Works of Fiction

Mark Richard

Josiah Wilke decanted whiskey into a tumbler with a large chunk of ice at its bottom. The ice was his reward for a successful launch; the tumbler was from his wife; the whiskey was from his mistress.

Brown liquid splashed over misshapen ice as it cracked and creaked. He tilted his head back, savoring the sunlight that poured through the window. Fifteen floors up, away from the central axis—exactly where an Engineer of his stature belonged. He checked the time. Twenty minutes until rotation would sweep his module out of the sun's warmth. Twenty minutes of respite before work called him back.

Josiah's eyes darted across the blueprints on his desk. He tapped the screen, absently scanned and zoomed and poked and prodded at the mechanisms sketched within. A pause as the first pleasant burn of smoky cocoa, oak, and spiced honey hit his tongue. He held the whiskey in his mouth, letting it soak and flow back. With a tap of finality on the screen, he swallowed.

He was greeted by an overview of the entire machine, an automaton built at the request of Multivac for the newest mining operation off Titan. Another sip, another look.

The machine was hexapedal, each foot a pentagon of vices with a suctioned palm. Its nose was a fierce drill of diamond, its thorax able to carry several tons of ice off each asteroid it visited. The machines were familiar. Josiah Wilke's newest design contained no radical changes to its external structure to please artists or salesmen, laymen or technicians.

A dashboard showed minor material improvements to the synthetic rubber on the vices and a thinner, tougher material in the storage compartments, allowing at least two percent greater payloads on each trip.

Whiskey was not had for such numbers, though. Engineers did not get sun and oak and honey for hardware iteration. Right out of school, sure, you do what you must, but Josiah did not like rubbing shoulders with Houstons and Solars. Instead, the longest part of the dashboard's list enumerated updates to the machine's intelligence.

Half an hour later, Josiah tapped his approval code onto the schematic and called in the Houston, who'd been waiting outside.

“The adjustments are ready,” Josiah said, not bothering to look up as the man entered. “Have the production line running by tomorrow.”

The Houston—Mentz was his name, probably—nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir. Though the materials estimates you've approved are... optimistic.”

“That's what makes my work first-rate, Mentz. Optimism.” Josiah finally glanced up, catching the minute eye roll the Houston couldn't entirely suppress. Behind closed doors, Josiah knew his reputation among the technicians, indeed, the reputation of all the Engineers. But Multivac had established the castes for a reason—society needed visionaries and it needed button-pushers. The processes worked, had worked for generations. If they required adjustment, Multivac would make it so.

Mentz gathered the approved schematics with careful hands. “Will that be all, sir?”

Josiah shooed him away.

He eased back in his chair and surveyed the office. An ice chip sat in a clear refrigerated cube at the edge of his desk. The etching on the small plaque on its base read, “D.T. Academy's Best Asshole.” Josiah pulled the cube closer and stared into, then through, the ice. His time at the Academy off of Europa did not comprise his glory days. They were undoubtedly magnificent, but he always knew that greater days were still to come. The aftertaste of whiskey assured him of that.

The memento was a gift from a young woman on their commencement day. She'd been in the crowd during their first year when he sauntered up to a group of boys playing Starbowl. He caught her eyes, shot a devilish grin, and tossed a kilogram cooler of ice chips into the fray once the game concluded.

“Any two of you,” he called to the crowd. “I'll put all these down that I win without a partner.”

Without much fanfare, the group nodded to the presiding victors. The one on the left, a redheaded boy Josiah determined was a wrong step from winding up a Naught, crossed his arms. “Yeah? We have to put anything up?”

Josiah shook his head. “My treat.”

The redheaded boy raised an eyebrow at his companion, whose blue eyes sparkled with exciting opportunity at the cache of ice.

Five minutes later, the pair were without planets or stations and considered silencing Josiah's impish laugh with a fist or mostly non-lethal laser. He stood up and presided over them with a well-bred confidence and smarm that made any lack of stature immaterial; the seething of the redheaded boy and his partner subsided against the growing tittering among the crowd. He tossed them each an ice chip, winked, and left the circle by way of the girl who now stood at the periphery. He sent his communicator frequency to her as he brushed by.

Elissa had only raised an eyebrow.

Josiah picked up the cube from his desk and let it rest in his palm for a moment; he grabbed it again and idly toyed with it. He chuckled, remembering the day he finally managed any attention from his conquest. It was nearly two years after the rout of the redhead—who, Josiah was pleased to see, ended up a rather fine Solar—when he had again opted to complete a group project on his own.

The task was to justify the existing design of Naught suits and adjust one variable in the analysis to determine how that would change their structure and material components. Additional credit would be awarded to any group that successfully recreated and demonstrated their augmentations.

Josiah's redesign of the neck gasket, though ambitious, was overshadowed by the group headed by Elissa, which recreated a functioning propulsion system with a five percent increase in efficiency. Their instructor, gobsmacked, immediately forwarded the designs to ensure they received Multivac's notice, and within six months, the improved mechanism was standard across the System.

Engineers were trained to spot opportunities at any point in a structure. Josiah found Elissa after the presentations concluded. She saw him coming down the hallway and stood still, letting him approach.

“That was amazing,” he said. “I learned two things from all that.”

“Two?” Elissa raised her eyebrow. “I'd ask 'only two?' to most people, but I'm surprised you just admitted to learning anything. That doesn't seem your style.”

“Not in the style of admitting it, at least,” he agreed. “But today, I saw how thoroughly brilliant you are, and I saw that we both need partners to reach our potential.”

“Partners?”

“Strictly platonic.”

“Right.” She chuckled. “That also doesn't seem your style.”


Elissa Wilke hung her lightweight, mesh coat behind the door. Her red top and gold necklace, now revealed, shone alongside her piercing green eyes, creating all the colors in the world, as Josiah had said so many years ago.

Sighing, she glanced around and saw Jacob's discarded bag next to the sleek, gray couch that she so hated trying to nap on. Its metal frame dug into her hips and back, and the strictly orthogonal arms were just the wrong height for her neck.

There was a glass left in the kitchen with the residue of some synthetic juice. She rolled her eyes as she moved it the six inches necessary to get it within reach of the washer, whose fibrous, metallic neck snatched the glass with its rubberized fingers and whisked it beneath the counter, on top of which it would reappear well before tomorrow when the silent routine between mother and son would repeat.

Elissa set her purse down on the side table of the couch, covering a discolored rectangle worn into the faux wood surface over years of precision placement despite a long day of work.

The purse was genuine leather. She'd used all her charms to convince Josiah to get it ten years ago during their honeymoon. Like many Engineers before her, Elissa had requested their destination to be the lunar surface. There, Bound would have loud, brazen, exciting storefronts laden with vintage, unique, and grotesque goods. The Sea of Tranquility, so long ago filled by efforts to terraform, was littered with the high-society types who couldn't afford the resorts on Mars and were too wary of culture to get any closer to Earth.

With a sweet tone of voice befitting a loving mother, all but eliminating the deep undertones she maintained when meeting with her male colleagues, Elissa called out, “Jacob, come tell me about Academy today.”

Jacob skittered out of his room, a small replica of his father's robot trailing behind him. Without the sun shining through the many tinted windows, Jacob's hair looked nearly brown, his modest freckles all but disappearing in the artificial light of the room, a light that emanated a sterile, uniform glow as if Elissa and her son were constantly preparing for a medical operation the world hadn't seen performed by human hands for several centuries.

All five feet of the boy dropped to the ground. He grabbed at the robot and tucked it under its arm, after which it immediately stiffened. He finally turned to his mother.

“Academy was good. I learned how to write new programs to teach Hubble. I'm going to make him as smart as Daddy's robot. I'm gonna show him tonight!”

Elissa nodded and smiled although the light slowly drained from her eyes. “That's very exciting. I'm sure Daddy will love to hear about it whenever he gets home. But I don't think he'll have time tonight.”

“Oh, okay.” Jacob stroked Hubble's head, and it sprang back to life, performed an awkward, hobbled circle around itself, and then looked up at Jacob for instruction.

“Hubble, let's explore.”


“You know,” she said with a whisper of licorice and smoke, “we probably have time for a little exploration before the meeting.” One hand cradled his inner thigh as her arm, tumbler in hand, wrapped around his neck, letting the icy glass brush his cheek as her lips moved along his ear.

Josiah Wilke glanced at the large grandfather clock he had shipped from the lunar surface ten years ago. “Why yes, I suppose we do.”


Elissa gazed across at Jacob's half-eaten dinner as she picked at her own, idly moving pieces of a culinary chess game. Jacob had begged to play with Hubble, having experienced what he called a breakthrough, an epiphany of an idea for a new command. The meal would be promptly reheated by the table once the floor determined Jacob's path was inevitably bringing him back to the cushioned velvet chair of fiery orange.

Her eyes wandered to the screen. When will you be home?

Her previous message, Picking up some food and electronics. Anything I should get for the shop?

And one more near the top of the screen, I hope you're having a good morning. I missed having you next to me last night.

She took a large forkful of pasta, incomparably flavorful after last year's firmware upgrade to the kitchen. It was an early version, still not released to the public, that Josiah had secured somehow. Along with the vase of real flowers, none of which either could name, it had made for a lovely birthday. Yet it did not take much longer for the flowers to wilt than the palette adjustments to their daily meals left Elissa unimpressed. Tonight, it had a particularly sour taste, nearly rancid, and she hit the disposal button.

