He strode out of his office, past two holoDoors, and barged into the third holoDoor: his boss’s office. Eugene Plum was a stoic man with a strong jaw. He had a mostly bald head, with a halo of brown hair that lazily fell closer to his shoulders every day. An odd, fleeting thought passed through Dylan’s head just then: How strange it was that of all the technological advances, many men still chose to be bald.
Startled, Eugene looked over his shoulder as the holoDoor sounded a soothing chime upon Dylan’s entrance. He had been flipping through a presentation of some kind, displayed upon his media wall.
“Gene, you busy?” Dylan barked a little too quickly.
“Well, I’m reviewing something for a holoConf that I’m about to take, but if this is important, I suppose . . .” Gene was often passive, noncommittal. It drove Dylan crazy, and he wondered how this meek man had managed to become VP of sales for one of the largest corps in the world.
“Great. It’s important.”
Gene looked surprised. “Well, okay then.” He waved a hand and the presentation on the media wall was replaced by a real-time view of the ocean, somewhere far, far away. “What’s up, Dylan?”
“Gene.” Dylan inhaled, then plastered a smile on his face. “I’m dying here, Gene. If I have to go to one more corp-to-corp sales job for SkinRegen, I’m going to start looking for other work. I need a challenge—and it’s great that you guys are paying me a zetta-crap-load of money, but why pay me so much for a job that does itself? One of those fancy new EGC androids could do my job!”
Gene nodded his head slowly. “Well, I’m sorry you feel this way, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, I should have mentioned it, but I’m new here, and I was trying to fit in, be the good employee and all that jazz,” Dylan replied.
“Well, what areas are you interested in, Dylan?”
“Something cutting-edge. Something that will be challenging to sell. Something that I can provide input on—where I can help drive the customer experience based on feedback from the customer, my customers. That kind of thing.” Dylan was speaking quickly. He paused to take a breath, and then spoke slower to ensure Eugene could keep up. “Gene, this company is enormous, there must be some cutting-edge work happening. I know there’s a giant R and D division in the budget.”
“Okay, well then . . .” Eugene looked down at the floor and began tapping the holoTable with his fingers. He then brightened, looked back at Dylan, and said, “We have a new product line just coming into field-test stage around finger and toenail hardening. No more broken nails. Ever!”
Dylan blinked slowly. He was about to respond with more cynicism than was wise, when Eugene held up a hand, motioning that he had a call coming into his BUI. He reached up and tapped the small device around his ear and began speaking to someone on the personal BUI display that had appeared in front of him.
“Uh-huh.” Eugene paused and nodded at the BUI display floating in front of him. Dylan could only see an NRS logo where the display was. “Sure, yes, I agree.” Pause. “Yep, we can do that—absolutely.” Pause, more nodding. “Okay, will do. Yep, Okay, good-bye.”
Eugene clicked off his BUI and looked back at Dylan. “Sorry about that, Dylan.”
“No problem, Eugene.”
“Well, as I was chatting there, I had a thought. There is an effort underway that might interest you. It’s highly secretive at the moment. Have you heard of the work going on up on the 115th floor?”
Dylan couldn’t hold back a sly smile. “Only that it’s highly secretive, there’s extra security up there, and they seem to steal all the best engineers.”
“Exactly. Well, there is a need for a salesman in that division. To be honest with you, I don’t even know what’s going on up there. I know that it represents a colossal investment, and I’ve been told it’s the future of the company. But that’s about all I know.”
Wanting to make his interest authentic, Dylan downplayed his excitement. “Okay, I mean, it sounds interesting, just because it sounds important. But, who would I be selling to? Is this a corp-to-corp thing? Or is it direct to consumer?”
“Well, I don’t know too much more. I believe the position would be working with governments and potentially lawmakers. And the other thing: You wouldn’t report to me anymore, you would report directly to the VP of operations and special projects. He’s heading up the T-One-Fifteen project directly himself.”
