I feel bad for those who are too weak to take the same pain that I can take? Must I diminish myself into some slave to a moral law that can only ever balance to zero? Sheer meaninglessness…”

“But the hatred toward Hugo… I mean, I hate him sometimes too, but come on! We all love Hugo, let’s be real here! Who hurt you?”

I shake my head and babble to myself for a moment.

Finally I manage, “Everman is an egotistical brat, man. A butt! He thinks he’s the Brahman or the Atman or something. It’s narcissism of religious proportions with him!”

Peter smiles into the camera. I feel as though he can see through me, but that’s obviously impossible. “And what are you?” he says.

I clear my throat. “I see this castle in the sky as a casino. A structure built upon chance. A deck of cards. And the deck is stacked against those who play by the rules. As for me? I’m the wild card. The joker card. The trump card. I will always win, because I can change reality to do whatever I want. Ha! On that subject: I have everything I want.”

I shut off the video. Screw that guy, honestly. Utterly unable to take responsibility in his own hands. What a whiny loser, with a capital L.

I’ve lived through all this talk of sympathy… Where’s the sympathy for the devil? Daredevils aren’t always pure evil, for example. People are averse to inverting their first impressions of things.

I open my Byrd’s Eye view app on my laptop and watch the city move. How gorgeous! So many people to peep in on. All following precise schedules, as they should. There’s a message from my spy, Bobbin Locke. The old Everman chips have apparently been replaced with Byrd chips throughout the robotics facility.

I send him a smiley face.

I grab my jar Carl and shake it around again. Do you finally have the answer to my riddle? To be or not to be?

It seems to whisper to me.

“I am the God of doubt,” I hear it say. “Doubt me.”

I scrunch my face and shake it again.

“I am the God of hate. Hate me!”

Chapter 11: Double Dealing

The Cog

I love Lin. She should be mine! My gal! The gall of her to tell me no…

But then, no means no, you know? Maybe I make more of our loveship than I must.

I cloak my chin behind a steeple I make with my hands.

Yes… Yes… Ah.

All goes nil eventually. I gotta get used to it.

All is sound, each of us a musical verse in the swan song of the universe.

The bullet train belts a nightmarish caw. I rock at the back of the train car, with the intense desire to kiss burning within me. Also, my loins burn with the desire to piss. Like, I need to pee super duper bad. Super duper ooper.

I really shouldn’t have drank so much water at the office without going to the bathroom. Ugh.

In selling myself to Lin, I’d forgotten to take care of myself.

My phone gives a sudden buzz in my pocket, making me want to go pee even more. Ouch. Eek.

Maybe in cellphone it’s Lin? Maybe she had a change of heart?

I answer the mysterious call, as every true hero must.

“Hi there,” a maple voice lilts into my ear. “This is the Polaris District Hospital. We’re calling to ask about some overdue hospital bills in the amount of $300. Is this George Fletcher? We’re about to move into collections or wage garnishment.”

Crud. Could’ve sworn I paid it all off. This is bad!

“My bank account is empty,” I whine, before hanging up.

I smile to myself and kick my feet up to the back of the chair in front of me. Suckers! Bet they weren’t expecting that!

Err… Why couldn’t it have been Lin Earheart there to talk my ear off? Why a hospital?

I gaze out the window of the train, staring into the busy city.

I still need to pee. Getting harder and harder to hold it in.

Maybe I should practice to be a monk. Would that work? I think so. The world needs its monks. If not that, maybe I could become a monkey.

Curious… Monkey or monk? Which is the better fate?

More than anything these days, I feel like I’m trapped in the rat race.

Cog? More like Cog the cockblocked. Cog the cuck.

Uck…

Part of me wants to use my powers to peer into the future and see what I and Lin can be. Maybe we go on walks together… Share ideas… Hold hands…

Maybe I get married with her.

Maybe I get her pregnant.

Maybe I can make her want to be with me by using my precognition... Peer into all possible futures?

I take a pregnant pause.

I can’t use my power for that. I can’t perturb a possible future with somebody else without their consent. Much as I’d like to manifest such a future, it’d be wrong.

Unless she was into it…

Hmm…

Oh, why isn’t she?

Whatever. I know how it feels to be caught in a system that forces one to merge with it and sustain it, against one’s will. I live it every day.

Capitalism: capitulation is its greatest asset. Capital punishment is doled out to any significant threat to it.

I open the Byrd App on my phone and begin looking at pictures of Lin. I scroll through all the places she’s been and people she’s met. I drink up her lemonade face. It’s art. It’s tart.

Now I really need to pee.

Hard… So hard.

Why do I do this to myself?

I shut my phone off.

It’s easy to feel guilty, but it’s okay. I’ll figure some other way to spend my time. I and the Machine have cool stuff to do tonight, I’m sure. He wouldn’t tell me otherwise.

Everything happens for a reason, even if it often feels like the reason is pure chaos. While life is full of uncertainty, there’s an infinity of possibility that comes with the journey of life.

We all come from the same babbling, bubbling, burbling source and inevitably return to it. A person can only judge themselves on the now, on some level. Thus, empathy should be had for past and future self. While guilt and anger toward the past self and toward a potential future serves a role, these projections often get in the way of the present. It weighs things down. Only the present version of oneself is presently here.

Much of my life I’ve been afraid of my own shadow. But that’s a funny thing isn’t it, to be afraid of one’s own shadow?

While my alter ego has created a lot of trouble for me in life, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Well… Okay, maybe I’d trade it if it meant saving the world, since it’s the role and whatnot.

Relief comes to me with these thoughts. I feel warm inside. Peace. I don’t even feel the need to pee anymore.

My pants are warm.

Great… My pants are warm. I’ve peed myself!

Yuck. I set my bag into my lap.

At least it’s number one. Going number two would be so much more painful, haha.

I seriously should’ve taken more time at work to take care of myself. One needs to take care of oneself to truly be able to take care of others.

Hopefully nobody notices. Thankfully, I’m almost home.

The train screeches to a halt. I jog out the exit, into the hustle and bustle. Bestial honks and shouts follow after me as I make my way across an intersection.

“Hey, I’m driving here!” somebody bellows as attack from a yellow taxi.

I’ve walked right into terrifying traffic. Terrific, just terrific.

I may have overstepped my bounds, bounding out into the street as I did. Oh well—bound to happen.

My chest sinks a bit while I weave through a crowd on the sidewalk to my apartment. Despite many smiling and having a happy time, too many individuals hold apathy and sadness behind their eyes. Why oh why must we while our days away in this way?

When I moved to the big city from my family’s rented suburbia home, I expected the city to somehow be cheerier. Does jeering count as a form of cheering? The city might be jeerier, I’ll give it that.

Making my way up the steps of my apartment, I check my phone to find that the Machine will be here soon.

I pat the wet patch from whiz near my groin. A change of pants is in order. The apartment whizzes by me and I’m in my room. My entrance is marked with a moan from me stubbing my toe on one of my baston sticks. Bastard.

Off with the soggy pants and on with the sweats to my Cog costume, no sweat. I am now the Cog! Next, I speed into the bathroom to relieve myself. It’s all a blur, but whatever.

Finally, to the kitchen for an energy drink—another way to relieve myself. I crack open the can and take a big swig. Maybe I shouldn’t be drinking this stuff, but I don’t care. I love the feeling it gives me. It’s a way for me to relive comfort. Even if it might be bad, it helps me feel less alone. I become more whole in this hellhole I call an apartment.

Besides: is a robotics guy getting his energy from something that tastes like battery acid really that surprising?

I rock my head back, gulping down the last drop.

Ok, cool. I’m back online, and I’ve not got a second to lose. I sprint back out the apartment and wait for the Machine to show up.

He needs me at the ready.

Any time now.

I sit at the steps to my apartment. I wait.

My mind wanders.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m being sucked into a black hole. Maybe I’m already at the center of one. But then, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I watch the world move by and realize that even at the center of a black hole vibrancy and life can be had.

Still, I feel lonely. Does the universe ever feel lonely too?

Maybe the Cog is more like one of the cockroaches crawling by. They seem to want the crumbs from my suit. Such nasty creatures. I hate them.

Part of me is always afraid of the end, when I pass off into the universe…. Does it just end?

Gah. Where is the Machine?

I scroll through my phone, reading through the black and white text of the messages. Will I receive a new one?

Regardless, there is something comforting to this scrawl of words—squiggly black letters, defining meaning against the uniform white backdrop. The black and the white… The 1 and the 0… Such a succinct way to convey meaning, isn’t it?

There’s a roar like thunder from off in the distance. New Vini traffic pulls to the side of the road, making way for what can only be the Machine-Machine as it’s hitting mach-1. No other car can match.

It blasts in and a sonic boom shoots through the street. It’s moving with such violence that sounds in the air Doppler shift from red to violet.

Of course, if somebody else was moving at the speed of the Machine-Machine, they’d exist in a reference frame where the sound isn’t Doppler shifted at all. It’s only to most of us standing on the street that sound has been Doppler shifted. Funny how something seemingly objective as sound is relative. Reality is democratic.

It halts with an awful snort. Plumes of fumes roll out its jet engines as it pulls into the side of the road. I curdle my face—the Machine-Machine is all dingy and dented. Its silver has faded to gray. It’s cloudy. The front nose is all cracked up, like a broken Dorito. For one of the fastest cars on Earth, I’d expect the thing to be in better shape.

The door hatch pops open, and the Machine comes tumbling out. His olive complexion is grimier than usual, and dark circles hang below his eyes. I catch his gaze and find a blackness in there. Pure black. Ack: guy looks like he could use some rest.

Guess the stuff in the press has taken a toll on his rep. RIP.

Several people on the street stop and ogle. Oddly, most don’t. He begins singing some tune in that low hum of his, the lyrics mysterious. The Machine-Machine gives a friendly chirp as the Machine zips her up with a soft press on his wrist pad.

His steps are more calculated than usual. Jagged. Still, he sings. Is he trying to sooth himself of something? I thought the Machine didn’t feel pain.

“Pretty sure that’s not where you’re supposed to park,” I mumble. I’m in a bad mood, and I’m not even going to try pretending otherwise.

“Crap,” says the Machine. He gives a look back, then keeps going. “Whatever. Already had my car towed two times this week. Plus, I’ve got smart assist on, it can move if need be.”

I readjust the straps to my backpack. “Even you aren’t invulnerable, eh?”

I guffaw. The Machine gives me a look, but says nothing.

“What business are you here for, anyway?” I say as the Machine makes his way up the apartment steps.

The stairway rattles in his presence. Not sure if it’s awe or annoyance.

“Serious stuff,” the Machine says. “I’d prefer to talk in your apartment, but it’s all very serious.”

I search for a reply when a cry resounds.

“Stop right there,” somebody announces.

An officer? The voice is squeaky and I look over.

“It is I, the Banana Bandit!” says a man in a moldy banana costume.

His face looks moldy too. No clue what skin care routine he’s doing to manage that, but it’s definitely something to behold.

The trunk to the Machine-Machine is busted open, and this Banana Bandit guy is standing inside it.

“How’d that guy stowaway in my car?” the Machine says, staring with his mouth agape.

“Guerilla warfare! Come get me, you gorillas!” the Banana Bandit decrees.

“Oh please,” I mutter.

“What’s the matter?” the Banana Bandit says, breaking into dance. “You don’t want to deal with a Banana Bonanza? Is that what it is?”

The Machine groans, his head in his hands. “Cog, do you want to take him?”

“I think we should let him decide,” I say with a smirk, pulling my fluxion-drives out of my pack.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty banana split on this!” the Banana Bandit declares. “Also, your name is Cog? Come on!”

“Yes, I am the Cog,” I chuckle. “Don’t gawk! It only seems lame at first, it’ll grow on you!”

Pulsing my fluxion-drives, I manage to tweeze the Banana-Bandit between their blasts of momentum. Despite me being in a stairwell and several yards away from him, my fluxion-drives are able to get a good grip on him and hover him into the air.

“Ow!” he screams.

Not sure why. Pretty sure it shouldn’t hurt.

I send him flying into a tree.

“Yow!” the Banana-Bandit says, as he gets caught on a branch through his underpants.

He begins to mew.

“Meow! Help, I’m a cat stuck in a tree!” he cries. “Come on Everman! You know you want to save your pussy!”

The Machine groans. I groan with him.

“That was underwhelming,” I say. “You seriously need to start filtering some of these guys out!”

Hugo rubs the back of his neck and is staring at my fluxion-drives.

“I will be,” he says. “Also, I thought you did a solid job. Could’ve scooped him a little quicker, but no notes really.”

I give a thumbs up and head into my apartment. “I’m fine man, I’m adept at adapting. You can come in, my roommate knows what’s up.”

The Machine manufactures a classic beam on his face and follows in, but something still seems off with him. He can’t take his eyes off my fluxion-drives.

Odd. My fluxion-drives are sexy, don’t get me wrong, but the fella’s eyes should be elsewhere.

I’m used to seeing more of a gleam in his eyes and a high-reaching gaze. To be so morose is out-of-character for him.

I take a seat in the coffee table at the center of the living room, my back facing the hall to my bedroom. The Machine shudders at the skeleton in the corner of the room, then takes a seat across from me.

“It’s ok, just a decoration, no need to be on edge,” I say, shifting in my seat.

The power pack and tubing to my fluxion-drives are somewhat bulky, making it tough to sit right. Ah well— hopefully this meeting is short.

Strangely, the Machine lets the air linger for longer than he ever does. The dominant sounds come from my cat P.B. and Bit-Bot as they roam around the carpet, chasing one another.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” says the Machine. “I’m sure you’ve already heard, but I’ve sort of lost board control. The company will be merging with Byrd Enterprises and I don’t feel secure holding meetings over there right now. We take in too much data at that building.”

“Oh?” I say with a snort. “I thought all that data was only being used to train your amazing AI, amiright?”

The Machine stiffens. I chortle.

“Just busting your balls,” I say. “Don’t take me too seriously.”

The Machine chortles back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Great. Of course he thinks that, deep down. All this work we’ve done, and it makes no difference. Same as ever.

I glance at P.B and Bit-Bot, my beautiful spawn. Bit-Bot’s motions are still stilted in some ways, but I’m delighted to watch him move. The Machine watches with me and rubs his shoulder.