She went to check on Jacob in the other room. He happily tapped away on several screens, seeing what response his robotic partner in experimentation would have. A foot twitch, a hop, an opening and closing of a storage compartment. He giggled with delight at each new discovery, and Elissa silently shared his glee and wonder, quietly revealing that sad smile again. He had all the opportunities the System could provide, and she only wished she could shield him from the worst of them.

Back in the living room, she gazed at the panoramic hologram of their wedding ceremony: her side of the aisle full and spilling into the chairs opposite, sparsely occupied by a group of Academy friends and distant relatives of her husband's.

She'd never had a chance to plead her case before Mr. and Mrs. Wilke, shocked as they were to find their young son, an Engineer through and through, throwing in with the offspring of a Houston and Bound. He had confidence to spare and money to throw around if it didn't suffice; she had nothing but a force of will to shield an anxious fear and frustration, none of which would ever make an impression on her in-laws.

When word of their partnership spread across the Academy, most assumed Elissa was particularly good in bed. That led to three years of promises, threats, and attempts that would leave her weeping in Josiah's arms.

A few entertained the idea that Josiah simply liked the girl enough and had a soft enough heart to bear the burden of shame.

Elissa shook her head and fetched herself a soda, berating the kitchen apparatus as it attempted to fill her need and, in turn, being berated by the ambient health system that warned what habituating soda intake could do to one's figure.

She spent another night trying not to ponder what potential it was they were attempting to reach.


Josiah clasped his belt and saw the woman out with a firm grab of her rear. She blew a kiss behind her before letting the door close softly.

He returned to the leather chair, let it hug his legs and press firmly against his back, cool to the touch. Once the glow of the encounter began to wear off, another draught of whiskey reached his lips. He checked his agenda. At least four days to recover until he had to do that again.

At a firm knock on the door, Josiah rose with a hasty grace, topping off his drink and rapidly pouring another, neat. While some guests, their confidence depleted by Josiah's presence and thus needing some way to claw back their self-worth, would take offense at not being offered ice during a negotiation, Josiah knew the man behind the door simply preferred a whiskey neat.

Before whiskey was even a concern in the encounter, others who were uncomfortable with their station and standing prepared for a tense, one-sided conversation in Josiah's office, shrinking before this immense department head, anticipating verbal blows and perhaps punishment if he were in a raw mood; they would seek compensation by convincing themselves of their worth, of how unfair and improper it was to be cussed out in this way while ensuring their external visage communicated solely the fact that they deserved what they were getting. And so, with the worst phrases garnered from experience and rumors rattling around in their heads, a sea of awful possibilities drowning their swagger when put up against the man they were to face, they walked a shameful path through the hallways to the door of Josiah Wilke's office. A deep breath. Perhaps, anticipating the future offense of a whiskey neat, they also nipped the drink they kept in their coat. Then, a knock. Behind the thick wooden door, they would hear nothing. No footsteps, no effort to get anything ready. Several seconds later, their anxiety climbing, the door would open itself to reveal Josiah Wilke sitting in his armchair. And so, in the final act of mental desperation to save face within themselves, the person at the door would be convinced that it was wholly improper in this situation for Josiah not to open the door himself. Meanwhile, at Josiah's command, they shuffled to the chair—no, not that one, the shitty chair—and awaited their fate.

The man who had just knocked needed no pretense, no show, and suffered from none of these maladies of confidence. So Josiah, two drinks on the side table next to him, one neat, pressed a small black switch tucked beneath the table, and the door slid open.

The man was short, with equally short and impeccably groomed gray-black stubble. His brown leather shoes shone as they clacked across the floor, and Josiah took in the vibrant blue suit on its approach. The man shook Josiah's offered hand, sat on the edge of another chair near the side table, took the whiskey, swirled it once, and took an appreciative sip.

“Good to see you, Josiah. How's the family?”

“Good to see you as well, Tom. They're just fine. Elissa continues to make strides over at Intelligence, and Jacob has been exceptional at the daytime Academy.”

Tom nodded and took another sip, a bit quicker, then set the glass back on the table. He ran a hand along his chin and let the chair absorb him as he slowly leaned back. Being less worn over the years, the chair held him up higher and straighter than Josiah's, only slightly reducing the effect of Josiah towering over him.

Unaware of the physical divide or simply not caring, Tom clapped his hands and held them together. “To business.” At Josiah's nod, he continued.

“There's an offer on the table for the schematics. Five more years paid on top level, a year's worth of titanium, plus a few favors you can cash in with the group.”

Josiah grinned, stifling a slight chuckle. “Not nearly good enough, and you know it. Don't lowball me, Tom. Unlike you, I just might get offended.”

“I hear you, but it's a hard pitch to make, even with these being pre-release. There's nothing to work with here. All you told me is that the physical adjustments are compatible with the current model. And that doesn't raise the price.”

“Tom, it's like you don't listen.” Josiah took a drawn-out splash of whiskey from his glass. “That's not all I said. I told you that the schematics, although uninteresting at first glance or even second and tenth glance from the layman, contain a new paradigm in how we approach robotics. But I can't just say what the new idea is because that's what's up for sale. It's the promise of something bigger, and it's right in these files. If a buyer isn't smart enough to gamble on it, they're not who we're trying to sell to.”

Dropping his head and propping it up with his fist, Tom took a minute.

“Look, Josiah. You know these guys like to gamble, but they don't like to lose. All you've been feeding them are bigger and badder machines. Tougher inside and out. That sells. That's a clear win. They want to gamble on how they run with the idea, not whether the idea is any good.”

Josiah began to stiffen and fix his gaze on Tom, who, ignorant or not, did not meet the intense eyes and pushed forward with his speech.

“You know I love what you do here; I appreciate that we're in business. It's not easy for you, and I'm just trying to make it worthwhile. That one year plus a little bonus is the best we can get unless you can tease some more, give me something substantial to bring back to everyone.”

“The idea is good, Tom. They all know who they're buying from, and now I really am going to get offended at the idea that what I have here,” he slapped the screen on the desk firmly, “is not worth their investment. I can do without the money, but I won't have my insight, and definitely not my wife's, called into question. You know, I wasn't even planning on selling these, and I can take it off the market whenever I want.”

Tom grinned. “Bullshit about your intellect, your insight. We both agree that you and Elissa know what the hell you're doing, but don't play the righteous inventor in this room. And bullshit that you don't want or need their money. You really want to see your new office, what your day looks like when you don't have the money to throw around like you did at the Academy?”

Josiah shook his head, holding his mouth tight and straight. He muttered a “Fuck you” under his breath, which Tom politely ignored. After a few sips of whiskey, a long time staring at the slowly diminishing ice within the glass, watching it move about, listening to it clink as he gave the tumbler a gentle shake here and there, Josiah let out a deep breath.

“Yeah, I want to sell them, but I've been doing this with you long enough that I know, I know, these are worth more. We don't even care about paying for top. We want five years of lab materials, the titanium, and two renovation credits. This is a big item, and if you can't sell them based on the reputation we've spent all this effort building up, then I don't know what the hell you spend your time doing. Get it together, and make the goddamn sale.”


The first sale was on their wedding night, consummating the partnership of Josiah and Elissa, of opportunity and potential.

“I'll meet Tom at the bar,” Elissa said. “Nobody will be too interested in the business we'll play at. You entertain everyone at the Academy club.”

“Just remember, you need to be prepared to bargain a little. We don't want to come off as easy to play. Establish our worth, but don't get greedy.”

Elissa nodded. Josiah gave his new bride a perfunctory kiss on the forehead and headed to meet the gentlemen in his finely tailored tuxedo, a small abacus pinned to his lapel, a thin silk bag containing a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Elissa saw him out, then changed from her wedding dress to a traditional red and black post-reception outfit. Confirming the small chip, no larger than her fingernail, contained what she needed, she dropped it into a small clutch and sauntered along the curved top floor of the rotating hotel to the bar where a clean-shaven man, short, wearing all black, sat sipping his whiskey neat.

Elissa approached from behind, hating how she relished the stares of the few clientele out this night, knowing what they were picturing would happen perhaps fifteen minutes from now between her and Tom. She pushed the thoughts aside, focused on her part, and slid her finger down Tom's spine from the nape of his neck, whispering a “Hello” near his ear.

Focusing on his part, Tom forced a shiver through his stoic body. He pulled a barstool out for Elissa and snapped toward the bartender. “A rum and coke with ice for this lovely woman.” The bartender raised an exaggerated eyebrow at the two of them and quickly complied when he saw this strapping, if short, man scoot a few inches closer to the radiant woman and lay down several more chips than was necessary on the counter. The bartender put the drink down with a minimal flourish, just enough to earn the right to grab his payment and little enough to easily excuse himself to the back room with no further interaction.

Tom waited until he was gone, then lifted his glass, moving his eyes to Elissa's drink to encourage the same. The glasses tapped, echoing briefly through the sparsely furnished area.

“You both were stunning today.”

Elissa blushed. “Thank you, Tom. It was lovely. But let's not dwell on that.”

“No, never one to dwell, are we? God forbid I try to get some attempt at maintaining the upper hand when you look like that.”

She stopped herself from rolling her eyes as she recalled her role, replacing it with an arresting, sultry smile, and leaned in close. “We have the designs ready, complete with scale drawings, a list of materials, and access to the complete firmware that will work if all materials are used as denoted. What's the current set of bids?”