“Umm, what’s that guy’s name? I think I interviewed with him. Sarles?” Dylan asked innocently.
“Searle.”
“Searle. Interesting name,” Dylan responded playfully. “Is he any good to work for?”
“Oh—he’s tough, but fair. He was the second hire at NRS. Working directly for him could be a very solid strategic move for you, career-wise. It would be challenging, though.”
Dylan smiled. “I love a good challenge. My Mom was fond of saying that the fullest flowers bloomed after the worst winters. I don’t think that’s scientifically true, but the sentiment was nice. So, when do I get my new office?”
The amount of red tape Dylan traversed in order to obtain proper security credentials for his new position was substantial. Background checks, a subcutaneous security chip placed in his shoulder, a corp-requisitioned BUI with extensive time-based security protocols. A quiver of fear had shot up Dylan’s spine on more then one juncture, but he cleared the requirements and was now walking down the hallways of the 115th floor, about to enter office 1-15.
“Mr. Dansby, please have a seat.” Korak motioned to a chair on the opposite side of a holoDesk as the holoDoor chimed and faded back into existence. He unbuttoned a sharply geometric light-gray suit and promptly sat down. “I’m thrilled to hear that you have decided to take this new position,” he stated with absolutely zero thrill in his voice. “Frankly, I was surprised that you put up with your initial position as long as you did.”
“Yes, frankly, I am too. I was trying to be a team player, but at some point the best team players are those that decide to take over the game, right?” Dylan asked as he sat down, attempting successfully to match his new boss’s smugness.
“Of course they do,” Korak replied as he shuffled through some digital documents on the holoDesk’s flat display panel. He found the one he was looking for and proceeded to pinch it, raising the document off of the flat display and upward. The document gained three-dimensional shape and now floated a few feet off of the desk as a holograph. It was a deck of three-dimensional graphs and metrics. At its current size, Dylan could not discern any details. It spun slowly in between the two men.
Dylan became distracted with a fledgling thought that he couldn’t shake and asked, “I’m curious—if you felt that I would tire of my SkinRegen position downstairs with Eugene, why did you put me there? Why not steer me toward something that would be a better match?”
Half of Korak’s thin lips raised in a smile pointing up toward the bridge of his offset nose. “The position I felt you would be . . . uniquely qualified for required us to ensure that we were right about your talents.”
Dylan ran his hand through his bouncy brown hair. “I passed the test, then?”
“I suspect you did. Now, Mr. Dansby, what do you know about the T-One-Fifteen project?”
Dylan shrugged. “Nothing.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why? From what I hear, it’s supersecret.”
“Then you do know something?” Korak asked flatly.
Dylan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, so I know it’s highly . . . recondite.” He said the last word smugly and continued attempting to match Searle’s tone. “I’ve heard it represents a huge part of NRS’s future, and I know you guys have stolen some of my team’s best developers, scientists, and operational folks to come work on the effort. I’m assuming it has something to do with SolipstiCorp’s tech. As for what the project actually is, or does—that’s where I have no idea.”
“Fair enough,” Searle responded, apparently satisfied. “Rather th
an go into too many details, I’d like to send you on a trip to visit one of our facilities; it’s the facility furthest along in project T-One-Fifteen, the only active facility, boasting an over 50 percent usage rate at this juncture. We call it the Titus facility. It’s located deep in the jungle of the Jalisco state in Mexico; halfway between Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta. I’d like you to go tomorrow; you’ll be there for three days and two nights. We’ve already made the flight arrangements: a personal charter, leaving from the rooftop, here.” Korak paused, then asked, almost begrudgingly, “Okay?”
Dylan couldn’t help but laugh slightly. “Uh, no, not okay, Korak.” Dylan’s impetuous pushback caused Korak to wince. “I don’t even know what I’m doing now. What’s my job? Am I still a salesman? Can you give me some data to study for the trip, so I can at least be a little prepared? Why Mexico? What does the facility even do? Manufacturing?”