“It’s been pretty rough on me lately,” the Machine says. “Will have a lot to talk about in my therapy sessions, that’s for sure.”

I raise an eyebrow. Is he for real?

Everything about our interactions always is fake. Scripted. From the crypt.

“It’s the real deal,” Hugo says, as if in answer to my questioning. “Sorta like me. That said: been using some of my mental health AI too, and that works quite nicely. MENT-AI. You should try it, it’s great.”

Why can’t this guy just be himself?

“Uno memento,” I say. “First: you gotta tell me why you’re here.”

There’s a shrug, and he leans back in his chair. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

The Machine always seems to be in a million other places, but I nod anyway.

His eyes gravitate to my fluxion-drives. “In all seriousness,” he says with a slight grumble, “you probably shouldn’t have that device. This has been a long time coming… Look: I spoke with my lawyer, and he strongly suggested that I take any and all tech I may have ‘borrowed’ over the years and return it to the company. Your fluxion-drives? Top of the list.”

I clutch my fluxion-drives close to my chest.

“Absolutely not,” I say. “They’re mine. I’ve designed for them. I guide them. I take care of them. And… They do what I say! When I press their buttons, they respond nicely and right on command. They don’t try to stir up emotional drama and baggage!”

The Machine pickles. “What’s gotten into you? Be real for a second here: you’re using stolen technology! I know for a fact that you must be the guy who stole advanced prototypes from the R&D lab a few months back. You seriously shouldn’t be talking that way, it’s more than just your property. Other personalities went into that, I’m sure of it.”

“I definitely designed the Tesla coils in this thing!” I shout. I usually don’t let loose, but he’s seriously backing me into a corner here. “Also, you’re one to talk! Billions in cash are being funneled to the top. On the daily things are always going wrong, and people like me at ground zero are just supposed to pretend like it’s normal. Inflation forever spiraling upward… Falling deeper and deeper into debt… You want to talk about theft? That’s theft!”

The Machine gives a weak wheeze and rocks in his seat. “Sir Bertrand Polka studied philosophy quite deeply and is a philosopher king of sorts…”

“No kings!” I cry, wagging my fluxion-drives at him.

I’m about ready to fling him around like I did the Banana-Bandit.

“Now, now, don’t get all out of sorts,” the Machine says, flashing a poster grin. He raises his hands in a look of surrender. “Look, things are always going to be wrong on some level. And New Vinci is a city that’s perpetually under construction, just like Polka wanted. All is always changing and in flux. With any luck, it gets better with time.”

The lush flow of the rainbow city tickles the corner of my eye, from through my dirty apartment window.

I flush and latch the fluxion-drives back onto my belt. “Everything has been going to crap. You’ve bungled control over your own company. And, you are the system—the Machine—basically. In the past, you claimed to fight against all kinds of social injustices by corporations, even though most media reports saw you as a villain. You don’t get to play corporate pirate and then tell me I can’t play Robin Hood! You gotta let me have this. It’s better to give than to receive, y’know?”

My mind bounces between all the different security protocols I had to crawl through to get this prototype.

Ever since, it has been day after day of saving people to stave off my fears of being caught… Of having to give this gadget up… After all of my experiences, I can’t bring myself to give my gadgets up. The fluxion-drives are something else. They’re my baby.

“That’s just a phrase people who want something from me say,” the Machine finally says, breaking our silence. “Sorry, but I gotta say it. I feel like everybody only wants to be near me due to my wealth and fame, and you’re no different.”

Magma pours through my pores. All my life I’ve been met by holier-than-thou cliques that refuse to have me as a member. The fluxion-drives drove some of that away for me somehow. They accept me. They might just be objects, but they know me.

“Come on,” the Machine persists. “You’re my right-hand man! I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t need it!”

“Please! The Vitruvian was your right-hand man and look at what happened to him!”

“Fair enough. Gotta admit, our falling out was a bigger surprise than this. He was more talented than you. Perfectionist. I enjoyed using him to put my stamp on things.”

How dare he! Where is the filter? Does he have Tourette syndrome?

“Wow,” I say. “Everybody was right about you. You’re just a selfish opportunist, with a PR team to clean up from the fact you’re propping up a broken system! And it’s betraying you! Maybe my greatest invention is just stolen intellectual property, but guess what: you weren’t using it for anything better! Fair game! Furthermore: you don’t pay me anything for being your stupid sidekick Cog, and I’m performing as Cog via a secret identity! It’s all volunteer work!”

The Machine rubs the bags under his eyes. “I thought you love being Cog.”

I glare. He leers.

Ok, fuck this guy.

“You don’t do that much, it’s just a symbolic thing, we agreed on that,” the Machine growls. “The company didn’t even want me to have a sidekick due to branding disputes. Plus, you didn’t ask for money or help. If you don’t ask, you don’t receive. Do you really think money will fix everything?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought your actual job is fulfilling and pays you enough, amiright?”

“New Vinci isn’t cheap,” I say, keeping my voice firm. “And prices keep skyrocketing. Your AI race makes my electricity bills a bitch. Add in hospital bills, student loans… I’m okay, but this is a rigged game and you know it.”

“Hey now: I’m a busy guy. I don’t have time to make sure everything is going fine if nothing is said. The company already has enough hell for me to focus on. Plus, I figured you’d rather find out your own way most of the time, and I don’t want to overstep. You really just want handouts? Finally, at this present moment, money is tied up in a total legal mess… As I’m sure I’ve made clear when coming here.”

I clench my jaw. “I don’t believe you. You only know façade.”

His smile fades. “You’re right. Even if you asked me, I probably wouldn’t give it to you. Something tells me you’re gonna be a pretty successful guy in your own right… Just a hunch.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Dude, I could use some money. If the ship is going down, I might as well get something out of it over here.”

“I refuse to be treated like I’m a walking wallet. I’m just a guy,” he says. “My whole person is just a put-on. A myth. But it’s fun to tussle when the scenario calls for it, and punching the occasional monster is also cool. Gotta admit.”

My head is burning now. “And what if I’m one of those monsters to you? Am I somehow supposed to pretend that’s still fun?”

The firing of my precognition makes something abundantly clear: this conversation is going to hurt.

I can already see the flash of him from the future, walking out my door. He doesn’t have my fluxion-drives, but I sense our partnership is over.

“Stop believing in me,” he says, or at least something like it. The vision is fuzzy, but it’s there.

I’m whooped back to the present where the Machine is grumbling.

“Imagine fighting your whole life to get people to love you in a society that constantly wants to put you down…” the Machine says, his voice soft and his eyes losing some glimmer.

“I’m already there,” I snip. “I’m invisible to the point it’s basically another superpower. It’s like I don’t exist. And when I’m not invisible, things get hard for me in an entirely different way… It’s like this all the time, and there’s no way you feel like I do. You’ve got all the stuff you could possibly want.”

A clammy palm of the Machine’s runs along a wrinkle on his forehead. “Fair enough. I’m pretty convinced at this point that I made a mistake in how I defined success, because I can promise you I’ve never found any solace in money.”

There’s a buzz. The Machine checks his phone, then groans.

“At any rate,” he says, shoving the phone back in his pocket, “these days everybody hates me or ignores me, and it seems like the sandcastle I made is about to be washed away. It’s a tough spot I’m in. You ever heard how the bigger they are the harder they fall? I don’t know how I’ll keep steady if I wind back up where I started. I’ve been breathing the air at the top of the world for awhile now.”

I reach across the table and offer the Machine a pat on the shoulder, even though all the gadgets I’m wearing make this awkward for me.

“So long as some part of you is planted down here on Earth, you’ll stay on top of the world in my eyes,” I say. “All us humans are always living on the top of the world, aren’t we? I’ve been having trouble finding its bottom, that’s for sure. Uh… But, if I find its butt, I’ll let you know.”

I chuckle.

“You don’t get it, people love you,” the Machine says.

I shake my head. “No they don’t. Online they hate and argue. And at work…. People are great, and I care about them too, but relationships are tough. Work is equally tough… It’s menial and repetitive tasks. Often not as creative as I’d hoped it’d be. The ethics also get me. All these resources Everman Technologies extracts can ruin the ecosystem, biodiversity, communities… Labor conditions are often poor… Unions to protect workers are suppressed and nigh nonexistent… Let’s circle back to the subject of people hating you: maybe that’s why. Maybe all your grand promises aren’t quite bearing fruit.”

The Machine sighs. “Most jobs are boring, you’ll be okay. Find other interests. As for everything else you mention… I’ll back off. Keep the fluxion-drives. Just… I’m kinda concerned about how you go about things and how you think of things. Take time to go outside and meet other people. Live life.”

His eyes track my Bit-Bot again. “Okay, look: in terms of the resources, I agree a better system is required. But in the meantime, somebody has to be steering the ship. There are all sorts of things I need to fix and get done. If I could go back and rewire it all, I would. It’s kinda funny: the Vitruvian has put me in the role of his nemesis, and I’ve always been sold as either a villainous or heroic figure… But, fighting with him is the last thing I want to be doing right now. We used to be partners, you know?”

“You and me both,” I say, forcing a smile. “All this techno cybercrime stuff is too much for me…”

I study his face. It’s weathered and depressed, like the skin of an old shoe. I never thought I’d see him this way.

Deep down, some part of me sympathizes. I could never relate to his kind of intensity, but I can see how it must suck to be him in some strange way.

“That little robot is pretty neat,” the Machine observes, resting his hand on his chin.

I nod. “Yeah. Silicon based life at its finest! Took forever to get him to walk good. I have it configured with an accelerometer and a gyroscope. Neat fact: I initially was only working from a matrix that tracked 3 dimensions in space to model its motion. 4 if you count time. I eventually lumped in the mathematics of quaternions to my program, to account for rotations… Adds a bunch of extra dimensions to keep track of, but… Uh… These degrees of freedom really made the robot’s motion click!”

I look to my fluxion-drives and wink at them. They’re still my favorite invention, even if Bit-Bot is hot stuff.

“You ever think about trying to build some kind of product using your robotics skills?” the Machine asks. “Definitely seems like you might be able to generate value for people, especially if you work with others on it. I’ve always wanted a robot butler myself!”

My face twists. I thought he’d be more impressed with Bit-Bot.

“I only create out of the joy of creating,” I say. “My stuff isn’t for sale. I don’t want to waste my time building something that might fail or get swallowed up by vulture capitalists.”

The Machine shrugs. “You never know if you never try, just saying. If you don’t put yourself out there, you’ll eventually put yourself out.”

“Phrases. Just phrases.”

The Machine shifts, clearly irritated.

“What about using your precognition to just game the stock market or win the lottery or something? Because, I feel like that’d clear up a lot of your excuses, and you can finally stop begging me for money.”

Wow, now I’m irritated.

“Excuse me?” I say.

The Machine laughs. “I mean, it’d be a pretty clean solution.”

I groan. “That’s not how it works. Stuff like that… Too much randomness. Too much noise. My precognition is like trying to see the world without my glasses or contacts in. Everything in the future is pretty blurry, but I can sense out certain details. Also, it’s not always right.”

“Just saying, the lotto is a lotta money…”

“I’m not wasting my powers on the lottery!”

The Machine serves up that mythic mirth of his. He calms himself down to scan me over with his gaze.

“But, like, the logic of your powers… I’m not convinced.”

“It usually takes effort for me to access, but I swear it’s legit! It’s like a sonic boom or soundwaves,” I say. “It’s sorta like how you can see an object break the sound barrier off in the distance, before you hear the sonic boom’s sound. Or, or… Ripples on the water! I can tell where the ripples are going to go and how the end of their propagation will look before it happens. Something completely unexpected can always disturb or perturb the signals I get, but… So long as the environment flows laminarly rather than turbulently, I have a good feel on what’s going to happen.”

“Not buying it.”

“Sometimes reality gives you saddle points. Unstable equilibriums. Take a spinning top, for example: the centrifugal forces are equal in all directions. As it loses momentum, in which direction will it fall? The slightest of nudges from the environment can drastically change the outcome. The system of motion becomes a black box, and you’re generally forced to use probability to sort out how something like that is going to move.”

“So you’re telling me you’re a fortune teller? Don’t get me wrong, you’ve had some incredible predictions that’ve really gotten us out of a bind before! But, like… Is this the blind leading the blind?”

“I mean, predictive technologies have existed for a long time! Ever had an email sentence finished for you by an AI or played with a 20 questions gizmo? With sufficient input from the environment, predictions can be made by anything!”

The Machine scratches his head. “Yeah, that’s normal though. I can predict how the moon will move, but that doesn’t mean I know what my coworker will get for breakfast.”

“Sure, but… Apart from entropy, time works the same way backwards as forwards. Think Newton.”

“I think not!”

“No kidding…”

“Hey!”

“Anyway, everything is one big circuit of energy. And with retrocausality, entanglement, closed timelike curves… There are all sorts of ways that cause and effect might intermix that we normally don’t think about.”

“So quantum woo and buzzwords you have no expertise in? That’s your justification?”

It’s my turn to scratch my head.

“Yes.”

“So long as you’re honest about it,” says the Machine, petting P.B as P.B’s furry body ruffles against his leg.

P.B purrs sweetly as the Machine gets him behind the ear.

Traitor.

“So, the fluxion-drive,” the Machine says, pulling a cat treat from the table and feeding it to P.B, “that had to have come out of our top-secret facilities. How’d you manage to steal it without getting caught?”

“Precognition.”

“Right…”

“It covers for a lot.”

“I’ve noticed. Anyway, I’m convinced I’m looking at the most expensive propulsion hardware that Everman Technologies has produced. But, I’m not sure which propulsion method the prototype you stole is using. What is the fluxion-drive running on?”

I twirl the fluxion-drive between my fingers. “Newtonian fluxions: geometry made fluent and fluid. Aka, calculus. It runs on calculus.”

The Machine does a spit take. “Come on Anatoli Bugorski, stop pulling my leg. Don’t be an anal pissant. What’s it emitting? Do you know, eh? We explored superheated hydrogen for an ion drive, effectively… And a few other designs like that… I wanted something better than a standard Oxygen and Hydrogen rocket for the Machine-Machine. And, to be frank, after all that investment I wasn’t sure that it worked.”