Tom took out a portable screen, a bit sleeker than the one Intelligence had issued Elissa. “There are three bidders right now, all of whom wish to remain anonymous. Your first is an offer of six months of housing on the tenth level and some travel considerations. The second is two years on the first level and an account with your Academy of choice guaranteed to accrue full tuition. The third is a year on the first level, a year of materials equal to your current allowance from the Department, and access to the wait list for the top level.”

Elissa nodded along, slightly muttering under her breath to keep the details in her mind.

“Thank you, Tom.” She placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. “And which of these offers have you been authorized to negotiate on behalf of?”

“Now, Elissa, do we need to do this? These are excellent offers—”

“Yes, we do need to do this. These offers are certainly worth considering, but knowing a buyer is prepared to come to the table is important.”

Tom grinned. “A fair point. And are you authorized—”

“Don't insult me, Tom. What can you negotiate?”

Tom tapped his foot on the metallic ring around his stool and drummed his fingers on the counter. “The second and third options. I must assure you, though, that being on the tenth level gives you the best chance for mobility to the top, and the travel options, particularly to the inner moons of Jupiter and Saturn, should not be taken lightly by you two. You can go as often as you want, pick up new materials, meet new minds like yourselves, and even have family vacations. I don't want you to dismiss it out of hand.”

“We're not field scientists, and we're not tourists. If the buyer doesn't want to anticipate our needs, that's not our fault. And I'd prefer it if you didn't let your cut of the sale work its way into this. Josiah and I know about travel kickbacks, and it's insulting that you even considered it for us.”

“Elissa, I'm offended,” Tom said, mockingly raising his hand towards an open mouth. “I would never, I mean never, let my self-interest as your broker try to sway your decision. I simply thought it was worth having a clean three options to discuss. But, I can see your mind is made up.” He glanced up to confirm. Elissa, not blinking, nodded. “Okay, let's talk those other two.” With a little grunt and movement of finality, he made a sweeping motion across the top of his screen. “What's the concern with them?”

“Starting on the first level is ridiculous. Completing this project will cleanly get us on first and probably close to three months' worth of bonuses for the mining improvements. It's appalling that one of your clients can barely match standard Department payment. We'd want a minimum of fifth level before selling.”

“Let's not be so eager, my dear. There are multiple parts to these offers. I'm sure we could move you up a level or two, but let's not forget we could also aim to improve the Academy account or perhaps gather more materials for private use.”

“Josiah and I are firm here. We all know how this works behind the scenes. Fifth level is the minimum for actual consideration on that waitlist, and we aren't waiting ten years before we're even considered.”

“Okay, I can do fifth level. But then, for that third offer, I can't also keep you on the waitlist.”

Elissa gazed through Tom at the couch at the far end of the room, a third of which was blocked by Tom's stocky shoulders. Sleek, gray, with a thin metal frame. It looked luxuriously uncomfortable and stylish.

One night, near the end of her Academy days, a friend smuggled the floor plan of a top-level apartment. The girls spent the next week debating the ideal layout, the specifics of the furnishings, the direction of the lighting depending on the axis tilt compared to the sun during certain months. Elissa had focused on the massive living room, an open space with the opportunity to become whatever its designer held in mind. She had sketched a sectional as the focal point of that space, with a side table at the far end, all of it framing a coffee table in front of it, and two lamps with directional light of variable temperature.

This hotel couch would have fit perfectly.

“We can't budge on the wait list either. Fifth level, a year of materials, and the waitlist.”

Tom gave a low whistle as he spun toward the counter. As the sound puttered out, he wet his mouth with another sip of whiskey. “Elissa, you really are starting to get some lofty ideas of yourself. The buyers all know you both are untested.”

Elissa turned red as her eyes narrowed. She spoke with a low, deep voice, leaning into Tom's face. “Don't give me that shit, Tom. If the buyers know that, they also know we're the only shot they have. And if we weren't the only shot, we'd still be the best available. Every goddamn Engineer there knows what our trajectory is, and if we get to its apex a little faster, that won't surprise anybody. We can do it without selling this; in some ways, it'd be easier. But we're trying to play ball with the community of buyers you've set up, trying to help a friend get started, so cut the act and let this end the way we both know it's going to. If we aren't done in the next twelve minutes, I won't get any action tonight, and you'll owe me an extra year of materials before I feel satisfied with how this went. Your share can probably cover that.”

Tom sighed, scratched at his chin, then took another sip of his drink and regained his slight loss of composure. He made a few notes on his screen, then flipped it around for Elissa to sign. “I admire your passion, and I have approved your adjusted request. But, to be candid, I do hope you're too busy for this part in the future.”


Elissa went over her notes to the sound of Jacob chortling and hiccuping with delight while he taught Hubble to scale the coffee table. As she lounged on the couch as best she could, making remarks under her breath and directing them across the nodes on her screen, she occasionally glanced up to make sure Hubble wasn't encroaching upon any items of importance. Each year, everything she owned seemed to move either higher or deeper, at least out of sight and hopefully out of reach.

She was several layers into the schematics, each of which contained dozens of pages of documents cross-referencing the functionalities of different nodes. As each sale approached its conclusion, she labored to obfuscate as much as possible while maintaining the standards any buyer would expect from them.

Elissa's GateKeeper ran continuously, availing itself of her attention as often as Jacob, popping up out of nowhere, asking an inane question that, a few seconds later, made her look closer. Unlike her son—bright as he was—GateKeeper subtly redacted, reworded, and rewrote everything to ensure that invention did not imply advancement outside of their control.

Her first version of GateKeeper began at the Academy as a glorified style bot. It simplified building new frameworks with different documentation requirements, saving her time on drudgery to focus more on new research and development. Now, each time it ran its processes and methods, she found ways to improve it for both above-board and extracurricular work; each tweak, no matter how finicky and difficult to implement, reminded her of their second sale, six months after their first.

Josiah and Elissa had sat in the lounge of a mid-tier club on eighth level despite Tom's wishes—or, perhaps, explicitly in spite of them. The stocky man much preferred dining above tenth level. The couple shared a spartan meal of salads and a drink each. Just as Josiah was toying with the idea of asking for a small dessert, Tom appeared, briskly walking through the threshold towards them. He sported a slight shadowing across his cheeks and chin and already had a glass of something in his hand.

Flashing a smile to each of them, he slid into one of the two remaining chairs at the table. “I hope you are both doing well. Any movement on the wait list?”

Elissa smiled, shaking her head. “No, not this time around. But we're hopeful we might get in by the time this one comes.” She lightly patted her stomach.

Tom's eyes brightened. “Congratulations!” He raised his glass to them and gave his toast, “To the success of your future together.” Josiah took a healthy sip of his whiskey, and Elissa likewise from her glass of water.

Josiah said, “Yes, our success. And I may be so candid as to say we're eager for more.” He grinned, and Elissa gave him a playful nudge to the shoulder. “We have the plans here.”

“Does it have software and sufficient operating instructions? The Andromedae are still upset about their inability to move past the firmware. I burned several favors to keep them at the table this time.”

Elissa nodded. “We appreciate your hard work, Tom. Everything is documented. The jargon is still jargon, but there aren't any gaps. They follow those steps, and the machine will be functional. That's a guarantee.”

“Then we have something to work with. I got to play auctioneer before I arrived, so I expect you'll find the starting offers quite intriguing. There aren't many defense designs floating around, and your potential customers understand the benefit of certified System Engineers as the source compared to whatever ad-hoc mechanisms the rabble put into the market. That said, only two parties remained close enough in the bidding.

“Your first offer,” he said while glancing down at his screen, more as an act of professionalism than one of memory, “is an additional two years on fifth, access to a century of uptime each month through new facilities on Titan, and a hundred kilos of chips.

“The second offer is a year on seventh, another year's worth of materials—with the understanding that expenses will grow along with your ambition and abilities—and private lab space in the general level of the Research Department.”

Josiah swirled his drink, disappointingly devoid of any ice. He tapped his fingers on the table, glanced over to Elissa, who had rested her face in the steeple of her hands, then looked over at Tom, who sat calmly, hands folded.

After another minute of silence and a few more exchanges of looks between husband and wife, Tom excused himself to the bathroom.

“Do you think pretending that we argued about this would work?”

Josiah chuckled. “I think Tom sees through us pretty easily, but it might be fun. Really though, what more are we asking for on that second offer?”

“We could ask for them to toss in some chips. I know you're still waiting on the bonus from the operation last month. Or this could be the chance for an Academy account?”

“I'll come out shooting high, and you find the middle ground with Tom. How about that?”

Elissa smiled, relishing in the camaraderie. “I'm ready to be surprised.”

They did not attempt to maintain stoic faces or stilted body language when Tom returned. Looking between them and seeing what appeared to be resolution, Tom asked, “Have we made a decision?”

Josiah cleared his throat. “We're not entirely happy with the second offer. We'd like a two percent matched Academy account and an annual dinner at the restaurant of our choosing.”

“Well,” Tom said, interrupting himself with a small drink, “I must say this is one of the first times a client of mine has truly caught me unawares. I believe the Academy account is within my permission to authorize. Although I cannot disclose the entity that put in this offer until we sign, I believe they'll be even more tickled than me to indulge that final request.”