Searle smiled. “In a manner of speaking, yes, manufacturing. There is no preparation you need to do. It’s something you need to experience firsthand. Consider this training for your new job.”
Dylan wanted to mention that the last time he heard similar advice on a project, he ended up needing months of therapy, but he bit his lip as Searle continued: “You will be meeting with the operations manager in charge of the entire Titus facility, Mr. Kane. He will be your tour escort.”
“A three-day tour?” he asked, surprised that a tour required three full days.
“It’s a large facility, Dylan.”
“What about my current job?”
“I’ve already assigned your work to a new employee; you needn’t worry about it. The stuff sells itself anyhow.” It was a rare joke from the insipid Searle.
“And my role in all of this?” Dylan asked, genuinely curious.
“Once a salesman, always a salesman—right, Dylan? But your role will be to sell—nay—negotiate with governments. This role will be crucial to T-One-Fifteen’s success.” Korak was leafing through more documents now. Without looking up, he said, “Will there be anything else, Mr. Dansby?”
Dylan shook his head. “Guess not. I’m going to head home. There’s not much I can do here right now.”
Korak didn’t acknowledge this comment. After a moment of hesitation, Dylan rose and went home early for the day.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Since Dylan’s departure to NRS and Seattle, Kristina had taken to virtTripping with the SolipstiCorp headgear on a near-nightly basis. It had taken quite a bit of socializing, often with Lester’s connections, to procure access to her first darkVirt. And once she got ahold of her first invite, nabbing subsequent invites to other darkVirts became a cinch—all she had to do was prove her technical chops and she was in. Sure, she had to be careful about ensuring her identity didn’t get out, but so did everyone else in the darkVirts.
Her favorite darkVirt included ghostTripping to Mars. The Mars darkVirt had gained a level of infamy thanks to Garrett Hawpe’s decision to end his life there. A digital memorial had been erected in his honor, which consisted of a silhouette of Hawpe’s profile floating above the initials GH. The initials appeared as a vibrant red liquid that effervesced slowly into the Martian atmosphere. The image itself was becoming a symbol routinely associated with the cause of open, unregulated networks. Techies, when off corpSoil, had taken to wearing T-shirts with the dynamic symbol, with some of the shirts actually emitting bubbles floating off of their sleeves.
Those were the nights. The days—the days were trivial. And Kristina loathed trivialities. She was finding herself arriving to work late and leaving early. She took long lunches, and often left for an extended afternoon coffee at the off-corpSoil establishment that she had first visited with Dylan. For the first time in her illustrious but short career, Kristina had achieved an exceeds rating, rather than her typical outstanding rating during the recent SolipstiCorp review process. She was clearly struggling for motivation.
The only task at work that interested her had been the investigation of what had occurred with Dylan’s faulty deathTrip. The problem had become an obsession for her. She’d found incongruities in the code that looked suspicious, but nothing conclusive. And so, when remedial tasks were off her plate, she went back to hopelessly scanning code, logs, and holoVids of Dylan’s deathTrip, hoping to stumble on the silver byte.
This day found Kristina at Dylan’s nameless café off corpSoil, on government land. She sat at the counter facing the street, reading various tech feeds on her BUI. The holographic display bounced in front of her, shining a bright neon green. The open-air café was drafty, owing to a dank fog that had refused to burn off—and seeing how it was now late afternoon, the fog was likely to stick around through the evening. Kristina quite liked the fog, for it hid people and things, and was presently hiding occasional passersby slowly shuffling past the café. She had grown to like being around the lower class as well. It had taken some time, but her fear had subsided, and she realized they were just like her: struggling through the day, the same monotonous day, every day a slightly different shade than the last.
“It’s so damp today, it’s probably even damp inside the Nets,” said a man who had sat down abruptly beside her.
“Probably,” Kristina replied without looking up.
The man rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat. “Let me try that again: boy-howdy, it’s cold today.”