He purses his lips.

I scrunch my face. “Maybe the fluxions are a flux of ions. Or, maybe it’s a flux of something else, like spacetime itself. Or maybe it’s a mix of both, to optimize energy expenditure. Wouldn’t you know?”

“I know it’s running on our compact fusion reactor. At least, I think…” The Machine bites his lip and his eyes light up with that greedy look of his. “That said, I think one of my guys were also talking about quark fusion or something. We were trying to mimic the internal conditions of neutron stars. Squirrely whirly stuff, but: it started to seem like we were close to a genuine gravity laser.”

“Glaser,” I say. “Not to glaze you, but yeah: I’ve seen interesting speculative stuff on it.”

The Machine nods in agreement. “Yeah. Top guys were working on compact accelerators and compact inertial fusion devices. Super advanced materials were involved. Also: very expensive! Investors pulled the plug on the development and muzzled any ability for me to help shepherd it. Had to stop all contact with those research groups to appease the board. I knew they had some interesting data coming through, but I wasn’t able to see how it went.”

“Higgs scale?” I say, leaning back in my chair. “String theory, right? Were you guys counting on extra dimensions to compactify micro black holes at the Higgs scale? You try to emit gravitational energy that way?”

The Machine gives me a blank look.

“I’ve had a lot of long conversations with Dr. Skully near your collider,” I explain.

Rolling his eyes, the Machine shoos P.B away. “There are lots of different models involving the possibility of gravitational energy at that scale. A Higgs portal that hooks into dark matter is usually what guys like Dr. Skully talk about these days, right? Weakly interacting massive particles and strongly interacting massive particles are candidates… Never ceases to amaze me that it’s usually all about the WIMPs and SIMPs.”

He sticks his tongue out, as if to tease me. Or maybe he’s making fun of himself. Not entirely sure.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand all the different models for quantum gravity,” he continues. “But yes, the one you mentioned is among them.”

I cackle. “Dang, if only one of them was correct… You’d need a collider as big as the galaxy if micro black holes are only at the Planck scale, correct? Planck scale is a billion, billion times more energy than Higgs scale? Dr. Skully definitely suggested micro black holes need to compactify somewhere near the Higgs scale, otherwise odds go way down for building the glaser in compact form. Oh well…”

Hugo’s eyes skate the surface of the table. “Yep. Was really hoping they almost had it, but wasn’t sure. Going to be honest, data was spotty. Seems impossible by vanilla laws of physics… If it actually can’t work, I want it to be the case that we live in a simulated reality where it can. Of course, with crazy stuff like dragons and fortune telling, the odds of us being in a simulated world are better than not.”

I snort. “Nah.”

The Machine snatches the fluxion-drive from my hand and puts his thumb in the path of its beam. The flow warps his thumb out of proportion. He pulls it away from the beam and it snaps back into shape.

“Okay, so this is warp tech 100%,” he says with a foxy grin, before handing it back to me. He slicks his hair. “You sure you don’t want to turn this in? This tech could lead to all kinds of breakthroughs and new technologies. Faster than light travel, teleportation maybe… Who knows what else?”

I scoff. “Absolutely not. I know for a fact how stuff is misapplied, and your company is a complete mess. Also, it’s too powerful to be in the hands of a corporation. Just look at what humanity did after the invention of the atom bomb!”

“Look, I’m trying, okay? Do you know how hard it is to be altruistic when there’s this much wealth and power involved, rather than act on greed? It feels impossible!”

I offer a weak frown. “Society says that we are all trapped within debt. The sins of one generation must be paid in sacrifice of the next. I’m done with it. Despite my knowledge and skills, the world wants to shut me up! It wants to hold me down! It’s man vs. machine! The economic machine! All mediating mechanisms are a joke! Where’s regulation? Where’s taxation? Democracy? Why do you have your own personal monopoly? Why do you have a billion times more in personal wealth and value than the rest of us?”

The Machine heaves. “Look, I agree change is inevitable when it comes to the economic system. I feel like I can’t win! Investors are eating me alive for giving away too much money. You’re angry at me for not giving away enough. The system reinforces bad behavior it seems.”

“You’re not getting it. The rich are rewarded for hoarding and penalized for exercising their wealth. It’s the reverse for the poor. Why do we keep sleeping through this aggressive workaholic culture as though it’s some dream? It’s a broken nightmare and I’m done trying to save it!”

“Exactly, exactly… I totally get you. Time is money, time is power, and it should feel egalitarian rather than like tar. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I’m actually trying to crack this problem. Lots of my wealth is going into a decentralized and distributed chain of logic blocks – a blockchain. E-currency! It’s resistant to hoarding and it’s more fluid dynamical than standard currency. More mechanics for regulation, taxation, and reinforcement of teamwork. This economy also is simulated on quantum computers.”

“Yeah, that just sounds like the stock market with extra steps.”

“I’m thinking it might be a useful basis for a digital democracy as well. Rather than representative democracy, everybody can vote on issues through a secure blockchain. Everybody has an equal say. Teamwork makes the dream work!”

“You talk a big game about teamwork, but I’ve never gotten the sense we’re equal partners! I’m a person, and you always treat me like an object! You can’t keep trying to solve human problems with more tech!”

“Look, Everman Technologies owns your device. My advice: think twice.”

“Everman Technologies is not a person, even if the law says otherwise. I own these fluxion-drives, period.”

I probably sound like I’m on my man-period. Oh well.

My fingers stroke the soft rubber buttons budding from my fluxion-drives. I’m never giving them away.

“Okay, you got me,” says the Machine. “I try to see both sides of every issue and then make firm decisions, in order to get things done within groups of people… And, maybe this means that I compromise my moral compass when I shouldn’t. But, we’re innovators. Inventors. Technologists. We work hard. We fail. We make no excuses for ourselves. We solve the world’s greatest problems. And, in doing that, we inadvertently create the next set of the world’s greatest problems. It sucks, but it comes with the job. And, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“This technology is going to kill us all, isn’t it?”

“You catastrophize too much. It’s going to be fine, trust me.”

I give my fluxion-drive a slight kiss. I pretend to chew down on a loose wire, but I know what I’m doing. “You’re not getting my babe. This is my masterwork. My Jack Pollock.”

The Machine clears his throat. “Incorrect. Jackson Pollock. It’s Jackson.”

My face contorts. “Uh, no. It’s Jack.”

“Jackson,” the Machine insists.

“Checking my precognition… Hmm… Damn—you’re right!”

We share a chuckle.

“Y’know, I really love this little apartment,” the Machine says. “Reminds me of my small little room: pure white box. It’s good for sensory deprivation.”

I shrug. “You have that because you can afford it. As for me: I’d be happier with a bigger place, but this works for now. It saves me lots of money.”

The Machine crosses his arms. “Happiness is a choice, just as it is a function of what you have.”

I cross my eyes. “I’m not so sure of that, based on what I’ve seen in this world.”

“Ok then. If you’re having trouble balancing life and being my sidekick, just stop being my sidekick. You don’t need to sacrifice everything that you are to help me out. We’re good.”

My eyes twinge. This is a slap in the face. But then, I saw it coming.

“I want to stay your partner. I don’t want this to end on a bad note. Isn’t sacrifice the basis of our myths? One person to sacrifice themselves for all of mankind?”

“Yes, but people feel free to choose self-sacrifice. If it feels forced, then it’s not really a self-sacrifice is it? Besides, it’s a myth… A noble lie. Wonderful to taste its order, but it only serves to keep people in line like sheep. That’s the extent of its purpose.”

I’ve been stabbed in the back many times in life, so I’m numb to this. Still, I don’t think the scar he’s leaving will ever truly go away.

I outstretch my hand to Hugo. We shake. My body shakes along, out of anxiety.

“I guess that’s it then,” I say. “Goodbye to our partnership.”

“Apprentice becomes the master, reluctant as I am to admit it,” says the Machine. “You’re a cogent gentleman Cog.”

I offer a sheepish blush.

“By the way, you should look into dating and social apps if you’re struggling finding friends,” says the Machine.

I shake my head. “Been burned too many times. Never get any matches. Besides: it always asks for more money. I prefer meeting a girl in person and looking into her eyes. The colors… I like blue and green. Is it weird that, when looking back on my life, I feel like I’ve only ever had a crush on one girl? I’ve met a lot of different girls but… It often feels like I keep falling for the same one, somehow.”

The Machine nods. “Been awhile since I’ve felt love myself, but it’s always nice when it comes along. I’d give the apps another try my guy.”

Geez, this dude just never gets it.

“I don’t want an algorithm to profit off of how I love… How I live… It’s an inversion of my values. I’d rather monetize my death than have this society monetize my life. Give me liberty or give me death!”

The Machine stands from his chair, clearly disturbed. Strange, considering his strength.

“I’m sorry,” he says, walking toward the door. “This was all a front. A fiction. A meticulously constructed fiction, but fiction nonetheless. I was hoping you would’ve figured that out by now. I’ve always hoped that, if people believed in me, maybe they’d learn to believe in themselves. And… Maybe I’d learn to believe in myself. This is why I never say the Machine is faux outright. But yeah, that’s what it is.”

He opens the door, standing halfway between the inside and the outside.

“One more thing,” he says. “If believing in me means you stop believing in yourself? Stop believing in me. Like, yeah… Just stop.”

The door slams shut.

I’m not sure how to feel.

Maybe I’m just bitter and jealous. That probably plays a slight role in all of this. I love creating and inventing things. But, in my quest for legitimacy, I often fall short. I’ve never been the best at keeping track of numbers and analysis, much as it pains me to admit. I love tool building, but I can become a tool when I start comparing myself to others.

I don’t want others to trust me because I don’t entirely trust what is within myself.

The Vitruvian is one of the worst people I’ve ever met, I think. To be honest, the Machine also ranks up there at this point. But, giving the devil its due: I share in a lot of their worst attributes. Is that wrong?

I guess it makes it easier to forgive them, so there’s that.

Sometimes this world feels unsalvageable. Will it work itself out in the end?

A quote from Newton bounces through my mind. “Like a watchmaker, God was forced to intervene in the universe and tinker with the mechanism from time to time, to ensure that it continued operating in good working order.”

Beautiful sentiment. I get the sense of an infinite being and the infinities beyond it.

But then, in terms of God… Humanity tried making God in its own image. Humanity failed. I guess it’s still fun to develop an imaginary space though, where the concept somehow works.

I’m often meditating on the end. Should I end things? I shouldn’t, right?

There’s a soft click and pitter patter behind me. I turn to find Jack standing in the hall. He waltzes up to a coffee table where his plant Perry is.

“What was all that commotion?” Jack asks.

I give a huff and readjust my goggles. I refuse to say a word.

“You water the plant?” Jack presses, wiggling one of Perry’s leaves a bit.

“I don’t care about your stupid plant,” I say.

Jack adjusts his hoodie and scowls at me. “You can’t talk to me that way, okay? If you have a problem, you better say it.”

“This city sucks,” I say. “Leave me alone.”

Jack goes into the kitchen to refill a pitcher of water, then comes back looking pretty bitchy.

Great, now I’ve really done it…

“You always need to play victim and act like you’re being persecuted,” he says. “But maybe the problem is often yourself. You ever think of that? Nobody should be expected to roll out the red carpet for you if you can’t even advocate for yourself.”

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just… The Machine. We had a rough go of it. He fired me as his sidekick.”

“Ignore him, you’re better than that,” says Jack while watering his plant. “Don’t waste your life getting hung up on people living lives in an entirely different stratosphere from your own. Learn to be happy just being you!”

Perry bristles, enjoying its drink.

“We should do something fun together,” says Jack. “Play board games. Have dinner. Roommate stuff.”

“Too busy,” I grumble. “Got a headache.”

Jack’s hands are in his pockets. “You keep isolating yourself from friends and refusing to be happy. That’s not a sacrifice. That’s selfish. People care about you man, but we can’t help If you refuse to connect.”

I check my phone to see if there are any messages from Lin. Still zippo. Great!

I really have a headache now!

I toss my phone at the floor and I watch the screen crack. Why do I do this to myself?

“What was that?!” cries Jack.

“Percussive maintenance,” I declare. “You obviously wouldn’t get it…”

Jack picks up the phone and carefully sets it on the table. “You need to cool it, I’m worried about you. I get that you want others to know you’re smart, but do you need to act like you know oh so much more than everybody else? The internet and stuff makes all this information you try to lord over people just a click away.”

I click away at my fluxion-drives, hovering into the air. Electronic music pulses out their ends in a flow of force. The room buzzes and quakes. I cross my legs and I’m spun up into the air.

I’ve reached my ceiling.

I’m angry at Lin. I’m angry at the Machine. I’m angry at society.

Society man. Like dude, bro, society. We live in a society bro.

But, it’s my fault isn’t it? All these unrealistic expectations for people, which are so obviously delusion. I observe clear concern on the faces of Bit-Bot, P.B, and Jack.

“I’ll leave you to it, butthead Buddha,” says Jack. “Let me know when you want to talk.”

He walks away while the walls and room warp in and out with a syrupy symphony.

I’ll clear things up with that phony later. For now, precognition carries me in and out of time. I am the storm, and I am the rainbows that come after. I float on air as a feather.

It is the privilege of all life to defy gravity in its own way.

Ugh… Maybe I’m the phony. Stark examples abound.

I’m only young once, and I’m always worrying whether I’m running out of time to get it right.

Why does it feel like everyone abandoned me? Why has Everman abandoned me?

It really does seem that my quest for gnosis has hurt more than it has helped.

Another quote I revere comes to my mind. This time, it is from Einstein: “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

My music blares to ever raising heights. My space gets increasingly spacious. Infinity intensifies, and I am part of it. Time is space. All is space, flowing at uniform pace. My hubbub is one with the heartbeat of the universe. My mind huddles behind the sphere of the Hubble scale, which ties all the cosmos together. Hidden substrates of matter and antimatter neutralize each other.

The subconscious submerges into the nexus. It is so small and quiet down here. Thorns pierce my thoughts. I am within a time of 0 time. A time of the abyss. Bliss.