Once the paperwork was signed and Tom had bid them an excellent remainder of their evening, Elissa playfully slapped at Josiah's hand. “You didn't shoot high enough!”

A few months later, they made good on their dinner before parenting obligations fully took hold. On a Venutian station, sharing what was still known as Italian cuisine, both Josiah and Elissa received a message. a Alert Level Orange. Please Report In.

All Engineers from Intelligence, Robotics, Special Projects, Defense, and Maintenance, please report.

Rushing to separate rooms just outside the luxurious restaurant, each dressed in their finest blacks and reds and purples, surrounded by drapery, vines, and minuscule yellow and white lights that dotted every surface, they called into their respective departments. Once all the Engineers were present, the Principal opened the meeting.

“We are at Alert Level Orange. We have received notice that a group of Chosen near Venus have successfully built and iterated on one of our turret designs. It has been modified to be useful in more terrain than its original asteroidal purpose and, by all accounts, has managed to be outfitted with a near-replica of our targeting and projectile software, as shown by its juvenile success at eliminating idle bits of debris in orbit. While they have not been shown to pose a serious threat, it has been requested that Defense and Special Projects outline measures to be taken against it in the case that is necessary, and the rest of you focus on any methods we have to disable it, assuming it is running firmware similar enough to our own. Department Heads, report back to me when you have answers. Thank you.”

Elissa spent that night in a room with interminable meetings punctuated by spurts of inspiration and collapses of desperation.

Josiah was next door, getting drunk on camera with his group, waiting for a call from Defense that would never come, requesting that Robotics somehow assist the asteroid miners within range of the turrets.

Fourteen hours after meeting with the Principal, a Houston in Maintenance found a procedural flaw in the construction design that could be exacerbated by a firmware adjustment. This was passed to the lead Engineer, up to the Maintenance Head, to the Principal, down to the Intelligence Head, and off to Elissa, who used a one-way exploit she had built into the firmware to force the update, a backdoor she designed to rapidly patch turrets deployed across the System.

With the immediate threat handled, Elissa spent the next five hours alone, distraught, irate at her own naivete. Tom had assured them that their buyer was a respectable outer-System mining company looking for a slight edge, and that their new turret design could be safely adapted to reduce microasteroidal impacts. Had she so quickly been drawn in by the promise of success as to neglect the existence of a black market outside the gray market? If the designs had been flipped to a group more radical, or more capable, the results would have been catastrophic.

Staring at the wall, a mental pendulum swung between her two futures. She considered settling, leaving the market entirely, and leaving Josiah if necessary. (Had he known this was a possibility?) It would almost certainly mean falling to Houston. That thought's kinetic energy would run out and swing across to all the work she had put in, everything she had built to break out of her family and move up in the world, and whether she was someone who could throw it all away because of a grievous oversight, but one that could be mended. She had mobility and freedom, a clear and comfortable path for her growing family.

As the pendulum swung back down from its apex of letting the secrets of the System out into the wider world, having them slip from the incompetent hands of their first buyers, picked up by the greasy paws of power brokers, and then sold to the firm and envious grasp of those who knew precisely what they could do with such information, she looked down at her swelling midsection. Could she possibly risk leaving behind a hidden legacy of chaos for her child? Was her climb up the ladder all an abhorrent post-hoc justification from the start, her concern for the unborn child's future a disgusting rationalization to bathe in her own excess? Was she, Josiah, or their offspring accounted for by Multivac or just a blip in the cosmic timescale it oversaw on its quest to provide humanity permanence among the stars?

Elissa contemplated these extremes, letting her mind oscillate until tears were wiped and angry reproaches suppressed. A convincing thought entered as the pendulum, succumbing to friction, finally fell at rest in the middle.

She went to a nearby desk and began writing a new version of GateKeeper that would bring the designs down to their bare essentials, a recipe for precisely the design put forth with no room for further thought. It hamstrung software and locked it down, giving the buyers more than they could get elsewhere but less than what the System held. It provided all the instruction for a mechanism to function with none of the insight into how it operates.

As this tense balance remained in Elissa's mind, a connection was made somewhere near the center of the System, as a small value represented somewhere in Multivac's vast hardware incremented, causing a new directive within the Engineering Corps to be emitted to the Principal.

Within six months, Elissa was the new Intelligence Head.


“Daddy, look! I made the planets!”

“Wow, kiddo,” Josiah heard himself say off-screen, “That's wonderful! I love the colors you gave Venus.”

“Mrs. Thomas said so, too. She said it's one of the prettiest Venuseses she's ever seen!”

“My, that's quite high praise! An eye for design like that, and you'll be quite the asset to the System.”

“I'm gonna have so much fun being an Engineer! Do you have fun, Daddy?”

“Oh, I certainly try. Sometimes, it's difficult work, but we do the difficult work because it's important. And besides, if I don't have fun at work, I always know you'll be here to help.”

He watched Jacob jump up and down. “You bet, buster!”

The recording stopped. Josiah looked at the clock. Bedtime wasn't far off. “Missing it again,” he muttered. At least it was Thursday, and Jacob would have plenty to show off for him this weekend. Hopefully, on Sunday, they could send him to play with the neighbors, and he'd have the energy for Elissa.

When he reached the door he turned back and looked over the office. What was it a monument to? His labor, hard work, and realized potential? No, just a room in which a rich man played at misogyny so well that he built a career selling his wife's work.

It wasn't his office. Not really.


Elissa smiled as Jacob showed off Hubble doing some mix of a roll and a flip, starting from the table near the couch and launching itself to the kitchen. Jacob stood up, giggling yet again, each centimeter of his mother's smile causing his to grow two.

He followed his friend towards the kitchen, where he saw the remains of his dinner and began hastily gobbling them up.

“When is Dad going to be home? I want to show him everything Hubble can do now!”

“He's busy at work, but I'm sure he'll be home in the next hour or two.”

“But you're busy with work, and you're home now. That's not fair.”

Elissa turned to look at Jacob's face stuffed with pasta. “I agree, it is not fair. But not everything is going to be fair in life.”

Jacob slowed his chewing and slurping, letting his mind take a bite from this new idea. “Maybe not everything.” He took up another few strands of pasta. “But, I think things should be fair between you and dad.”

“I think they are in their own way. Not every part of your dad and I needs to be equal, but if you could see everything all at once, I think it would be fair.”

Jacob nodded, confused but satisfied.


Josiah sat at the bar in the Department's restaurant as was expected before getting home to the wife. A group of Houstons walked through, and Josiah decided to try some small-scale trickle-down economics. “How's Pluto, boys?”

He saw the blonde roll his eyes. The redhead spoke up. “Not too bad, Mr. Wilke. The nice thing about Pluto's existence is that it lets the other planets feel special.” The blonde sniggered.

“I like the confidence. You two want a drink? It's on me. Big day.” Josiah saw them hesitate and look at each other. He turned around, allowed himself a grin, and got the bartender's attention. “Two stiff drinks for these young men, on ice. It's a special day for them.”

The redhead sat down, keeping a stool between himself and Josiah. The blonde sat next to the redhead. After being served their drinks, they mumbled an undirected “Thanks” into the air and were about to take a sip when Josiah stopped them.

“Come on now, I said it's a big day! We're here to have a toast!”

The redhead did not fully face Josiah but picked up his glass nonetheless. “Okay, Mr. Wilke. What are we toasting to?”

Josiah motioned to the blonde, who rolled his eyes again but lifted his drink as well.

“To new directions and future innovation.”

The redhead smiled and crinkled his eyes, looking sideways at Josiah. Shaking his head, he moved his glass to tap Josiah's and his companion's, and then all three emptied their drinks and let out various gasping sighs of burn in unison.

Josiah left payment on the bar counter, then flicked a few chips to the Houstons. “Thanks for sharing that with me, and have a good one.”


“Do I have to?”

“Yes, it's your bedtime. You have to get good sleep to have another great day at Academy tomorrow.”

“But Dad still isn't home. He was supposed to be home so I could show him everything I can do with Hubble now.”

“I know, buddy. I'll talk to him and make sure he knows he's in trouble with you. He'll be home on time tomorrow.”

“Okay. I don't want Dad to be sad, though. I'm not mad at him. I just wanted to see him.”

“I understand, Jacob. It's good to say your feelings like that. Just think about all the fun you had with Hubble today, and you'll fall right asleep.”

“Okay, Mom. Good night, love you.”

“I love you too, Jacob. Good night.”

The lights switched off as Elissa closed the bedroom door and went to her spot on the couch. When Josiah walked in two hours later, she looked him over as he took off his coat and shoes. His clothes were surprisingly free of wrinkles, his hair groomed nearly as well as when he left that morning, and the familiar veins in and around his eyes from excessive drink were nowhere to be seen.

“Welcome home. What have you been up to?”

Josiah grabbed the glass of water from the robotic arm at the edge of the kitchen and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the couch. He drained the glass and set it on the side table.

“Josiah, are you okay?”

“I made the sale today. Might be our best one yet. Five years of materials, another year of titanium, and two reno' credits.” His natural enthusiasm was nowhere to be found in the news.

Before Elissa could respond, he looked up at her and asked, “What comes next?”

Elissa placed her screen in her lap. “We see how this moves through the string of buyers like usual and prepare for the next sale.”