Kristina squinted in confusion, then glanced over to her new neighbor. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the man’s animated tattoo: a flame, flickering subtly up his arm. Kristina had heard more rumors of Simeon in the darkVirts. No one really believed he existed; but everyone agreed that if Simeon did exist, he would most certainly have an awesome animated flame tattoo on his arm.
Simeon was wearing a loose floral-print, button-down shirt with jeans. His long hair showed more blond today, but the red wasn’t hiding entirely; the mane began at two scraggly sideburns and continued on, flowing unkempt behind his large head. Two small earrings lacked a gleam owing to the fog. He smiled and nodded toward Kristina as if to say hello. She returned a silly grin, with her eyes wide open.
“Dylan—oh God—is something wrong? Are you still working with him?” Kristina asked, suddenly nervous.
“He’s fine,” Simeon assured her. “And I’d prefer to think that he’s working with me.”
“Wow. Wow! Ha! You’re—uh, here!” Her tall, thin frame was now sitting upright as if she’d stepped on a rake that promptly smacked her in the face. She clasped her hands in front her.
“Yep, I am here. We’ve been keeping a close eye on you, Kristina. You seem to be questioning your lot in life. Fair?”
“Fair.” Kristina was suddenly sullen, her frame sagged, and just as suddenly she snapped upright and her eyes turned bright. “What can I do? How can I help? Just say the word. Want me to go undercover? I can share my SolipstiCorp headgear tech with you.”
“Whoa, slow down.” Simeon began to chuckle. The warmth of his bass-filled uh-huhs instantly put Kristina at ease. “I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want your help. Let me rephrase that: if we didn’t need your help.”
“Okay then, what can I do?”
“Two things right now. First . . .” Simeon reached into the pocket of his floral-print, button-down shirt and pulled out a piece of paper that appeared to be a fortune-cookie fortune. He handed it to her underneath the counter, and she immediately read it, mouthing the words as she read: Being aware of your fears will improve your life.
She looked up at him questioningly. Simeon looked back without saying anything.
“It’s a key. Why not use an encryptChip?”
He nodded slowly. “There’s nothing more secure than the brain. Memorize the key, and then toss it. You won’t need it anytime soon. When you do . . . you’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out.”
She began to tear the fortune into small pieces.
He continued, “Now, more pertinent. I know that you’ve been researching Dylan’s deathT
rip. I need to know everything you know. What can you tell me about it?”
“Not much, unfortunately. I’ve scoured the code. I retested the simulation a thousand times. I just . . . I don’t know. The doctors are convinced it has some something to do with Dylan’s specific neurophysiology, like he’s some kind of outlier, but they haven’t found any specific outliers yet. I’m not a neuroscientist, but I did major in biology. I’ve studied his neuromapping for hours and saw something odd. I met up with an expert in a darkVirt and he targeted the same marker I had seen. I’d love to get the records for Dylan’s great-uncle Randy and see if it matches. Still, there has to be something in the code to take advantage of the marker. ”
“So, what do you think then?” Simeon prodded.
“Well. I don’t like to speculate . . .”
“Speculate.”
“Well, okay, well . . . hmm—personally, I really think there was something strange with the code that ran the simulation. Like, maybe it was altered to react a specific way given a specific scenario, a specific deathTrip. Like, in the change-control software, I—” She paused. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter. I’m just grasping at straws.”
“No, go on, this is what we believe as well.” Simeon lowered his voice as a pair of security contractors walked through the slum’s alley. The pair, bantering about the football game the night before, passed by Simeon quickly asked, “Why do you feel this way?”
“I have no proof, but I’ve found a few odd things. Like I was saying, there were some blank code check-ins in our revision-control system. Just blank time stamps, at least a half a dozen of them made on the night before Dylan’s deathTrip. But there’s nothing else related to the time stamps. No code, no comments, no nothing. I’ve asked IT about it—because the system we use is some system licensed from NRS, so there’s no documentation about it on the Nets. Anyhow, IT said that transient time stamps can happen during code reviews of related packages, but that just sounded like bullshit to me—”
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