“I am at the beginning. I am at the end. Alpha and omega are the same. Infinity upon infinity, over and over again!”

Pure chaos is at loss with itself. Alas. My heart sinks into it all. It is made one with void. I sense absolute good and absolute evil blending into each other. 1 is 0 and 0 is 1. The eternal clash is illusory.

I try to turn my head, and the void snaps. It spasms. There’s a terrible blast. The present void fades to past. A new world is aligning, and it’s blinding!

“I am!” I declare. “I am the Cogito! I am the devil… The ruler of hell… The antichrist… The antichristian!”

Or… Or… Maybe I’ve just had too many energy drinks. Who’s to say?

My fluxion-drives hit a fever pitch before suddenly sputtering out, and I hit the floor.

Gah! Didn’t see that coming! Crud! Screw the universe!

Must be out of fuel…

Chapter 12: Visions for the Future

The Machine

Reality is what we make it. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself, to get through the day. Bah – my lawyer Tim Trekkle is taking an eon to join our video call. Time trickles away. What’s taking him so long?

I’m worn out by it all, at this point. I know I complain a lot, but I really mean it. What energy of me that has not been drained primarily serves to pull my eyelids down. I’m hovering from 1 to 5%.

I’m sitting at my tensegrity desk in my office, studying the way the cables make my desk seem to levitate. So beautiful, the strings of power. I count the ticks of my watch. The glass is warped with mist and dew, from me leaving the watch in the sink. Ack.

I should get more sleep, but I don’t like laying like a dead log. Feels like such a waste. Computers don’t sleep. Why can’t humans be the same? Maximize our time – I’m alive, so I have a vested interest in not playing dead.

The reason I sleep is elusive, but also painfully obvious. As I pass through the realm of life, I’m not to be 100% aware. So long as we roam the realm of time, we remain in the womb. Much as I want to make history, it seems more and more like history makes me. It’s so hard to escape the past, malleable though it seems to be.

If I’m lucky, my life’s work will allow us all to warp out of here alive…. But maybe that’s just a lie I tell myself. Oh well. Even the best of us must lie at the end of the day…

I’m pretty sure Cog is giving a load of crock when he talks about his precognition powers, but I can perceive the appeal. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the future at your beck and call?

I really screwed the pooch with him, didn’t I? He’s lost his mind, just like Byrd did – my burden. The common denominator is clearly me, and my domineering. I cast too large a shadow, don’t I? I never wanted kids for this reason. Byrd and Fletcher weren’t kids – they’d be fine dealing with me, right?

Eh, who am I kidding?

I’m pushing things too hard, and insisting on the next thing. Innovating is generally the right way to go, right? I’m terrified that my fame might be built on a pyramid scheme.

Normally I can stay focused on company tasks when there are 4 clear lines of business in motion. Once it hits 5 lines or more though, it all spins out of control. I get lost. That’s where I am: not knowing where I am. Always stretching in multiple directions, caught in a world of spin and shifting perspectives.

I should hit stop, but I’ve never known how to. When I was young, I drove a used car. One day, its check engine light came on. I didn’t have time to fix it – not enough money, and too many other things were on my plate.

That car eventually broke down. The engine block melted – a belt had come loose, and I neglected to fix it in time. Is the way I run business no different?

Whatever. Fortune must come with a healthy dose of misfortune. It’s always been this way.

With luck, we might be able to master space and time, as well as intertwine robot life with life itself. On that day, all problems in life will be solved. That is – if robotic life counts as life.

Hmm… Should robots have rights? Free will?

Should they be allowed to feel pain?

Technology certainly is analogous to the struggle of life: generation after generation, either entrenching or overcoming the failings of the previous. Striving to somehow make the wrongs right… But not knowing for sure what is “right”, at any rate.

Is there such a thing as a pure “right” way? Aren’t the differences what make us special?

Then again, with the help of robots and AI, the need for niches finally goes away. A sense of absolute morality is also useful for programming societies and AI, troubling though absolutism may be.

I scrunch my face. AI starts with reinforcement learning. Ideally, positive reinforcement. It’s the easiest way to get it working. Not meant to be adversarial, but sometimes you must define an adversary to make progress.

Ah, progress… Really been biting me in the ass lately. Deep down, I want things to bounce back to how they were in the good old days, but I get the sense it never will. Why can’t tech be used to keep things the same, instead of changing things all the time?

Just look at the Vitruvian. The best, now the worst….

My hologram flickers up on my desk. I lean back in my chair and begin shaking my snow globe. I know how the fluid flows. But the individual snowflake? Impossible to say.

“You in your office, Hugo?” Tim Trekkle asks.

Ah! My lawyer, finally late!

“Yep,” I say, watching the flakes of my snow globe accelerating back and forth through the fluid, with the pull of my hand. I’ve turned the world flaky!

There’s a mini me in there, standing at the edge of the globe. He seems to be fighting some kind of techno-ghost. A phantom, with cybernetic eyes. The window to the soul, glass silicate – so delicate.

Will he ever escape? Will he ever truly win?

“Interesting to see you in the office, I thought you’d be hiding in your room at the outskirts of the city again,” Trekkle says.

“That’s the great thing about tech: can be anywhere you need to be when you need to be. Today, I need to be here – big day. Gotta be with the people.”

“Whatever: with the people or outside the city, people will see you the same,” Trekkle trills. “As for your tech: useful, but I experienced lots of technical difficulties earlier today. Wi-fi kept glitching out.”

I put the globe down and give a sigh, before fiddling with a siphon on the other end of my desk. “Yeah, that’s the game of tech, I hate it. Despite the promise of solving problems, it’s always making things so painful and complicated.”

Trekkle snorts as I watch fluid dribble from one end of the siphon to the other. How the pull of gravity tricks it into moving this way will always mystify me.

“Then why do you do it?” Trekkle says, slamming a slab of papers onto his desk. “To put it lightly, you’re looking at a tricky legal situation right now. Just take a break. It’s all fake.”

I frown and my ears burn a tad. “Because I also love tech. I – I – yeah.”

Something flows through me, but I’m not sure I believe in the words I’m saying. Also, my stammer is back. Been awhile since it’s visited me. Wish it’d go away.

“Smooth line, maybe it’ll help me sleep better next time my phone bill goes up,” says Trekkle, shuffling his papers.

I pop a stick of gum into my mouth from my pocket. Maybe that’ll help. In my past it has.

Granted, I can get a tad addicted to gum. Also, it gives me gas. And, it makes me marble-mouthed. But hey, it works.

“Welp,” I smack. “Wealth. Where’s that at?”

Trekkle wipes his brow. “Trickle-down economics still works in your favor. Despite the absolute monetary mess you’ve handed me, we have a few loopholes we can use to retain control of your company.”

I lean back in my chair and guffaw. “Ha! So Byrd won’t be able to void my contracts?”

The screen flickers, colors blending into reds, blues, and greens. Did he leave? The image flickers back into view, but Trekkle is frozen.

“Buddy, we’ve got some good leverage,” Trekkle says, the only signal of motion being in his jaw. “But, keep in mind: you definitely broke the agreements of your contracts with these latest stunts you pulled. You should’ve consulted with me first, instead of trying to have your AI spearhead all of this.”

Oh jeez, Byrd is completely screwing me over. Whose side is he on?

“What were you thinking?” Trekkle continues. “Everything was completely smooth sailing. Why’d you have to go and muck it all up?”

I tap the glass to the holographic screen. “This AI is top-of-the-line.”

“Over the top, more like it…”

“I—I—I’m trying to pull an Andrew Carnegie, okay! Stop treating me like a carnie!”

“Carnegie gave his wealth away because the timing and value made sense, not out of some moral creed. You sure you really thought this through, or are you just pretending?”

I swallow my gum. “Aren’t we all just pretending? If I gotta pull a few tricks to get my way, so be it. People love sensational figures, it’s how we get things done. It’s how we do things right.”

Trekkle shrugs, nonplussed. It’s as though my words just pass through him. “You throw around those words too easily. Wrong… Right… It probably serves you well for adverts, but that propaganda won’t hold up with me. Any moral code you have can and will be used against you.”

I smirk. “A—A—and yet, the contract I broke clearly ha—ha—has a right or wrong. Isn’t that how a foundational document for governance emerges? Institutions like Supreme Courts, instating a strong sense of right and wrong?”

Trekkle shrugs. “Look, you can use anything to argue for anything.”

“Then what is anything?”

“Last I checked, it’s about all things being treated as equal… None better than another.”

Rubbing my eyes, I feel an anger broil within me. “Yep. All men are created equal,” I toss at him. “You’re no better than me.”

“You sure you believe you’re not supreme, Everman?” Trekkle snorts. “Mr. I-know-best?”

“Yeah,” I say with a stiff nod. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”

“And what about women, huh? You chose to cite ‘All men are created equal’ – they just get left out of the mix?”

I start sniffing my coffee with a shrug. As the vortex settles, I take a sip. It’s cold. Stale. I hit a button in my desk, buzzing my assistant.

“Not my fault that one of our foundational lawyerly principles is se—sexist,” I lug, caffeine filling my gullet. “Can’t erase the racism either – world has gotta keep things racy sometimes, somehow.”

Trekkle gives a nervous laugh.

“Don’t worry—been looking for a while, but I’m sure an Everwoman will enter the picture any day now,” I add.

“You’re losing it—you need to get a grip. What I’m getting from you is that you think some people are more equal than others?”

I chomp my gum. “I ca—can’t say you’re thinking wrong. That—it’d be promoting the concept of wrong-think, now wouldn’t it?” My eyes lock onto my snow globe. “Of course, no two snowflakes are made alike. Science, amirgiht?”

“Well, actually, I saw a headline that said—.”

“If it wasn’t a headline about me, I’m already bored,” I groan. “You know, I’m really regretting not just talking with my AI lawyer some more. Much more agreeable.”

“The fact that your AI is agreeable is exactly why it’s a bad lawyer. What I’m trying to get you to realize is this: you used to be the rebel. The upstart. And so, people were willing to let you play the good guy… They’d let things slide… What you’re now looking at is what happens when you’re no longer rebel, Machine. You succeeded at taking on the system, and now you are the system.”

The coffee is drained from my cup. It’s all empty in there. All gone.

What’ll happen when I’m one day gone? Does it feel like dreaming? Or, is it more like reincarnation?

Hopefully I come back as something like a tree. Or, a cloud. Maybe a planet? A plant on a farm would also be nice…

If I ever come back as something, I’d want to be tapped into the cycles of the cosmos. Most things in this world don’t work to be what they are, they just are, cycling in and out and in again.

Why does corporate work mask this over so well? Why must everything be a struggle? Sometimes it’s easier to imagine the end than starting over from the beginning.

“Think about all the people you’ve struggled against over the years,” says Trekkle, as if reading my mind. “A lot of those ‘villains’ got screwed over by you emotionally and monetarily, Don Quixote… Fun as it is to be tribal against rivals, you’re really telling me they all deserved that? That there’s nothing more going on under the surface than just good or bad?”

There’s gunk stuck in the back of my throat. “Hurr—hurr durr—hurt people hurt people,” I gurgle. “Sorry Trekkle, my throat has a tickle. Have to do what I have to do… The company has undone a lot of the problems our competition created.”

“Yeah, but are those people who are to blame, or is it the fault of systems?”

I struggle to hear him. My mind is dominated by the echo of the words “hurt people” looping and whooping about.

“It’s also not like your company is perfect,” Trekkle continues. “You and your company is all too human, not superhuman. Take all the environmental and mental health concerns sprouting up, for example. I’ve been doing a lot of firefighting for you on that front.”

“The nonprofit division is working all kinds of wonders with biotech,” I snap. “We’re solving problems, promise. Carbon capture, restoration of ecosystems, biofuels, sustainable bio-materials… We’re on the cusp, it’s in—in—in our grasp.”

My voice is a rasp, and my vision is a ruse. There will always be problems. What kind of world would it be without them?

“Don’t worry, I still think you’re special,” Trekkle says, before blinking out his camera. “Put a pin in that, and I’ll ping you in a minute after crunching some numbers.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

It’s odd, but much as Trekkle seems determined to save my empire, I tire of it. Less is more, no? But then, if more is also less, what is the moral lesson again? Feels moral-less

Oh, double speak… I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, more or less.

Eh, I can’t express enough: despite having what I want in life, it’s never quite as I thought it’d be. Upon winning capitalism, it’s hard to keep innovating. My life essence is constantly pouring into my work, but I’m left to draw passion from out of a drip-feed. Rewards must be artificially repressed when managing large groups. Groups self-regulate, and leaders are relegated to figureheads.

Oh to be renegade again, rather than in retrograde. Can’t take credit for things going well, must take responsibility for things going poorly.

Do leaders need to exist in the age of AI? The systems of the mind and AI each seem to work better with decentralized structures, after all.

I’ve spent my days pretending to be looking out for other people. I’m starting to wish there’d be somebody who could pretend to be looking out for me.

“Alright, I’m back,” chirps Trekkle as he blips back onto my holo-projector.

“Gimme the good news first,” I say, shoving another stick of gum into my mouth.

My desk sparkles from numerous gum wrappers. I’ll clean up the trash later, I guess.

Trekkle slicks back his thin layer of hair, then gives his lawyerly glare. “Why always assume that there is good news? This time there isn’t any.”

“Posit—posit—my position is that positivity matters most of all,” I say, tossing my wads of wrappers into the air. They flutter, then falter. “Constructive interference, re—ree—reinforcement learning, positive feedback loops— all things build off these principles. Nonlinear gain when we all work together.”

Trekkle moans, tossing several graphs, emails, and contracts onto the screen. “Well, take this as constructive criticism then: I gotta point out the faults, I can’t play Pollyanna. These internal metrics are piss poor, especially after you sold your stock. You clearly weren’t supposed to take a torch to the company in the way that you did. Didn’t consult any people, going straight through AI for all these management decisions…. Objectively abject failure of your powers. The board has designed an airtight case against you, Machine. Ranging from mishandling corporate property, embezzlement, misuse of corporate funds, breaking NDA, and a whole lot of other stuff.”

My jaw drops. I sputter. “But—but—they’re misrepresenting everything! They can’t cancel me! Innocent until proven guilty! That’s the law! I—I—I’m the hero!”