“No, I mean after all this. We've been doing this for ten years, Elissa. We have the apartment, everything we need for the lab. Do we just keep selling System secrets until we're washed up and have nothing more to give? We keep playing this game, and it's unfair to both of us. Mostly to you.”

Elissa shifted a few inches and patted the thin gray cushion next to her. Josiah gave a small grunt as he eased himself onto the couch. “The floor is more comfortable.”

“I know,” she said with a small chuckle. Then, a sigh. “I don't know what's next. I've been thinking the same thing. I cannot understand how Tom keeps doing it. It's exhausting. We always stay ahead, always running to the next winning move because the moment we don't, we've lost.”

Silence.

Josiah leaned against his wife, who held his head to her chest. He exhaled and said, “She came back today.”

Elissa, long accustomed to the rituals of high-level Engineers, having entertained a few herself when necessary, did not even flinch at her mention. “Hopefully, she could at least relieve a little stress, if nothing else.”

“It was alright. It's just a chore when it's not with you.”

“And,” she said with a smile that managed to be both sympathetic and salacious, “your lack of stamina is making me suffer.”

They sat silently, leaning into each other's arms, moving through the past ten years. Josiah clasped Elissa's hand. “Do you remember when this became love?”

Elissa giggled and kissed his forehead. “Josiah Wilke, what is wrong? Do you really want to leave the market?”

“Don't you? Imagine what you could do if you weren't sneaking around, spending all this time trying to cover our tracks and making sure all this nonsense I had us to start doesn't, you know, destroy the System. If the nights we made sales, we spent at home instead, seeing what Jacob was up to. The Academy will screw him up enough; we don't need to add to it.”

“Honey, do you remember our first dinner off Venus? That night?”

“A bit. Not much more than anyone else on my team does, I bet. Why? I know you fixed things up pretty well.”

“I suppose I did. After that, I stared at a wall, wondering if I should leave you, thinking about the future I wanted Jacob to have, weighing everything I was working for with whatever the hell it meant to be right. I chose to keep pushing forward, to keep selling, but take that time to cover our tracks. I consciously made that choice, on my own, and here we are. But you're right, we need to reevaluate. This time I don't want to stare at a wall, though. I don't want to figure it out alone.”

Josiah held Elissa's hand tighter and tenderly ran his hand along her leg. “Then let's figure it out together, on our own terms. We have to keep playing the game, but not how we've been playing it. We take the windfall from this sale, but then it's done. I want to keep working with my team and fix my reputation. I want to see how high you can soar without being weighed down by deception, and I want to experience Jacob growing up and seeing everything he builds in this world. We can find ways to get materials down the road, and our salaries will keep us covered near the top level. I just don't want to keep being this pawn, playing with brokers and dealers. I think I've had enough.”

Elissa sat silently, gazing off into the distance. He waited patiently until she turned back and looked him in the eyes. “Okay, then that's what we'll do. A new strategy.” Elissa nodded sharply, slowly rose from the couch, and grabbed the screen from beside her. She tapped and swiped a few times, and the kitchen began whirring behind the couple. Josiah asked, “So, what's the first step you have in mind?”

“Jacob is missing school tomorrow in lieu of the ice cream and robotics party we're about to have. He has a few new tricks he wanted to show you.”


Digital tendrils wind their way through each other, weaving complicated patterns. States swapping and switching, memory building and moving, as Multivac continues to adjust its programming to serve its purpose. Millions of innocent conversations are all but discarded, noisy data inconsequential to the flow toward a desired, inevitable future. A handful more push and pull against each other, making their way across the System, fluctuating calculations until they are readily resolved as compatible, as a unit, to finish this unhaltable machine.

One conversation that night, sweet and final, determined and caring, causes several increments and decrements of note to anyone capable of following the solid-state movement of the machine. A new direction, something unaccounted for. The next morning, a Houston working in the top-level housing management office has an eviction notice to deliver. At the same time, unsubstantiated rumors flood the Intelligence and Robotics departments about a powerful couple brokering secrets to a degree that even Engineers did not have the stomach for.

It all faded away in the minds of the masses as a blip in society, two people trying to take a bigger bite than was warranted from prey too powerful for their jaws, a dirty secret that surfaced and was promptly dealt with through the swift, exacting judgment of bureaucracy. Then, the flow of thinly veiled and tacitly approved scandals continued, leaving two outcasts and a child to fight their way to find a piece of the world that would allow them to belong.

A satirical tale of success and independence.

In a town of old Earth, there lived a man of great renown. He possessed a sprawling ranch house on fertile land, herds of fat livestock, beautiful children, and a wife whose grace was whispered about throughout the region. The townsfolk marveled at his wealth and spoke glowingly of his occasional generosity when he descended from his estate to mingle with them at the tavern or marketplace.

Eight years prior, this man had arrived with mysterious wealth to purchase the grand property. The townsfolk speculated endlessly about his fortune's origins—mining ventures, shrewd real estate dealings, or perhaps enterprises best left unspoken.

It was eventually revealed by a well-traveled citizen that the man was, in fact, a famed performer with a most remarkable talent: he could pull himself up from the ground using only the straps of his boots. This citizen recounted having witnessed the spectacle years before at a traveling show.

There, the performer would lie flat on his back, grasp his boot straps firmly, and through remarkable contortion and strength, lift himself upright without touching the ground otherwise. After each demonstration, he would challenge the strongest men present to replicate his feat. None could, and their pockets were lightened considerably for the attempt. Though it was not all for a loss: the performer graciously shared his daily regimen for maximizing strength while maintaining flexibility.

The townsfolk marveled at this tale but none dared ask for a demonstration, content to respect their neighbor's privacy while admiring his success from afar. “Such extraordinary talent,” they would say, “no wonder he has achieved so much.”

One day, a visiting child playing with the performer's son innocently asked if the boy had ever witnessed his father's famous trick. The boy replied that he had not—if he wished to see the show, his father told him, he must save and purchase a ticket like anyone else.

Later that day, after mustering courage, the visiting child approached the performer and requested a show for the town. The performer, with a beneficent smile, agreed to perform in a fortnight.

That evening, the performer's wife objected strenuously to this plan. Years ago, she had refused to continue her role in the act—perched in the rafters, manipulating the nearly invisible wire attached to a harness beneath her husband's clothing that made the impossible feat possible. He had found other assistants for a time, but eventually promised to retire from performing to live quietly with his family.

“The town has been good to us,” he insisted, overriding her protests. “And a man must maintain his reputation.”

When the appointed day arrived, the townsfolk gathered eagerly, paying a week's wages for the privilege. The performer thanked them profusely for their support, speaking eloquently about self-reliance and the rewards of determination. “A community is made of individuals who must not be weighed down by the whole,” he proclaimed. “If none of us can stand on our own, how are we to stand together?”

He then lay on his back, grasped his bootstraps, and began to strain impressively. After several failed attempts, he chuckled nervously about being “out of practice” and the “good life” having softened him. The crowd tittered and chuckled. “What a card,” one woman whispered to her neighbor.

As he made another attempt, he glanced upward to where his wife should have been, only to find the tavern keeper there instead, holding the wire aloft for all to see. “Fraud!” the tavern keeper bellowed, yanking the rope and lifting the performer into the air, a puppet for all to behold.

Though driven from town that very night in disgrace, within a week rumors began circulating that perhaps this too had been part of the performance—a masterstroke of showmanship. Some insisted he would return triumphantly any day now to demonstrate his real talent.

After all, hadn't he built his empire through his own extraordinary abilities? Weren't his wealth and status proof enough of his exceptional nature? Surely a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps wouldn't deceive them—such men always told the truth, didn't they?

The prologue from a currently incomplete novel for NaNoWriMo 2024.

Prologue

The author would like to make it abundantly clear that, although Anthony can indeed play the trumpet, his doing so has no bearing on the title of this book. In fact, he never joined a jazz band while in school and instead focused his efforts on solo and small classical ensemble work.

Anthony always found improvisation tricky. He couldn't tell if it was a lack of musical knowledge and comfort with his scales, a lack of practice and exposure, or simply a failing of personality. Maybe his creativity wasn't up to snuff and he had to accept that he would forevermore read music from a sheet of paper and eventually work some soul-despairing cubicle job because that's all he was cut out for. Less dramatically, he often that that though he enjoyed trumpet, it wasn't the avenue he could use to connect to some deeper part of himself; maybe he continually failed to unlock that hidden sliver of artistry, never found his muse, or had the wrong tool in hand to speak that musical language of the heavens that seemed to come so effortlessly to the first- and second-chair trumpeters.

Those two—Beth and Tyler—tore it up at all hours in the practice rooms. He would put his ear to the door sometimes, tap along to the backing tracks, and wait in nervous silence for one of the trumpets to join. The half-beat of anticipation when he heard them inhale and could picture them pressing their pursed lips to the mouthpiece sent chills through his spine because something miraculous was about to occur. They would belt out a solo that always managed to be equal parts tasteful, technical, inventive, and virtuosic. They'd hover on a note over a chord change, sometimes creating a dissonance that they had the confidence to maintain; there was a forcefulness behind their decisions that convinced Anthony, and anyone else within earshot, that a master was at work so don't bother complaining about a little tritone or half-step flub. You better believe it was intentional, and wait for what's coming next.

As sure as a snap on two on four, whoever was playing would break through a moment of uncertainty shared by everyone except themselves and begin a line so full of momentum and verve that it would root the listener in their spot until the track left the solo section.