Trekkle brushes his shoulder, grooming himself. “Hero? Not according to what the board has built. Your escapades as the Machine have seen you take unnecessary risks and misuse company resources over the years, at least according to the board. The laws of–err—law aren’t like the laws of physics. Or… Maybe they are? At any rate, opinions and dialogue play a strong role in what does or doesn’t happen in the eyes of the law.”

My head throbs and my ears feel stuffy. I like to tell myself that my business is somehow better than those that have come before – morally superior. And it totally is, isn’t it?

I massage my forehead. Some mechanism in my skin feels overtightened. Shouldn’t have chewed so much gum while Trekkle was chewing me out.

My heart pitter-patters. Is that the sound of guilt bashing against its walls? I’m not sure, but moralizing has a cost for morale. All those misadventures over the years as the Machine… And for what?

Hmm…

“It’s likely we can sort this out before they eject you,” Trekkle interjects against my mindstream. “Been running some scenarios through your AI. We can just say you were on drugs or something. Poorly informed, poorly medicated. We can blame your doctor.”

I shake my head. “But that’s not true!”

“Right, right… Your high tech roids don’t count?”

“They’re bio-enhancers. Gene therapy. Also, I stopped taking them.”

“You call that therapy? Whatever, I’ll try correcting that to ‘drunk on power’ and I’ll see where that can get us. I’m confident I can force the board to let those funds into that foundation of yours. As for you having control, I’m not so sure on that front.”

I grimace, then tap on the glass with my classic plastic grin. “You can do better than that, don’t play dumb. Surely you have a secure way to shore up my wealth.”

Trekkle scoffs and my stomach sloshes, making me nauseous. “Don’t get surly and don’t call me Shirley,” trills Trekkle. “You want to keep the money? I get it, but… Time is the enemy here. Time is money here. Things are…. Time sensitive. It’s also a lot of power we’re talking about. You can bet on an unholy mix of things moving far too fast and oh too slow. Sad to say it, but nothing lasts forever. One thing I know for certain: time always runs out.”

I give a grumble. A creature hidden underneath my invulnerable skin is trembling. The pressure of the infinite effaces me—so tough to face. What is greatness when you can only be a small fraction of it all?

I give a belch. “Guess that settles it then: money truly is the root of all evil. All this time investment in the hope of living life my own way… And the cost of having life in my own way is that I am in my own way.”

Flustered, Trekkle filters through his clutter of papers.

“Hey now, don’t get too down. However this shakes out, you can trust the system is fair. You’ll still have a lot of money at the end of this, and you don’t have to treat it as evil. It depends on how you use it. It’s a tool. Money is power.”

I give my head a shake. “No—no—know—knowledge is p—pfft—power. Be—be—besides, all this power can be corrupting. Power—para—uh—parable of camel going through the eye of the needle comes to my mind. Easier for the camel to pass through than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. That camel—lots of nights it haunts me. Am I the rich man in that story?”

I sigh. Part of me is terrified of losing everything and going back to having nothing. That said, I haven’t been ousted from anywhere since I was a teenager, working at a summer job. I also miss having nothing to my name, like when I started. Less competition. Everybody can have equal amounts of nothing to their name, that’s the generous thing about nothing. Much less dishonesty than what’s involved when trying to be something.

“Oh come on now, don’t go taking that religion and God stuff too seriously,” says Trekkle. “All the talk about fire and brimstone, if you do this or that… It’s just made up stories that we tell kids to spook them. We need the concepts of money, fiscal responsibility and wealth to keep things running smoothly, alright?”

“I agree that it’s all myth and metaphor, and that a lot of it is problematic, I say, wincing. “But—but—but that doesn’t mean all this guilt is going away.”

Trekkle shrugs. “Good sells. It’s convenient. But– I keep trying to get you to see this—it’s low on nutrients. Absolute morals are too rigid when applied to life. They yield descriptions of situations tantamount to the concept of a ‘true lie’ or ‘2+2=5’.”

“It’s fine, I can round up a little.”

“Sorry if that’s meandering, but what I mean to get at is this: if we abandon good, maybe something better can emerge.”

“Well then, I gu—gu—guess I’m beyond words,” I smack, my forehead clammy. “If there is no right or wrong, it’s still hard to convince me that the concept of absolute morality is wrong. Nevertheless, still hard to argue whether morality is right. My best defense is AI—it thinks in binary and training it for a moral compass is top of mind.”

Trekkle has inched from the camera and now sits a meter away from where he was at the start of our conversation. “Look: sometimes it’s necessary to demolish a building. Other times? Not so much. Actions always should depend on the context at hand. There’s something to be said for not caring about how society predefined certain actions. Do what you feel that you must. If it was predefined as wrong? Oh well.”

Eek, it just doesn’t let up. Something feels off.

“Where’s my friggin’ assistant?” I pant, pounding the button on my desk through pent-up anger. “Hey now: just because I got myself fired doesn’t mean you can revolt against me. I need more coffee, stat. Also a bagel. Get on it!”

There’s a muffled chirp from a speaker in my desk. Hopefully that means they heard me. I pace to the window and stare out into space. The ground level is surrounded by protestors.

“This is your last day?” Trekkle says with a crackle in his voice. Stupid wi-fi signal.

“Yep,” I say, hanging my head.

The group of protesters is about twice the size as it was this morning. They’re scattered about like a colony of ants, waving signs and blocking up the parking lot.

“It’s now or never. Making a spee—speech after this. But, been having a tough time with Polka’s resignation and failing health, as well as the confluence of protests. My own assistant is ignoring me now… My final meeting – I wa—wa—wanna nail it, but doubt I will. Why’s everything falling apart? It’s as though Byrd planned this all out.”

“Polka is just a figurehead, you barely know him. You gotta cool it,” says Trekkle. “As for Byrd, he might be engaged in malpractice, I don’t know – wouldn’t put it past him. Our system did a fine job producing a scapegoat for itself with that guy. But, a lot of this unrest also falls on you. This is what happens when you spend a career fighting against unions and treating human rights as secondary. No amount of guts or gusto will change that. Exhibit A: you just spoke to your assistant like a total ass.”

I watch my reflection in the window as my face curdles into a scowl. “They’re not just resisting working conditions, they also want to stop technological progress,” I say as they scuttle along the crummy pavement. “AI, robotics, genetic engineering—my life’s work—they want it banned. The old world… It’s dying. Polka’s wonderland, being stripped for parts. And they’re the key opposition!”

“Then I guess you’re stepping back at just the right time, aren’t you? Come on now, you don’t need one more person to build you up,” says Trekkle. “You already have everything. I’m telling you, you gotta dial it down a notch. Society will sort itself out. It’s not up to you to solve everything.”

As usual, he’s got me cornered. Maybe I should’ve stuck to the original plan of being a rockstar or something. Things are probably much smoother when staged. These corporate personas—have I tricked myself into believing they’re something worth valuing?

“On the subject of your hardware, I think that’s the last main topic of discussion we have on the docket,” Trekkle continues. “While I have good records on all our conversations, I need some better insight into the actual work you’ve done the past year or so in terms of development work. Should help a bunch in terms of sorting out some big patents we have cooking. Been a lot of debates recently on who gets credit for what, especially since AI helps you a bunch and is trained on public metadata. I suspect it’ll give you a lot more leverage in these coming discussions, depending on what you’ve got to show for yourself.”

I amble back over to my desk and hop onto my computer. I give a few keystrokes into my AI, and a link is sent to Trekkle like that. All data from my day-to-day, parsed through a digital parcel.

“Dang, that was fast,” says Trekkle.

“Fa—fastest typer in the midwest,” I say with a wink. “Enjoy the hours of transcripts covering my heavy breathing. Makes for some light reading.”

Trekkle chuckles. “Trifling for me, but I’m sure my AI will enjoy. By the way, while I have you here—and I can try making sure this is just between us—what are your thoughts on all this monitoring and data collection at your company? Should so much about an individual really be centralized in the hands of what is essentially a monopoly making concessions?”

I bite my lip and shift in my chair. The synthetic leather is agitating me for some reason. “I mean, somebody has to do it, right? Decentralized systems and communities certainly make sense in some cases, but large, centralized structures are also natural. How can a society expect to operate as solely decentralized when the concept of a society has a very clear and centered definition?”

“Just seems very easy for those frameworks to become self-centered is all.”

“From many, one,” I say with a smirk. “That’s how leading works. Take beehives for example. Or, the mind – neural networks. Many disparate parts, producing a coherent whole. The conscious mind can conduct a lot of sophisticated behavior by having command over the entire body in broad strokes.”

“You completely miss the point… You realize the board is trying to use some of your data collection tools against you, right?”

“It is what it is.”

“Sure, but diversity of thought and freedom to think independently is the benefit of not micromanaging everything,” says Trekkle. “And you wonder why there’s so much unrest… You’re putting a square peg in a round hole.”

“Eh, I let my researchers do what they want, and then I micro-manage the rest,” I say with a shrug. “Probably too much freedom – they nearly bankrupted this place.”

Trekkle chortles. “Yep, you’re clearly in over your head. On that subject: one of the research and development categories they’re debating your patents on involve the development of warp tech. It is also the key area sucking up company funds. Care to elaborate? I thought it was only a few years ago that the LISA observatory was finalizing its observations of gravity waves in the early cosmos. These documents… You’re not suggesting that gravity waves can be emitted at will here on Earth, are you?”

“I initially thought it was impossible myself,” I say, biting my cheek. “That’s the annoying thing about large organizations—I spend all this time building it out, only for a bunch of new people to come along who contribute research and ideas far beyond anything I ever could do… Our research groups built amazingly compact accelerators, which allow us to explore exotic phases of matter – normally only traceable through the early universe. I thought that any connection to gravity would be a pipe-dream, but my leading researchers produced ALP…”

**Note: will need a section where proper researcher talks on this topic!!**

“ALP? Person, place, or thing?”

“They’re the initials of Anna Livia—,” I stop and break into a snicker, “uh, Plurp. Nah, ju—just messing around. The—they—it stands for Axion-Like Particles. Dark matter. Not sure how far my researchers got with it, I only read about this stuff for hobby and was shut out as you know. But, supposedly it was key for new effects. Amplification mechanism or something, made emitting beams of gravitons look like it could have real applications.”

Trekkle shudders. “Okay, I have a headache now. I was really hoping this would be a discussion on a trip of yours to the alps.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“On the subject of the alps, you’re always scaling Mount Everest Everman. Will you ever rest?”

“Somebody has to use capital to help push tech and science forward, it’s what makes life interesting,” I say. “We move further away from the limitations of our body and minds. We master matter, and we will become one with the machines.”

I pause. I blink. Damn – that sounds a lot more megalomaniacal than it was in my head.

“Also, clarification,” I say, “pretty sure Mount Everest is in the Himalayas, not the alps.”

“Hey, some of us haven’t gotten the latest software update,” Trekkle scoffs. “Also, impressive as the laws of physics are, I do just see them as another system of law. Physics can be bent, alright? It isn’t the only thing that matters, and people have good reason for you to not go full steam ahead.”

“This stuff might save the world, people need to understand that. Also, if you happen to know any cosmic-grade lawyers, please send me their contact info, will ya?”

“It could also destroy the world. You want to be the greatest innovator in the world? The world will admire you. But, the world will never love you.”

“But the—the—the quality of life has continually go—gone up in history, thanks to efforts involving technology.”

“Sure. But when you frame yourself as the champion of the average person, don’t be surprised if you find yourself being called to live as an average person. People resent, eventually. How different from the average person can any of us possibly hope to be?”

I throw my hands up. “Yeah-huh. Then what do you suggest I do? I’m already leaving to focus more on charity.”

“Not that there’s any way to win in this life, but fighting for better legislation involving business regulation, worker’s rights, and taxation on the ultra-wealthy would be a start on the right track.”

I gag. “Taxes don’t track with me, man. And regulation? Oh my god, don’t even get me started on all the bureaucrat brats I’ve had to deal with!”

“Just saying, it might be the bitter medicine technologists like you need to stay regulated. You want something to fight for, Machine? There you have it. Also… Not sure how much you’ll need me after you leave Everman Technologies, but this suggestion of mine gives us an excuse to keep working together.”

Hmm… Once retired from the Machine, I guess I don’t have to steelman my board’s actions anymore. Plus, Trekkle’s socialist sales pitch might have ways to win me back public favor.

I furrow my brow. “I’ll think about it.”

There’s a knock at my office door. Must be my assistant.

“Come in,” I say, and the doors whoosh open.

A robot roves in, carrying a fresh coffee and bagels on its tray. On the front of the robot is a screen, displaying imagery from various news sources. In the bottom left corner is footage of my assistant who’s smiling as usual. Hard to tell whether her complexion is through a filter or natural, but she’s radiant. Who cares if it’s real?

“About time,” I say, striding up to the bot and snatching the food from off the tray. “What’s your name again?”

“Tracy,” she says.

Dang, there’s a coincidence! Gal assigned to push trays, happens to be named Tracy?

Eh, I’m probably best off ignoring that if I want to stay sane.

“Th—thanks,” I manage through a muffled bite. “By the way, get here faster next time, Tr-Tracy.”

I’m not sure why I say that. I already know there won’t be a next time. At any rate, she gives a weak smile and says nothing. The screen dims. I tap it and it brightens up again.

“I’m so sorry you’re leaving,” she musters through the tinny speakers. Doubt she means it after how I’ve been acting. “By the way, are you fine with your photo being taken for our newsletter? It’s dedicated to your time here and your exit.”

Dang, she makes it sound like a funeral. I hork my chunk of bagel down with a dousing of my coffee, then smear a smile across my face.

“Sure,” I say stiffly, through my coffee-stained teeth. “Ready?”

“No worries, already got it.”

Brilliant.

An image flashes across the screen of me munching on the bagel. Only… It looks off. I seem frailer. Smaller, somehow. I don’t look great.

It has only been about a week since I stopped taking my enhancements, and I didn’t expect the effect to be so extreme.

“Yeesh, that looks awful,” I say.

I mean to force a laugh, but I can’t.

“It’s fine, we’ll just run it all through AI. We can seed artificially positive sentiment when it’s posted online, too. It’ll be fine.”

I grimace. But, guess I’ll just have to accept it.

“Sounds good,” I say, patting the robot’s tray.

“Yep, just smooth it over and coat everything with AI, like you always do,” Trekkle says through the holographic projector from behind me. “I’m still here, by the way, stuck staring at your dumb desk. Let me guess, that’s AI too?”

“It—it actually is,” I croak. “AI designed and manufactured.”

I try to stand tall as I say this, but I’m not even sure who I’m trying to impress anymore.

“You—you know wha-what? We’re good here,” I say, giving a gesture to shoo my robot away and shutting off the projector. “I have to give my good bye speech in the ne-next hour or so. Also, I’ve been in this office for awhile, and I really need to take a crap.”

The doors whoosh once more, shutting out the robot. Also Tracy, I guess. The static feed from Trekkle has also faded out.

I’m not sure whether they heard my crappy sign-off. I’m not sure if I should care.

I find myself standing at my window again, munching on my stale bagel and staring at the protestors below.

They know the real Machine better than anyone. And some part of me hates them for it.

Some part…

The Cog

I can see my ceiling. I’m stuck lying in my bed. Staring. I can’t shut my eyes. I can’t move.

I’m paralyzed.

The air is slick against my skin and vibrates with vigor. A clammy sweat spills down my spine, blending with the air’s cataclysmic clamor. A perplexing suplex of cataplexy.

My fluxion-drives pulsate in the corner, matching my racing heartrate. I desperately want to roll out of my bed and grab them, but the grip of this sonic spirit holds me catatonic.

My nerves are shot and my eyelids are heavy.

The room buzzes and is bending out of shape. But how could that be? The only feature my fluxion-drives still have enough energy for are my Tesla coils, not gravity waves.

My pants are still damp from jerking off to my phone before bed. What can I say? I had to indulge my sex drive after indulging my fluxion-drives.

Those curves were a lot nicer than the ones giving me sleep paralysis.

Memory on how I got here is still confused and dizzy. I think I came out of a dream. Or, was it a dream within a dream? Maybe I’m still in one.

I attempt to tap into my precognition, but the buzzing only gets louder. My ears screech, before throbbingly settling back into the vibration.

Something is churning at my mind. My thoughts are the foam on a wave as it settles into the shoreline.

Two orbs appear on my ceiling, then peer out at me like eyes. They somehow reach within me. My bones tingle.

“Hello, my pupil,” the spirit jingles into my earways. “Have you missed me? You are tethered to the ether this eve. Granted, all souls always are, but let’s save the details of that reveal until you enter the afterlife shall we?”

Erm—Dreamweaver. That bastard! Always interrupting my REM, barging into my room! Intruding into my reality at the worst of times!

“Excuse me? What did you just call me?” Dreamweaver snorts, their glowing body wafting through my rafters.

I blink.

I try to blink again—no luck.

How did they hear what I called them? My lips can’t even move!

“I’m in your head, stupid,” Dreamweaver warbles, warping their body to-and-fro.

They’re a phantom, linked through some strange liquid. Blues, greens, and a bit of pink constitutes their form. His form? Gender is weird with these spirits.

They can’t possibly know what I’m thinking, can they?

“Yes, yes I can!” they say, my face burbling along their surface in a surreal mirror. “Also, I’m periwinkle, not pink, Rip Van Winkle!”

Dreamweaver winks like the obnoxious Lynx they are. Entire universes flow through their essence, twinkling and winking along with them.

“I’m not obnoxious, you’re obnoxious,” the constellation mutters with consternation.

Oof.

You’re not allowed in my head, Dreamweaver. You must leave. I never gave you permission to enter.

Dreamweaver begins to fade, going opaque and slipping into a pocket from what can only be another dimension.

“Hey now, we’ve got business tonight, promise,” Dreamweaver whimpers, shrinking to a fine pinpoint. “Just give me a chance. Don’t you want an explanation of where I come from? Or, or… Where your powers truly come from? Or, what all these misadventures I’ve orchestrated for you were about?”

Their vibrations drain my mind. They’ve been removed from my thought stream, even if I can still see them shivering and shimmering between worlds.

I shouldn’t trust Dreamweaver. They’ve messed with me and the Machine in the past, and Dreamweaver is always up to no good. For Dreamweaver, reality is a plaything. Chaos is just a prank, easily undone.

Something deep within my soul warns me that Dreamweaver is not supposed to be within my mind – it is a power imbalance, and a violation of the natural order.

That said, Dreamweaver is no mere spirit. Dreamweaver and his ether have entered the story for some rhyme and reason, or another. And, for what it’s worth, he has acted as guardian to me and others on some occasions.

“How can you hear my thoughts?” I finally relent, signaling to him through my mind. “How are you in my head?”

The air dulls to a stiff buzz. Dreamweaver is just waves. Froth. They’re disappearing. A pressure is along my body. It’s as though the weight of the entire universe is focused about me. The terrifying uncertainty of existence, getting its licks in.

Maybe Dreamweaver was just a bad dream. Yes, that’s it.

Part of me wants to die. But, I refuse. Something in my soul has accepted the contract of life, and I intend to fulfill it – even if death seems destined to win, regardless.

Economy and society often act as a claw machine from some arcane arcade. No matter how much scratching and clawing, success is pulled away.

But then, that’s being an adult. Life isn’t fair. You have to just take it. Just be tough. Make as much money as possible. Do what people want. Numb the curious oddities that rub against society.

I used to live in a world with clean grades and metrics to hurdle. A clear game where I could play hero.

That was the old me. Now I’m the older me.

Nowadays, my work experience doesn’t have any structure that engages me. I don’t have anything or anybody to defeat.

Man, it’s hard to be an earthling. While we value hard work, sometimes I wonder if we just value making life harder.

Whatever, I’m just a shitty engineer. Who cares what I think? I’m already en route to being fired.

Trying to play pretend as hero was a total mistake. I like to tell myself I’m special. But, we’re all mortal and die. No escaping that. People don’t really care. Not really. They just want somebody to solve their problems.

In this realm, entropy eats everything. Even love.

“Are battles of morals the plight of us mortals for accepting the gift of free will?” my air conditioning seems to whisper to me. “I fight to know, in spite of it all. Perhaps I never will.”

I’ve always wanted unconditional love, but I never find it. There’s always some catch. Some barrier – something I must do or be. I want to have the time of my life with somebody without having to consume the time of theirs. Ah well... Some things are out of my control.

For what it’s worth: I trust true love is out there somewhere, waiting for us all to find it.

My heart races, coupling to the heartbeat of the universe.

I’m screaming in my soul, desperate to know there’s some other—that it’s not just all about me.

“Where are you?” a voice upon my mind’s eye cries.

“I’m back,” Dreamweaver beams to me through the space of spaces. “I won’t invade your privacy again. Promise, even if the plot of your plodding thoughts is nice to pilot.”

You can still hear me though, right?

Hmm. Dreamweaver is silent, hovering as a spectating spectral.

“You can still hear me though, right?” the voice at the seat of my imagination groans.

“I’m not in your head any longer, only skimming the signals along it,” Dreamweaver responds, bobbin about. “Strong negative energy in the air, okay? I was nearly sucked into the vortex.”

I sniffle. “If I’m not in your head and you’re not in mine anymore, then how can we hear each other?”

“Energy. Signals, riding along the sphere of the cosmos,” says Dreamweaver. “We’re connected – intertwined with infinity.”

“That still doesn’t explain the clarity and coherence,” I say, a tumult melting my courage.

“All thoughts and concepts have chunks of consciousness connected to them,” Dreamweaver says. “Parsing the messages of mind is easier than it sounds, once you have the keys. It’s primal – numbers, emotions, impulses… They’re all there, tied to the divine geometry.”

“Enough with the sophistry, you’ve explained nothing! Meaningless,” I grunt into the vibrations.

“Now, now, nothing doesn’t exist,” Dreamweaver titters. “Careful with your thoughts. Try imagining nothing—nonsense! I didn’t gift you with precognition using my life essence, just to have you squander it with self-pity!”

“You what?” I snap. “I knew it! I knew our communications weren’t normal! You have me on a leash! You’re manipulating me!”

The glow in Dreamweaver starts to go out again. “Yeesh! Look, I actually came here tonight to explain things—to give you direction. To lift your spirits! Something is off with your journey, just a tad. And, I’m gonna help! But, you need to cut back on the negativity, alright? These thoughts will latch onto you, and then we’ll both be in trouble. Honestly, what has gotten into you?”

I roll my third eye.

“Don’t say me,” Dreamweaver adds.

My mind goes back to Lin. The long-winded conversations in our office. The awkward gazes. The joy of running around this world together, pretending all our feelings somehow made sense.

“Lin,” I say.

“Ln?” Dreamweaver asks. “Like... As in L and N – natural logarithm symbol?”

Wow. I guess Dreamweaver’s connection is spotty.

“Girl troubles,” I say. “Work troubles. None of it is fair, all of it is hard, and I have no clue where to go next without screwing everything up even more.”

Dreamweaver’s form descends along my body and sooths it. There is a peace within this naughty, soothsaying spirit. Even though my life is in pieces, stupid bliss is still somewhere to be found.

“Do what you must,” Dreamweaver says in a rush. “Life is about change. Flexibility. No matter what choice you make, there will always be a way to regret. Make sure that it’s your choice.”

My soul shudders. It burns. “And what if I want somebody else to choose for me? What if my passions are too heavy to carry? What if the suffering that comes with choice is too much?”

Dreamweaver shrugs. “Free will is a question that I don’t know the answer to myself. The gift of precognition might help. But, I’m just a lower spirit. I rely on a bag of tricks.”

I chortle. “Yeah, I think your escapade turning the Machine-Machine into a toaster made that clear.”

Dreamweaver struggles to laugh back through that voidful mouth of theirs.

“All that attitude and you still don’t want to take initiative over your own life? You have it on easy street with that middle class lifestyle of yours. You can turn your life into anything you want! Do you seriously want to stay stuck as the psychic sidekick? Tough as things can be when you’re going through the thick of it, would you rather not have any say over what you think? Would you rather be relegated to a mindless computer program? If you keep trying to sand down the edges of reality, you’ll be swallowed by cognitive dissonance Cog. Cognitive bias. So long as you accept suffering– mistakes—as something you have no choice over, you have free choice over the rest of life.”

There’s a jagged ringing that travels under my skin. Dreamweaver seems to be tugging at it.

“Don’t try to justify the unjustified,” Dreamweaver persists. “The cycle of cosmogony can absolve itself from the problem of agony, but it cannot fully solve it. Any justification for certain things must remain unknowable.”

“But… I feel like nothing,” I whisper. “I feel empty. All these relationships and shit… They deplete me. I’m not supposed to rely on another person to feel whole, but some part of me still wants to. Am I toxic in this way?”

Dreamweaver shakes their head. “There’s a hurt that you’re letting eat you, and I don’t know why. I’ve watched you—you make love more complicated than it is.”

My soul somersaults from the insult. “But my obligations… My aspirations… Don’t they take precedent? Maybe I’m wasting my time being Cog… But I just want to be part of something, ok? Besides, everything falters and falls away in this life. Every religion and philosophy warns of this, when I dig deep enough– of love’s evils. How can I justify the ethics of enjoying myself when it will always come at the expense of somebody else? Much as I’d like to pretend somebody can be there to comfort and keep company when it all ends… This is just a cop out.”

Dreamweaver juggles solar systems in their eyes, and seems utterly unimpressed. “Let me let you in on a little secret: morality isn’t simply about doing things that are ‘good’.”

He grabs at the jaggedness within me, again. He pulls and pulls and pulls… But, the jaggedness pulls back. There’s a crackle and Dreamweaver gives a whimper, before draining his beams for arms away.

“What the fuck?” they shout.

Damn. I didn’t think Dreamweaver could talk that way. Strangely, Dreamweaver also seems shocked with themselves.

“Great,” they mutter through their milky tongue. “Your soul is corrupted! Great, just great… You realize that some of my essence is coupled to you, right? Like, just so you’re aware, your precognition is my processing power, and your maladaptive tendencies are malware. Your depressing thoughts are gonna screw both of us, you realize that right?”

I want to apologize. But, like… Kinda hard to feel bad for their dumb choices when they’re literally a god. “Look, I can’t control this! I didn’t even ask for precognition. You never told me we were connected, I’m just finding this out tonight! I never gave you permission to do this, and I don’t even know how this stuff works! How is this my fault!?”

Dreamweaver puffs themselves up, their grandeur and brilliance overwhelming my soul. There’s a sputtering riding along their spine, which threatens some of the beauty—but, just a minor hiccup I bet.

“You must stop,” they command. “Your thoughts are warped by surface-level analysis of things. You’re identifying yourself with shallow things that aren’t actually you! You must remember who you are! Reconnect to your higher form!”

I’m mesmerized by their holy speech, and feel myself transcending. Dreamweaver’s eyes suck at my stomach, attempting to pull away the bad energies once and for all. Dreamweaver is like an enlightened vacuum cleaner – cosmic grade. Powers beyond comprehension!

Ugh… I’m still broken up over Lin though.

Dreamweaver blows back in a burp.

“Gah!” they muse. “Honestly, just get over that girl. Why do you care about her? Turbo-bitch, promise!”

Oh please. As if Dreamweaver has proven themselves to be any different.

“She wasn’t all that,” Dreamweaver persists, still fighting to yank my pain away.

They have a point. I’ve met prettier girls before. Nicer ones too.

Lin is a bit too full of herself. Like, she acts like she’s a gift to mankind or something… Yeah. Sorry honey, but…

But…

But, I love her.

“I know that she can be a bitch,” I say, “But so can I. And, I want her to be my bitch.”

Hmm… What I just said was wrong, wasn’t it?

Whatever, can’t take it back. I feel guilty about what I said, but it’s how I feel.

As my thoughts pass from my mind to Dreamweaver’s, Dreamweaver gives a mighty tug and manages to yank out the jaggedness. Starshine pours through my veins, alleviating the pressure and providing a fresh levity.

“Okay, I’ll stop micromanaging and just let it be,” says Dreamweaver.