Anthony heard this at least once a day at the institute, and knew without a doubt that he never had that effect on anyone else. Of course, he wasn't playing jazz to backing tracks. In fact, he wasn't sitting in those practice rooms at all. He wasn't some kind of exhibitionist. Not that he thought that of Beth and Tyler—if you have the goods, Anthony figured, you're allowed to flaunt them. At some point it switches from exhibitionism to a public service. But he also figured that people wanted to hear his playing in the practice room only slightly more than he wanted his mom to great him from the living room window the day after deciding to become a nudist.

In short, jazz intimidated Anthony. But that's not important right now.

What's important is that Anthony played trumpet, and then he didn't. He went to music school, then business school, then to a corporate job where he failed to have a cubicle. He grew up in that time where he saw his parents working in cubicles while he was destined to gaze across an open-concept office littered with random dividers separating loosely-constructed teams. Pinned to the dividers were pictures of pets and small neon signs; atop and beside them were a mix of fake and real plants; desks contained a few personal photos, additional plants, unlit candles, silent fidget toys, and other affectations and decorations deemed allowable by the wardens of corporate culture.

Anthony's desk was largely indistinguishable from others in terms of style and panache. A photo of him with his parents and little sister was a dead ringer for someone to determine this was his desk, as was the tent-fold card stock name tag on the corner that had “Anthony Promic” printed in a font not unlike Helvetica, but that he and a few others knew was actually Proxima Nova. Once one determined whose desk it was through this mild sleuthing, they could piece together a few more details between the ceramic three-dimensional eighth note sculpture and the toy brass trumpet that no longer contained batteries since Roger insisted on pressing the play button every time he walked by. Beyond these, there was a smattering of company-issued pens and notepads, a color wheel that was far more expensive than most would have guessed, and the book Managing Creative People.

By comparison, the desk to his left had a few detailed books on graphic design, and the framed photo was of Lisa and her brother on a trip to the Grand Canyon last year instead of parents and siblings. There was her first palette, some Pantone swatches, and a succulent nestled in a blue painted pot. Roger's desk, three over to the right, didn't have any pictures. But there was the collection of ticket stubs from the past decade along with the display case containing the lone home run he hit while pitching in Division II college baseball. Nobody was at the game so he was able to collect it after his team lost.

Each desk had its bit of flair, but it all fell in line to create the impression that this office could serve equally well as a movie set. For Anthony, this was fine. He was still coming to terms with his promotion to Manager of Graphic Design within the Marketing department. Too much visual clutter would have made it difficult to focus.

A story for NaNoWriMo 2020. Thanks to /r/writingprompts for the idea.

Wood, solid wood. Off the map. There couldn’t be anything from the past decade, maybe even this century. Robin held back a smile as yesterday fell away, drifting among the clouds in the sky, a potential new future opening up. They had time to plan a shelter and explore the property, maybe even play cards.

Jake let his bag slip off his shoulder to the porch, arched his back, and let out a deep groan. “Think I can get a hot towel? If I miss anything from the last few years, it’s an abundance of hot towels.”

“Sure thing, right after I get a massage and face scrub.” Robin rolled her eyes, letting a smirk surface as she stepped back and admired the old farmhouse. She lightly stepped on the wooden slats of the porch, only a few creaking, a few more rotted, as she went up to the front door that somehow remained on its rusting hinges.

“Hey,” she called over her shoulder, “Got that can of forty?”

A beat-up can of blue metal with smudges of yellow and white was pulled from Jake’s bag. He handed it over. Robin lifted the long, thin bit of plastic coming out of the top and dripped some fluid over the door hinges. Before handing it back, she put a couple drops on the doorknob. “Not this time,” she whispered to herself.

Another stretch of the arms and Jake had the bag back on his shoulder, standing just behind Robin, waiting. Robin took a deep breath, readjusted her own small pack, and walked in. Small clouds of dust greeted the first few footfalls; she exhaled warmly and her breath mixed with the thickening air. She held back a cough as she looked around to get her bearings. Jake peeked over her shoulder.

A few coathooks hung empty on the wall immediately to the left, and just past was a small table layered with dust, a single drawer attached. Robin looked ahead where an entryway led to the kitchen; a stairwell to the second floor ran along the back wall, and on the right was a closed door. Dust and disuse coated it all, no sign of footprints, nothing in the air but must, decay, and age. She gave a slight nod, pointed to her right, and moved straight to the kitchen. Jake went to the door by the stairwell, dropped his pack, and repeated the lubrication procedure.

Robin entered the kitchen and checked behind each appliance. They were all unplugged. A bit paranoid, she thought, but at least they’re safe to inspect now.

A toaster on the counter had two slots, a dial from one to eight, and an unlabeled button; a microwave in the nook below was a veritable antique with a single-line screen akin to a digital clock, and no popcorn button, let alone the barista button common near the end; a gas oven and range of all things, analogue and mechanical, posed no threat or aid; and a refrigerator with an ice dispenser and a freezer on top was of similar vintage as the microwave. Robin headed to the entryway, bursting with the news for Jack. We can fight back.


Jack had opened the door and descended a steep staircase, leaving a gas lantern at the bottom. Robin could hear him rustling around. Conscious not to startle him, she whistled Be Our Guest on her way down. The mustiness of the air was slowly replaced by soil and salt.

She grabbed the lantern and Jake turned around, a huge grin taking over his face and a notebook in his hand.

“Finally more to write than two cans of soup and a bag of carrots. Fancy some jam, or dried pork and mushroom stew?” Jake spread his arms, moving them up and down the shelving, walking along the wall, displaying his wares for customers to admire.

“Let’s not go too crazy yet.” Robin smiled back, then ran the few steps to embrace Jake, a sob and a laugh escaping her as he squeezed.

Between gasps, Robin managed “So much… here… for us…”

“I couldn’t believe… it either… but…”

Robin stepped back. “What?”

“What could have happened to them? They were set up perfectly.”

“Probably bad luck, something just came across them and…” She got quieter and let her eyes drift to the floor.

“Yeah, just bad luck. It’s been a couple years based on the dust. They must have been… lost in the first swell. Maybe visiting family, and never made it back.”

Robin nodded, then forced a smile that slowly moved to her eyes, turning into something real as she looked at the shelves in front of them. “How much do you suppose there is?”

Jake scanned over his partial list, then folded it up and turned around. His head moved back and forth, up and down, scanning everything available to them. Each rack rose a foot above Jake’s head, and the shelves extended at least thirty feet across the cellar. Made of wood and braced with metal, they evaded the horrors of outside and held pounds upon pounds of food.

Jake headed to his left, pulling another small flashlight from his jacket. Robin walked over to the other corner, shining the flashlight across jars of pickles and beets, vacuum-sealed fruit and meats, and small bottles of dried herbs. It was disorganized, but not messy. Whoever had stockpiled this had simply added food as it was made available. No need for it to be tidy; if someone was stuck in a cellar, there’d be time enough to reorganize.

She heard Jake let out a small chuckle and raised her eyebrows; he sensed the look from across the room and illuminated a jar full of brown powder and a handwritten label: Irene’s Instant Chocolate, Just Add Powdered Milk.


They sang anything that came to mind, keeping the lyrics alive in their memory. Forgotten words were replaced. When a song ended they’d have another spoonful of the goopy chocolate sauce, or maybe nibble a dried berry.

“I think we nailed her recipe this time,” Robin said, giggling and wiping the bits of dried chocolate from around her lips, leaning on the counter. “We used to think stale Twinkies were a high point, remember?”

“We all thought we could ignore expiration dates. I guess my mom was right.” Jake stuck out his tongue and grimaced, remembering snacks they found in a warehouse. “The bread was still greasy, but the cream…” He gagged a little. Robin wasn’t convinced it was for show.

Jake suddenly stood back up and belted Wanted Dead or Alive, starting in the middle of the chorus, just the way Robin hated. She flung a spoonful of chocolate at Jake’s face. He dodged it, undeterred, and swung his body around the island playing air guitar while pretending to drive. Robin rolled her eyes and had a chocolate-dipped strawberry, but couldn’t help tapping her foot.

She followed with Beyond the Sea, her eyes glimmering and wet by the time Jake took over, loudly humming the jazz break. He knew what the song meant, and took a few more verses while Robin absentmindedly snapped her fingers, gazing out the window above the sink to the dormant fields.

She tasted the air, salt thick on her tongue, as she chased her parents into the sun. The prairie turned to sand, the horizon flowed with water as her mind rushed her back with the tide. Songs blaring on the speakers they brought to their picnics, towels spread on a stretch of beach only visible from a wooded hilltop.

Jake’s vamping of a single bar finally caught in her ear. She turned around, preparing to apologize again, but heeded his earnest look. After wiping her eyes and sniffling her nose, belted out the final chorus with Jake harmonizing.

“Thanks, as always.”

“Hey, that’s a big improvement over sorry.”

Robin smiled, grabbed her pack, and walked up the stairs to her bedroom.


Jake cussed at his clumsy fingers while trying to stuff them in his mouth, nursing the burnt skin. “Every damn microwave is too different on the inside, they all do the same thing”

“Hurt yourself again?” Robin smiled and leaned down next to him, noticing the small bit of smoke that had escaped a circuit. “I would’ve imagined that by the sixth time, you’d be more careful. Or just better.” She twirled the duct tape around her fingers, set it down next to the microwave and ate a bit of jerky, offering a piece to Jake.