There’s a scratchy spaghetti of pink energy held in his celestial hands. It slips in and out of Dreamweaver’s energy field in an oily ballet.

Dreamweaver gives an annoyed huff. “Always something… Now I gotta find a way to get rid of this thing.”

Dreamweaver’s eyes rove over to mine. “I knew there’d be stuff I’d need to clear up with you tonight, but this is definitely more than I anticipated.”

They pause. The bundle in their fiery palms zings. “You know what? I’m going to take you with me. Let’s go on a spiritual journey together!”

Dreamweaver nabs something from within my napping soul, and suddenly we’re rocketing off into the stars. The nectar of nebulae drizzles and dazzles me. Galaxy after galaxy gallops past. I can see my past self still sleeping in my bed as I look behind. As I look ahead, droplets of entirely new universes map the sky. In each one, Earth has a slightly different shape and proportion. Different mapping. Jeez—I always thought geography tests in our one universe were bad… I don’t even want to think about what they’re like for residents of the multiverse!

“Uh, where are you taking me?” I say, as we begin to approach a black hole. “You—you’re not out to destroy me, are you?”

“Bah,” barbles Dreamweaver. “I’m way too mature for that. No—not destroy you. I’d much rather annoy you.”

The ball of pink goop spills out of Dreamweaver’s clutches and pours down toward the black hole. There’s a chain built of pure light attached to the goop, and Dreamweaver turns into a crank. Steadily lowering the pink goop down, the crank sings with a free energy imbued by the black hole’s gravity well.

I stare into the surface of the sphere. Fear dribbles down my spine with each chink of Dreamweaver’s crank. What is hidden within that vast empty? Its horizon both horrifies and whores itself to me.

“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper, as the whisp whisks its energy deeper into coldness.

I’m not sure if I should trust Dreamweaver. Regardless, whether I like it or not, it’s just me and them. Also, the black hole I guess.

“It was ordained that I gotta teach you some things tonight,” says Dreamweaver. “That, and give you a fun time. Dunno how I’m doing, but I’d rather try my best than return to my house arrest.”

I crinkle my face. “Your what?”

“Look, I may have overstepped when I used my life essence to give you precognition,” grumbles Dreamweaver. “In my defense: connecting you to the higher realm was the only way to spare your life after I—.”

“Higher realm?” I sputter. “Spare my life? What did you do?”

Dreamweaver shrugs. “Nevermind that, I’ll explain more later. I’m sorry, but you mortals are just too entertaining! Also, I can make up for it! I’m being given the opportunity to help guide you and your mudball of a planet to higher things – whatever that means.”

My ears pound. “I’m not getting the sense you feel guilty at all.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” mutters Dreamweaver, as the chained-up goop nearly hits the surface of the black hole. It’s moving at what is practically a snail’s pace at this point. “You have so much to learn.”

Dreamweaver draws us closer to the goop, seeming to speed it up. The universe shrinks away as we do.

“It all is the wavefunction—all of existence. It is the rising of the tide, and it is its receding. Existence is self-dual—it is singular and also its own opposite, forever orbiting about itself.”

Dreamweaver’s body splits in two. One half is the crank, still lowering the goop down into the black hole. The other half is Dreamweaver’s swarthy, swirly self.

Sparkling threads along the surface of Dreamweaver’s body dip into the black hole. A series of numerical digits begin to stream out. They orbit the black hole’s surface and flow into his body. 2. 3. 5. 7.

All prime, all the time. They slurp the prime numbers up. Once they hit the number 137, they give a delighted sigh as though quenched of thirst. The stream of digits is replaced with gobs of noise. Dreamweaver retracts their tendrils.

“Ah—while I’m a caffeine fiend, nothing beats a dark cup of prime numbers in the morning,” Dreamweaver says.

They peer into me, appearing to morph into a variety of things. Also, nothing in particular. At the center of their starry forehead is a triangle made of 3 orbs.

“Ignore the noise,” they say, skimming the surface of the black hole. I’m not sure if they are trying to reassure themselves or me. “The truth is, black holes are subtle. They like to keep discrete. There’s a purity in darkness—a continuum. It’s quite deep. For every black hole, there is quintessence at the center – the nature of how all things are.”

My mind shudders. “Are you okay? How are you?”

Dreamweaver gives an incredulous scoff. “How am I?” they cry. “How—how am I? I am!”

Wow, that’s not at all what I meant. What a self-absorbed douche!

“I and spirits like me have minds that work like quantum computers,” they say, reeling back a bit to explain themselves. “Specifically: we’re quantum computers that run on quantum gravity. We are made up of exotic matter held in resonance, and use spacetime itself as our entangled superconductor. Unlike you mortals, we are pure intelligence. We can change form to do anything and be anything!”

I cough. I glance back at the pink goop, which has again slowed to a crawl. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” I say. “At levels of power like that, how would you not just lose your mind?”

“What?” Dreamweaver snaps.

“How are you sure you’re not just stuck in your own head imagining all this?” I press.

Really, this all seems surreal and unreal, for real. Not sure what Dreamweaver’s answer will be, but I can already sense their energy struggling to keep my soul reeled in.

“That’s a stupid question,” says Dreamweaver. “How dare you?”

Their vortical form fizzles and sheds at the ends.

“How can I even trust you?!” I shout. “Maybe you’re not a higher spirit at all! Maybe you’re a lowly, evil spirit pretending to care about me!”

Dreamweaver gives a sniffle and then shrinks in size. “I’m one of the lower-ranking entities of the higher realm, I can give you that. Also, maybe I don’t care about you that much. But, I absolutely, positively come from the higher realm,” they say, a ringing orbiting their voice. “Let me repeat: I’m from the higher dimension! And, in case I forgot to mention: I’m one of the most powerful creatures in existence!”

Something flashes into my eyes – a bliss unlike any other. It leaves as quickly as it comes.

Alright then. Whatever this ghostly dickwad says goes, I guess.

Dreamweaver seizes the moment to see down into the empty, then rises back up. “That goop is taking literally forever,” they say. “While we wait, let’s explore some more into what you implore, eh?”

The black hole melts away and we’re drifting through a network of multiverses. Entire existences waft by my face. I watch them transition from beginning to end, then back again.

“I and my kin are coupled to the flow of reality, helping to maintain and simulate it,” they say. “At the highest levels, we can generate entire worlds as easily as an AI on earth might generate a video or an image.”

My ears are hot and stuffy. I want to clear out the wax as they wax philosophical. My throat is tight, suffocated by the rare air.

“So you really can do anything?” I whisper.

Dreamweaver sighs. “Sort of. Of course, everything I do is screened. Due to my abilities coming from the higher realm, my actions are constrained by it. They have an ethos of only trying to bring good into the world—very stifling, I must admit. As it happens, they are always falling short, and there you have it!”

I shake my head. “But, this doesn’t make any sense! The world is not just a computer program.”

“Ack, it is and it isn’t,” says Dreamweaver. “Geometry has a way of simulating itself into existence. At any rate, it’s whatever we say it is. We can warp energy probabilities. Or, if you prefer, ‘energy potentials’.”

“Isn’t that a paradox? Aren’t those things fundamentally opposite?”

“Not really. Probability for something to happen, potentiality for something to happen… Same deal, really. Tomato-tomahto situation, when you get down to it.”

Dreamweaver gives a snap, and the multiversal network implodes into a cloudy powder.

“What was that for?” I gasp, as we tunnel through the shards.

There are snippets and flashes of other worlds, but I’m mostly met with blurs of color.

“It’s all just play,” they say. “I’m an entity who is in charge of dreams, you see. That’s why I have the control I do but still work at the lower levels and can break some rules.”

They say this as though it’s some badge of importance, despite their playful charade. As shards of universes morph into Dreamweaver’s dreamscape, I can’t help but wonder whether the desire to seem important is itself built on illusion.

Dreamweaver nearly flings us into a creature that has emerged from the darkness. It’s a navy-blue sock puppet, which seems to be laughing. As its mouth opens wide to consume us, Dreamweaver portals us into an empty space.

Off yonder, there is a sphere with a rainbow ringing around it.

“Are you drunk?” I shout.

“No,” says Dreamweaver.

“I think you drank one too many prime numbers.”

“Shut up.”

They transform into the shape of an arrow, and we ride along the sphere’s slick and icy surface. As we ride along the sphere, Dreamweaver charts out a circle. The path takes us back to our starting point, but Dreamweaver’s arrow is now pointing in the opposite direction. Our clocklike rotation about the curvature has changed Dreamweaver’s orientation.

Their body revs up, and we blast off. The ring rainbow jumps back into view, and we speed toward it. We are pacing just a tad slower than the light. Dreamweaver’s soul gives another jolt and we overtake the speed of light. We blueshift the rainbow into a smear of violet. I take a look behind to watch the light redshift, before returning to look ahead and find the blueshift fading out of sight.

“Welcome to the end of the rainbow!” Dreamweaver announces. “This is my domain! I work at the boundary between the realm of the 5th dimension and the realm of the 2nd dimension.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I scoff.

Dreamweaver smacks their lips. “Well, the 2nd dimension is the lower dimension of consciousness,” they proclaim. “It is a bit of a dreamscape—a sheet that lives atop the cosmic sphere of your 3D realm. Chaotic.”

I grumble. “Right…”

Dreamweaver doesn’t seem to be entirely lying, though. There is a frothy screen extended in front of us, stretching infinitely in all directions. Entities of some variety or other peer endlessly at us, their eyes bulging and mouths stuffed with an eternal laughter.

“I can traverse both realms, to be clear,” Dreamweaver says, dipping into the screen a bit. “The beings of the 2nd dimension are interesting fellows—more accepting of noise and the arrow of entropy than most.”

“And why would you be allowed down here again?” I say with a shiver.

It’s strange down here. Dreamweaver begins talking some kind of babble with the lower dimensional spirits before resurfacing.

“It’s low-level work, but it’s important,” Dreamweaver says. “Somebody has to be the caretaker of dreams, you know? I split the dream from the nightmares as best as I can.”

I frown. I shudder. “What kind of nightmares do you screen out?” I ask.

Dreamweaver jumps out from the lower dimension and stares into me. Their thoughts are padlocked.

“Nothing much really, nightmares never happen,” Dreamweaver says, coldly and brittle. They then force a laugh. “Most of what I screen out of people’s dreams is just porn, really. At any rate—these rules and regulations on dreams are somewhat loose. Infinity is funny like that. You make what you will of it.”

My head pounds. “Rules can’t just be arbitrary. Rules are rules! You’re not hiding something from me, are you?”

“No,” Dreamweaver says firmly. “Look: when considering the ultimate levels to things, concepts of relativity apply more and more. There sometimes are no clear answers to be articulated, so much as experienced. Perfecting the art of what you are—that’s the more important part.”

I clear my throat. “Then why did you bring me here? You’ve been very unclear.”

Dreamweaver howls with laughter and one of their eyes telescopes into mine. “Why indeed? Ever wonder why you were born in this time, and not any other?”

Their body snaps away as a rubber band, and they’re back to swimming in the lower dimension. I can’t tell if they’re searching for something or avoiding me.

“Hey, stop it!” I cry. “You need to stop it, alright? What’s the idea here!? What are you hiding!? Tell me!”

Dreamweaver pokes his head back out of the slime, looking quite drowsy. “Grrffflkmarrgle,” Dreamweaver manages.

They’ve lost their goddamn mind. Great, just great.

“What I think?” Dreamweaver spittles. “Decide what you think, how about that? I’m just a cosmic figurehead, my power symbolic. There are multiple pathways to answers. Roam free!”

My mind is mush at this point. Will they ever get to the point?

“Oh, and another thing: whatever you think is a part of reality, whether reality likes it or not,” says Dreamweaver.

Dreamweaver returns to the churn, bumping and bopping about. Meanwhile, my thoughts coil around me. Dreamweaver invested all this energy in taking me here, with the promise of providing some kind of answer… And it was just to reveal that the answers were inside me all along?

“Am I here for doing something in a past life? Is this some kind of cosmic grade torture?” I ask.

Dreamweaver nods while wading through the lower dimensional pool. “Sounds legit to me. If that’s what you think, probably true. Would need to look into documentation, but... You’re no cupcake, alright?”

Dreamweaver reflects and refracts through fractions of the dream plane, scouring and scowling as they go. “Aha!” exclaims Dreamweaver. “Got it!”

They splatter out of the pool of dreams and struggle to drag their tail-end back up with them. It seems as though they are trying to reel their tail up as a kind of fishing line. They thrash back and forth. With the 4th pull, an orb comes flying from out of the sheet.

Where this 3D object could’ve been hiding in that 2D world, I’m not even going to pretend to know.

“And what’s the big idea this time?” I mutter.

“Documentation!” barks Dreamweaver, juggling the orb. “As it happens, we should be able to finally give you answers for all the pesky questions you pester me with… None of this means anything in particular, but…”

There’s a click as Dreamweaver turns bubbly dials along the orb. The orb explodes into a portal. I am moving along within there, trapped in the portal’s net. It’s a sunny day outside, with light streaming into my office’s hallway. I steal a snack from out of a snack cabinet, before spilling my cup of water. It is a cup marked for “visitors only”, naturally.

Past me tries to clean the spill with my sneaker, to no avail.

“Yep,” Dreamweaver says with a chortle. “You definitely belong to hell.”

Dreamweaver whisks me through a carousel of past versions of me, all doing stupid stuff and saying off color things. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Intrusive thoughts abound.

“Damn, you’re every -ist in the book,” says Dreamweaver.

I groan. “Well hey, how about we take a look at some of your dirty laundry, eh?”

I grab at the orb and manage to flip the dials in reverse. Suddenly we are watching Dreamweaver’s past self saying something offensive to his higher dimensional peers, using a language of geometric symbols that I can hardly understand.

“Gimme that back!” Dreamweaver fumes, wrestling the orb from my grasp.

“Killjoy. Pfft,” I say.

Dreamweaver’s face splits into two, before resuming its original form. “You’re not meant to mess with the power of a higher spirit!”

“What goes up must come down, no matter how powerful!” I retort.

Dreamweaver seems undeterred. “This is a time-travel orb and I am tightly entangled with it!” Dreamweaver booms. “When time traveling, you are not to have knots! Do that again, and you might entangle me up so much that I rupture the timeline! It’s a paradox that can destroy and reset the universe!”

I force a burp. What a convenient excuse.

“Sweet, no sweat,” I say. “So, like… The setting of existence is predicated on a paradox?”

Dreamweaver grumbles and steadily starts rebuilding the portal. “Everything is everything, alright? Ugh… I should’ve known from the start not to rope myself in with you. You are trouble. But then… I just can’t help myself.”

The image of me in the lab re-emerges in the portal. I’m standing by the Everman Technologies particle accelerator. My head throbs—I remember this day all too well.

“What is it this time?” I say, feigning ignorance.

“So, I have some things I need to clear up,” says Dreamweaver. “That accelerator accident… Look, I like to play pranks on people, and playing pranks on you was just too much fun, okay? And, uh… Maybe I went a step too far, just this one time…”

My ears ring. I watch as a past Dreamweaver fiddles with some of the superconducting wire. I watch as a past me falls for the prank like a sucker, and tries to fix it. And, I watch as the particle accelerator boots up from the jolt of Dreamweaver’s laughter, before fritzing a particle beam into my mind.

The image fades. It’s now me and the present Dreamweaver in a standoff.

“You?!” I cry. “You did that to me!?”

“Honest mistake, I swear,” Dreamweaver says, floating back and toying with the orb. “I did everything I could to help and make up for it, promise!”

The portal hurtles us into a hospital. There is me laid out on a stretcher. A bandage covers my forehead. I appear to be sleeping—drooling on myself. Not my best look…

Dreamweaver projects a shadowy duplicate of themselves, shifted at a right angle to Dreamweaver’s body. Then, Dreamweaver phases through the wall of the hospital, before retracting the projection.

One of Dreamweaver’s tendrils reaches into my mind—they seem to tinker with something in there, then slink away.

There’s a buzz, and the present Dreamweaver licks the past version of me away.

“If you ever feel all alone, there you go,” says Dreamweaver. “There is always your imaginary friend to count on!”

I sigh. “What were you doing to my mind?”

“Giving you precognition,” Dreamweaver says as they start threading the next portal. “Also, helping you get a speedy recovery—I might’ve warped probabilities a bit, but don’t tell anyone.”

My head is in my hands and my forehead is beading with a cold sweat. “So that’s it? You violated my free will, after giving me a lab injury?”

Dreamweaver gives a nervous chuckle. “That was an accident. I felt really bad, okay! Plus, we have a connection now! You can peer into potential futures! You’re without peer!”

“You nearly killed me!” I screech.

“I made you into a ‘chosen one’ or whatever, and on a bargain too,” says Dreamweaver, flippantly flipping through the story of my life. “Be thankful! I gave you 50% off what most narcissists have to pay, in terms of suffering. I just caused you a bit of head trauma, that’s all. Seriously, all you can think is to complain? Mind-boggling, just mind-boggling…”

“It’s not fair!” I persist. “You think you can just steer the course of my life this way or that way, and I’ll just be okay with it?”

Dreamweaver gives a nod in the affirmative. “Cut the agitation, I have a few more cogitations to show you Cog!”

The portal flings us to the lab once more. Only, I’m entering into a room that I shouldn’t. A room labeled top-secret, with a door that has been left ajar.

I remember this day. Something compelled me to enter, which I can’t quite explain.

“Warping probabilities has its perks,” says Dreamweaver.

“You forced me to enter?” I say.

Dreamweaver shakes their head. “I’d never intervene with free will in such a direct way as that. I helped open the door, and you did the rest…”

The portal follows the past me into the top-secret lab. It’s mostly empty in there. The lab is a wide-open space and pearl white. At the center is pedestal with the Everman logo emblazoned across one of the pillars.

Atop the pedestal are the fluxion-drives – blueish tubing and nozzles are hooked into a dark purple pack.

I gaze at the glaser—the gravity laser. It almost seems to pull me in.

I steal Everman’s device from off the pedestal. Or, maybe it steals something of me, I’m not sure.

What I’ve done is wrong. It’s obvious. Yet, as I slip the pack on and pulse the power, there is an undeniable glee running through me. The taste of power is irresistible, no matter the cost and no matter what I take down.

An alarm goes off as the past version of me begins to float in the air. I have only one option: to flee.

I look so ashamed. Maybe I should be. Was this device and all its power really mine to steal?

“Fire of the gods, and you just stole it!” Dreamweaver says, clucking their tongue.

“I’m sorry,” I say, a lump of guilt sinking in my chest. “Everything is meant to have a cost—I know that now. Power has not been nearly as simple to wield as I’d hoped.”

“No need,” says Dreamweaver, dialing the portal into another time. “Remember the day you thought you could put it all back to how you found it?”

There is another past version of me walking through the halls. Only, this time I am wearing a mask and trying to be discrete as possible. Unfortunately for me: there is a crowd of people gathered not far off from the entrance to the top-secret lab. Also, I’m not even sure how I was gonna try to get in anyway.

Also, the Machine is right nearby. How convenient.

Oh wow!

He is fighting some kind of villain for the crowd. A charity event is going on. Looks to be a spat with Captain Flapjack.

Not their finest hour. The Machine seems bummed. Angry, even. Was the Cereal Killer not available or something?

I join in with the fluxion-drives, flipping the pancake off into the air with my flow of force.

“The joining of titans—legendary partnership,” announces Dreamweaver, swallowing the image of the past. “I might’ve helped orchestrate the timing of all that, but I cannot fully confirm nor deny…”

“Complete waste of time, more like it,” I say. “If you haven’t been paying attention, my partnership completely fell apart recently… And, you’ve been doing zip to help me! Why couldn’t you have just let me be? Why play with my fate?”

“Oh please, you’ve enjoyed it, don’t lie,” says Dreamweaver. “You’re really telling me you’d have rather had me leave you to suffer in that stretcher? To not give you precognition or the taste of the fluxion-drives? To let you just put the fluxion-drives back, without ever having met the Machine? No, no, no… That simply would not do.”

Come to think of it, I would’ve preferred that outcome. After everything that I’ve been through, I’m not so convinced that the whole power fantasy thing is everything that it’s cracked up to be. All these visions of glory, greatness, and control, but instead I’m stuck talking to this chucklehead.

“You can’t play God with my life forever!” I shout.

“Ah, fair,” says Dreamweaver. “But, keep in mind, there is a bit of the divine in all of us. There is your being… My being… There are collections of beings, which are tantamount to higher beings… Finally, there is the infinite being: the highest being. Basically, playing with your life forever may in fact be an option on the table.”

I swallow. “For such rigorous argumentation, you seem real insecure. How are you so sure about everything?”

Dreamweaver fizzles in and out. “Oh please! I know exactly what I’m talking about! Take the universe, eh? I know how to master universes! Within a universe is all power, all good, all bla, bla, bla… God. It’s God. It’s also its opposites… But, let’s not emphasize that, shall we?”

These words still don’t inspire confidence, but Dreamweaver already appears to be moving on. They tinker with the air and my soul energy is being sucked back into the 2D cosmic sheet.

“What are you doing now?!” I protest.

“I can sense you beginning to question reality,” says Dreamweaver. “Let me sequester some of those questions away!”

We blast off into a network made of over 100 interconnecting nodes. We sit at the center.

“There are higher and higher levels of coherence and will orchestrating the universe—pure consciousness,” Dreamweaver proclaims as the glowing web orbits around us. “We masters of space and time consist of creativity and imagination. We can shift our consciousness from many to one and one to many. The separation from the divine that is felt in this reality is no longer so in the higher dimensions.”

The network unfurls and we’re now moving down a cosmic tarmac.

“The arrow of entropy? It’s an illusion. It can be mastered and traversed just like any of the spatial dimensions. That’s how the time portals worked, that’s how your precognition works.”

“But—but—the arrow of entropy is just a fact of nature!” I mutter.

Dreamweaver smirks. “The 4th dimension you know is not the true time– it is a shadow time of sorts. More accurately: it is a projection that comes from moving out of 3D space and into a purely non-Euclidean realm of forms. The full measure of this is a 4th dimension that acts as a refined space unto itself. But, the process of generating it yields entropy. To escape, you must project out into the 5th dimension—an imaginary space, where even entropy can be tamed.”

I scratch my head. “What about 10 dimensions? 26? You don’t seem to be accounting for all matrix degrees of freedom.”

Dreamweaver groans. “Yeah, you can probably gauge more, but let’s not bother splitting hairs…”

I sigh. “So, you’re telling me that reality is a pyramid scheme?”

“Not everything is about you,” says Dreamweaver. “You still think I’m full of it, after all of this? Here, let me show you how things go way deeper than you know…”

Great. I’m just a person, but I fear with everything that I say or do I must pay some karmic price.

A horn unfolds out of the ether, and we’re tumbling into it for a pit of yarn.

“Would you look at that – your clump of negative energy finally made it into the abyss!” says Dreamweaver. They point out my old packet of pink goop, now caught in the mess of yarn. “Emotional baggage finally made remote! Anyway: this arena is what pure chaos looks like. We avoid it. A mess. Some rumors say existence comes from here, but don’t buy it. Everything is wonky and tangled in this realm.”

The yarn spins in and out of me. Time rips over itself—a continuum can be pieced together, but this void resists it. It is as though it only uses time to tease the mind about its true nature: pure noise.

“Can eventually reach a space beyond doubt, where even imagination is transcended,” Dreamweaver affirms, keeping their voice steady. “The suffering and the stripping away—take away all impermanence, and all that remains is what is infinite… What is eternal.”

Despite bliss in the voice of Dreamweaver, something seems off. Something is unsteady.

“It’s time I show you the truth of time, beyond tabulation, words, and numbers,” says Dreamweaver. “It’s a stream of pure consciousness!”

The horn reopens and we are being funneled away into a whirlpool of magic.

Dreamweaver is jittery. Shaken from something they saw, maybe?

There are nested spheres filling all of space, much like mirrors within mirrors. The chain flows but seems to stay in place. Things warp in and out.

The perspective suddenly skews: the spheres bow and clump near a distant center. They appear to clump quickly way out there, but clump slowly way up near my scale. Scares the hell out of me!

The finer things affinely find their way. A logarithmic spiral unfurls from the maze, cycling in and out of itself. It then warps back to the uniform assembly line of the spheres, going tick by tick.

“You humans are always trying to save time, save the day,” says Dreamweaver. “But, it doesn’t need your saving.”

Profound but confounding. As the landscape processes me and I it, it fades. I’m back in my room.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” says Dreamweaver, still above me and out of sorts. “Watchmaker, you better watch it!”

There’s another spirit beside Dreamweaver, orderly and clocklike. Cosmic gears breathe through its head. I’ve never seen anything so intricate. And here I was thinking that my mind was something of a cosmic cogwheel!

Watchmaker is this spirit’s name, undeniably. It’s spindling the ether, sucking up the dreams that Dreamweaver culled.

“What you’ve been doing bends the rules, Dreamweaver,” Watchmaker squeaks, bemusedly.

“Hey, even gods should be able to make mistakes,” retorts Dreamweaver. “I was in the middle of something!”

“You weren’t supposed to show him everything that you did tonight! That was wrong!” Watchmaker decrees, beams of energy rolling from their sides. “It interferes with free will! Power imbalance! You were merely supposed to clarify your impact on his past! You are not to interfere with human fate!”

“Lay off,” says Dreamweaver. “I know what I’m doing, what seems right for you is not necessarily what is right for me. It’s impossible to decouple what I determine from the determinism that helps guide human fate. And if so, how can you claim that I interfere? Your notion of free will is too idyllic and stilted. A pathological ideology!”

“If you continue monkeying with human free will and pulling pranks, you’ll need to be cast into a lower dimension,” says Watchmaker. “Don’t forget that you’re already on a tight leash regarding how you can guide humanity!”

Dreamweaver sputters and beams of energy spar between Dreamweaver and Watchmaker above me. The beams jet and intersect orthogonally, before circling in a geometric dance. The two spirits hardly notice me. My heart pounds, and my body is still stuck in place.

“Life is so much fun,” says Dreamweaver. “So unique… What of my own free will? Must I always watch, Watchmaker, but never do?”

“Yep. Sorry, but critical thinking requires being critical,” says Watchmaker. “Tough rules, but the big guy mandates it.”

Dreamweaver’s eyes swell, and their energy with them. “Big guy, eh? I’ve seen things—the contradictions. And with all your splendor Watchmaker, you can’t think for yourself!”

Watchmaker falls silent. No answer.

There’s a meow. PB has hopped to my bed. There’s a spurt, and the spirits sprit away through a portal. I’m free again.

I lift my arms. They’re still asleep and start to tingle with paresthesia. One more gift from the paranormal I guess—ugh.

I suppose it’s fitting. I’m cold to warmth, and I respond most to numbness. The pain in my hands worsen as they reawaken.

What if the love in my heart is numb in the same way? I notice my heart hurts worst whenever I try to reawaken it.

“You saved the day,” I say to PB, giving him soft pets on the back. PB mews and leans into the pets.

I sit there for a few minutes, me and my cat, decompressing. Processing. Sincerity seeps through my pores. Only once PB’s purrs turn to snores do I pause.

In the corner of my room is the “Machine” hero stuff. I get up. I toss the stuff in the trash bin. All of it.

Screw the Machine. Some hero…

Material things only ever distract from how we all are one, anyway.

I stare out my window. A street lamp is flickering in and out. 1 and 0. An open loop. A sign? What does it mean? Morse code?

Gah—I don’t any know more about Morse code than its name.

All this time play-acting as the Machine’s psyched ward, but maybe I belong in the psych ward.

I swallow. I go to my phone. I text my mom and dad group chat.

Hollow gesture, maybe. Truth is, they have reason to hate me as much as anybody. But, my safest connection.

“Love you. Been having a rough time, trying to figure things out. Thanks for always being there.”

Somehow, I get a response almost instantly—a true superpower. “I love you too. Now, go back to sleep.”

Mom.

Dad simply gives a like.

I grin. Sometimes in life, I wish I can easily erase or take back the past. Moments like this make me glad I can’t.

Life was never normal. There’s no normal to run back to. But I can find a new abnormal to make peace with, always.