“Cool it.” He grabbed the jerky with his free hand, replacing the taste of his fingers with salt and pepper and sugar. He wiped the sweat from his brow, frowned at the small generator next to him, and gingerly tested his if fingers could still hold the soldering iron. Satisfied, he nodded at Robin and centered himself on the number pad of the microwave, which was now dangling by only a few wires, revealing circuitry within.

Robin went back to the entryway, where small circuit boards and coils of wire lay along the base of the stairwell. Each board was labeled with pieces of tape: Fridge – Upper, Fridge – Lower, Toaster. An empty spot was labeled Microwave. She looked them over again, making sure everything was in order. The boards needed modification, but less than when they came across new appliances. I suppose that’s on purpose.

The mechanical dials and analogue buttons in the house kept her at ease. Most things rang by a bell, beeps could be traced to a small speaker at the end of a wire, and certainly nothing talked to her. The twists and turns of the circuits in these old pieces were no harder to trace than a set of gears, and simplicity was safety.

Robin took out her battered copy of The Martian Chronicles. She’d never traded it when they stopped: they never come across a copy of Asimov, which would be useful, or at least cathartic. So, she kept the Bradbury around. Ray wasn’t wrong about soft rains, but they didn’t come the way he expected. So many warnings from so many directions, yet they all went ahead anyway.

Robin sat up and ran down to the cellar to get another piece of fruit, sprinting on her way up. She needed to keep moving to stop spiraling. They were prepared this time. The warning boards should work even better on the old mechanisms.

Whether the retaliatory boards worked remained a mystery.

Jake hollered from the kitchen and Robin ran in, the duct tape still around her fingers. He was standing with his eyes fixed on the microwave now put together again. Robin glanced down and saw OKAY written on the small digital screen. Not moving his eyes, Jake said “Alright, we’re up and running! Let’s test it out.”

He took out a few sheets of paper from his pocket, and found one with a sketch of the house’s perimeter, some dots along the edges. He handed it to Robin. “Good luck hiding.”

Robin grabbed the paper and headed outside through the back, greeted by the sun now barely grazing the top of the fields. She welcomed the cool morning breeze and the soft glow of light; it would make wearing the foil blanket more enjoyable than the summer months did.

With the crinkly cape trailing down to her heels, she slowly walked around the house, one small step every five seconds. Between steps she held her breath, imitating what they would do, and waited for Jake to make sure she hadn’t found an undetected spot.

After a lap, she took a single step away from the house and went around again.


They took a break for lunch. On her way into the kitchen, Robin said “At least a quarter mile, and I bet the signal’s strong enough for twice that.”

Jake smiled and patted the top of the microwave. “Great, the opens pace helps.” He glanced at the refrigerator. “I couldn’t get much done with that during testing, so I’ll need the afternoon to get the other boards in.”

“Alright, let me know if I can help. I’ll check if there’s gas in the barn.”

Jake nodded and gathered his makeshift soldering station on the island. The boards had moved to the counter on either side of the refrigerator.

Robin went out the back door again, now heading south into the midday sun a few hundred feet to a blue-gray barn, still in good shape, the doors secured by a large piece of wood. She hefted it out of the metal supports, and set it softly on the ground, ignoring the few splinters that found their way through her callused hands.

A sense of darkness and foreboding crept through her mind moments before the smell reached her nose.

She covered her face with a small rag from her pocket and searched for resolve. You’ve seen it before, Robin. Hopefully you’ll live to see it again after this. Stay focused. Carefully, quietly, she pushed open one large door. She saw a bale of hay, some vehicles and hand tools, patio furniture, all revealed along the wall as the doorway widened. Then, she was in.

A pause. Her eyes fixed on a tractor. She stepped back outside, her movements automatic. Grab the hose. To the kitchen. Get containers.

Robin was back in front of the barn, her arms full. She blinked a few times and shook her head. They deserve someone to think of them.

Back in the barn, she looked straight ahead at the two people suspended by cables from the ceiling, dangling ten feet above the ground, rotting more than the barn had in their lifetime. Their clothes had holes where the cables attached, where the current had gone through them like an unceasing bolt of lightning, leaving dark patches of scorched fabric and skin. There was nothing but the smell of burnt and rotting flesh, no feeling but the desire to forget it all and escape what she and Jake had seen so many times in their constant escape. Robin wretched, the bits of dried food fighting up her throat. She held them down, and kept her gaze on the floating couple a few moments longer. She said a prayer. Then a curse.

She closed her eyes, let a deep breath escape into the rag she still held on her face, then went to siphon the gasoline.

Evening came, sunlight streaming through the windows of the entryway, a glow of orange light making its way to the kitchen where Jake and Robin sat at the table eating and playing poker.

Jake set the deck down between hands and reached for a bag on the table. “I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of jerky. If I ever complain, slap me.”

“Gladly.” Robin took a piece for herself. Rotting meat flashed in her mind. She pushed it away.

Jake dealt a hand of two cards to them both and tossed a few woodchips onto the middle of the table as Robin put hers in. She habitually grabbed her cards with a flourish and stared just over the top of them at Jake, her eyes sharp and fierce. A moment later, she felt them softening.

Seeing the luster fading, he set down his cards and reached for her hands. They sat for a long moment, the silence of the dead surrounding them.


Only flashlights illuminated the kitchen floor as they slouched against the island, sometimes glancing at the containers wired to the refrigerator, mostly staring at the microwave. It read OKAY and that’s as good as they felt: Jake had found some bottles of moonshine in the cellar. Robin knew she wasn’t quite drunk. Neither of them had been since the night they met. They drank just enough to be okay.

Jake took another sip.

“It’s not good… but it makes everything warm.”

Robin nodded, slowly, uncertain of her body. “Do you remember learning about prohibition in school?”

“I hardly remember school. But it rings a bell.”

“After the first world war, the country banned drinking. It was a whole thing. Lasted ten or fifteen years.”

Jake frowned, looking at the bottle between them. “People will either kill themselves, or invent something to do it for them. What a waste of a law.” He took another sip and passed it to Robin. She lifted the bottle up, looking through the walls at the barn. Jake nodded.

A noise. Robin sat up. A repeating alarm. She ran down the stairs. Jake was already at the door packing their bags. Robin went to the kitchen. She needed to confirm. The toaster was torn apart, their circuit board removed. The refrigerator was still whirring, and the screen dangling from wires in the ice dispenser said READY.

The microwave’s small display said RUN.


Illumination to the south, orange flames and billowing smoke, sparks of electricity between it all.

Jake stared straight ahead, letting the bags of food drop from his hands. Robin saw the flames reflected in his tears as they mixed with sweat. They both panted from the sprint.

“Retaliatory boards worked.”

Jake nodded.

“I wish we could’ve had one more night there.”

He nodded again. With a sip of moonshine and a bite of jerky, he walked back to the remains.

Robin caught up a moment after. She choked down a sob and started humming I Will Survive. Jake joined in.


At sunrise they were gone. The group of reclaimers coming that day would find no boards, only two graves dug in the ashes, headed by crosses of metal limbs.

A story for NaNoWriMo 2020. Thanks to /r/writingprompts for the idea.


“How do you go about tracking?” The man with the hat takes a sip from his drink, and raises his eyebrows at the other man, a shorter fellow dressed down without a tie.

“The key,” he says with foam on his mustache, “is to use your knees and hips, keeping your arms stable.” He twists on his stool, elbows out and hands cupped near his eyes. “I was always told to keep my neck relaxed, but firmly in place.”

He twists back to the man with the hat, and rests his feet on the few bags piled below him.

The man in the hat nods. “Yes, but you can't have your elbows spread like that, not when a small adjustment can get everything out of frame. You must stay within yourself.” He tucks his elbows close to his chest, only a few inches away. “A twitch or itch is all it takes to ruin the shot.”

“I find that pretty subjective,” says the man without a tie. “If it's comfortable, I can't imagine it being wrong. Either way, I never found tracking to be the difficult part. Timing always messed with me.”

Another sip before the man with the hat responds. “That is tricky. How do you teach someone to jump, or slip into a line of cars properly? I'm not sure you can. Anyone I've met in the profession has just had a knack for timing.”

“Well, I suppose that's true. I guess I've always wished I could get it in one, rather than having to take so many as quickly as I can manage. It's demoralizing.”

The man with the hat raises his eyebrows again, while his neighbor continues.

“It's certainly easier on a longer distance, at least mentally. I don't feel like each shot makes things change quite as much.”

“No wonder you've had trouble, that's no way to think about things!” The man with the hat quickly takes a sip from his drink, sitting up straighter. “You have to get all that trash out of your head, friend. Distance makes no difference, you have to take your job and its affect on the world around you seriously no matter where you set up.

“I have no idea what your background is, friend, but maybe you've heard rumblings of quantum mechanics if you run in circles of educated folks. I find it a helpful metaphor for what we do. Just observing the world will change it, and your distance from what you're observing makes no difference. An ant below your foot, a deer hundreds of yards away, all affected by your glance. If you make yourself believe that, at least you can seriously start figuring out what method of timing works for you.”

The man without a tie taps his fingers on the bar as he receives this lecture, looking down at his feet, then over to his neighbor's, a similar arrangement of black bags as his own near the stool. Then, a longer drink from his beer before looking up towards the man with a hat.

“I suppose outbursts like that are commonplace in bars down here.” He takes another sip from his beer. “While I don't like being chided by a stranger, I'm interested. What methods of timing are you talking about?”

Ignoring the comment on his manners, the man with the hat continues immediately. “First, you must decide whether you breathe in with the shot, out with the shot, or do not breathe at all. Trembling hands can be accounted for, but if you want perfection, you must consider how all of your body is going to work together.”

“I don't see how those relate to how I perceive my effect at a distance.”

“You must keep your breath consistent no matter how far away you are. If you breathe in or out too quickly, it will certainly affect the target that is close. But it won't do any good to breathe in when close, and out when farther away. That's madness! You'll never be consistent, and consistency is all that matters!”

“I take your point.” He tugs near his collar, loosening the tie that is not there. “But, it seems your idea is running backwards. Shouldn't I just determine which way I want to breathe, and not worry about distance after that?”

“No, no, you have it all wrong. Understanding that distance isn't a factor is the key! You have to treat it seriously no matter the distance, and that will lead you to the right choice in breathing, in grip, in how you arrange your body to take the time you need.”

“You're an interesting person to share a drink with. In all my time, I've certainly made decisions about each of those points. I breathe out, I relax my fingers except the thumb and index, and always have one knee on the ground unless I must be standing. Yet I never considered the distance to be fundamental, just another factor to consider.”

With a heavy sigh, the man with the hat signals the bartender for another drink, which he consumes half of before continuing. “Though you may switch tools, and in that way it is just a factor, the foundation must bet set.

“Remember, even the professional is never done learning, and must always chase the perfect shot.”

He finishes the rest of his drink, and tips his hat. “Have a good afternoon, friend.” He picks up his bags near his stool, and leaves the bar.

After several seconds of staring somewhat blankly at the exit, the man without a tie swivels back to the bar. He contemplates the small bit of foam left atop his beer, the circles of draft staining the glass, each ring marking the flow of conversation. He takes a final, swift drink, leaving a tip to cover both him and the man with a hat.

Leaving the bar, he veers right, toward a hill overlooking the plaza. The sun blazes on his skin, a sweat of liquor and salt slowly forms on his forehead. He's thankful for not wearing a tie as he takes a small cloth and wipes his face.

Cutting across a corner of the street, he spots an unoccupied piece of lawn beneath a tree. Others would be there soon to watch the parade. He is thankful once more for getting there early.

A small tarp is laid out, then he sits with legs crossed. One more wipe of his forehead. With practiced and patient hands he opens his bags, finding a sufficient plateu for his tripod. A camera body is mounted, while various lenses are scattered about him in an apparently random way. A quick wipe of his hands as he starts putting on, then removing, each lens in turn, habitually finding them precisely where he expects on the ground around him. Feeling satisfied with the arrangement, he finally attaches a modest zoom lens and begins testing his view of the plaza.

A cobblestone road leads in and out, where cars, pedestrians, and cyclists all go about a fountain during the day. Police officers are slowly guiding cars along detours while blockading the parade route. He goes on one knee, and imagines that his breath changes which way the officer might direct the next car: Breath in, to the left; hold, go straight; then out, to the right.

He switches lenses a few more times, preparing those which he expects to use the most as he scans the parade.

Then, a break. He takes the melon, meat, cheese, and crackers his wife packed from the small lunch tin.

He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes, no more than twenty. He stands up and stretches, then goes back down to one knee. He checks each part of his camera and begins scanning the scene, imagining a small float rolling by as he tracks it with a swivel of his hips.

The parade comes, led by the mayor and his wife. He quickly gets images of kids thrilled by candy tossed their way, of the local butcher driving a pickup with the top off and large horns on the front. As he moves up to see the stilt-walkers, a flash catches his eye to the left, across the street.

Tracking another part of the parade through an open apartment window is the man with a hat, a pair of binoculars to his face.

The man without a tie begins to sweat. Small drops of perspiration start to form around his eye, causing discomfort as he looks through the viewfinder. He watches as the man with a hat breathes in and out, slowly, then holds his breath and leans down towards the window sill.

The man without a tie quickly turns his face, wiping it. The retort of a gun echoes through the plaza, and screams erupt around the parade. Quickly moving back to the camera, he manages to see blood at the front of the procession, the mayor's wife in hysterics.

He takes a picture before tracking back to the apartment window, getting only a glance at a hat and the barrel of a rifle, too late for his index finger and thumb to launch the shutter.

This is my only published story, which I submitted to a student writing and art journal in college.

He places the last brick firmly into the corner. His arms reach down to control his fall to the ground. He leans against the wall. As he lifts his arms to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his shoulders fight him. He winces. It had been a long time coming. He stares at the crumpled papers near his feet. I know you will close us off, but I need you to know we still love you. We’ll be here for you when you come back. He squints: when you come back. Who were they to say he’d be back? Don’t they know how much work he did to be alone? Every crack that was letting in light had to be spackled again. He had to make that black air filter himself. The dim, red lightbulb illuminates his face. Another swipe of his hand across his face. Another wince. Solitude. That is what he had been working for. No other people to worry about. No reason to feel anything other than blissful solitude. Why did they try and tell him to stay?


He wakes up to the red light still on, unwavering. It seems to take an eternity for the light to reach the corners of the room. He pushes himself up and wipes the sweat away. He had never been one to perspire so easily. No hunger or thirst comes to him. An acute sense of numbness enters his body. He lies down and lets the red light wash over him with slow, measured persistence. This is solitude. He should be elated. The work he spent to get here was enormous. He thinks about the others. Why didn’t they try to stop him? They just let him walk away. No, they pushed him away. It was their fault. . . . when you come back. His neck tenses as he kicks the paper across the room. He wipes the sweat with his shirt. He gets up and paces around the room. What could they offer that was better than here? He had his room all to himself. He had built it alone. They tried to give him responsibilities, tell him how to live his life. They let others speak for them, other people who didn’t know any better than he did. Those three only gave him pieces of paper. Now he is alone. He had closed them off, kept them at bay. No knocks come to the door. They aren’t even trying. What sort of love is that? He feels weighed down. He put a lot of effort into making this place. His muscles are sore, that’s all. He has time to rest, and think, and pace. To enjoy solitude. Those three can’t interrupt him anymore.


Red. The overwhelming sense of red. It seems to pervade every part of him. The light is duller than when he started. The feeling is more intense. He mops his face with his shirt, pulling it up from his waist to rub his head. His hand begins to reach for the door. He falls to his knees, then on his back. He said he would stay. This is what he wants. He will not let those three get into his head. They would tell him to abandon all of the work he put in, just do something inane somewhere else for someone else. He is happy here. He is alone. He has won. He blinks. He shuffles to the corner so the red won’t come so fast and so strong. He smooths out the papers. He is going to be here for a while, and the light is too strong to be pacing. You think that you cannot talk to us, and we feel that deeply. The pain we have because we know you are leaving is immense. Though you are going to a place we wish you would not, nothing will make us waver. I know you will close us off, but I need you to know we still love you. We’ll be here for you when you come back. And you will realize you never left. Arrogance. The paper is covered in it. A small ray projects onto his thumb. He looks up. A piece of wall has flaked, and light is coming through. He smooths the papers and puts them aside. He fights through the red, moving along the walls to avoid the center of the room. He lies down near the flaked wall. The beam pierces the red. It shines straight across the room. He slowly lifts his head up. He shakes. He stops to wipe the sweat from his face. He takes off his shirt to wipe down his neck and chest. His hand comes back up. It touches the light. He shivers. He forgets the joy of his solitude, of the red, the bricks, and focuses on the light, and the flowing, rushing feeling in his heart. He jerks his hand back. He is not tempted. He is not going to sacrifice his freedom, his release from the world, for them.


Red clouds his vision. Nothing except the wash of red. He feels the papers in his hands. He cannot see the words, but he does not need to anymore. He knows them by heart. No. He just knows them. They do not live in his heart. Two more beams have entered. He sleeps in the center now, in the glow of the red, to avoid them. And you will realize you never left. He went as far away as he could. He isolated himself, and the light still followed. He just wanted solitude, to shut off the world and focus on himself. He was not bothering anybody. There was nobody that relied on him. But these three insisted he not leave. Why is that? They still let him leave. Alone. The joy of being alone. He tries to cry. He wipes his brow. His face is covered in sweat. Were there tears? He doesn’t know. He reaches out to one of the beams. He cannot see it, but it emanates through the red. He can feel its chill on his skin. He doesn’t need them. . . . when you come back. He stands up. When was the last time he stood up? He moves to his right, keeping his arm out. He feels the second beam on him, through him, within him. Are those tears this time? He stumbles on the papers beneath his foot. He clutches them to his weary chest. He is perfectly okay with the red. He will fix those holes today, and finally be able to rest. The beams keep shining. The red is fading from his vision. Another step forward. The third beam envelops him. He nearly collapses, but catches himself on the door. The door? He pushes open the door and stumbles into a blinding light, as soft and cool as a sunset. But he doesn’t fall. He is being held up. The hands are strong, compassionate. Surely these are tears on his face. He blinks. He looks around. Behind him was the Hell he had constructed. He feels arms around him. He is steps from where he began. “I came back.” “We’re here for you.” He had never left.

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