Aleksey Savchenko - Cyberside

Coffee cup in one hand, James finishes writing the code that will integrate new functionality into what they have come to nickname “The Cyberside.” He had planned to leave work 30 minutes early for a change, to beat the traffic home, but one last-minute request had led to another. And another. And here he remains.

Lost in thought, James is startled by the sound of his office door opening behind him.

Calm, expensive-sounding footsteps make their way to his desk. Without looking up, James knows who’s intruded in his space – Donovan Craze, the head Marketing Director for the company, has just decided to drop by his office. Craze has an uncanny ability to exude an uncomfortable amount of hearty good cheer towards his co-workers, while also remaining the most razor-toothed shark in the business.

“James! First one in, last one out. Good man.”

Turning around in his chair, James regards him. Fit, well-dressed, early forties.

“Mr. Craze, you’re still here?”

Donovan moves to James’ desk and starts rifling through the personal effects. He lifts up James’ nameplate that reads CHIEF SOFTWARE ENGINEER.

“The Executive Corner has its own concerns. We’re negotiating with the Asian partners. Time zones and all that. We’re going to need them like hell for a project like this, buddy.”

Donovan places the nameplate back on the desk and makes his way over to the window. Though his speech is perfect, James can smell the lingering alcohol on his breath. Donovan looks out the window at the city’s skyline. The reddish tinge of the light compliments that of his own bloodshot eyes.

“You know… it’s quite possible that when our boys in North Carolina finally crack this transference thing, humanity will actually have a chance.”

Quiet instinct tells James to quash his first response to this. His second doesn’t come out sounding much better.

“Look… Donovan, I’ve told you this before. All we’re going to be able to do is let people interface with a system and interact with each other. You can enter the world and fool around all you want, but it isn’t designed for long term use. It’s just entertainment.”

Donovan turns away from the window, regarding his Chief Software Engineer levelly. James presses on.

“Besides, the real focus for the last decade has been the space program to colonize—”

Donovan cuts him off.

“Don’t be an idiot, James. I’ve always told people you’re smart. Don’t make me regret it.”

Donovan steps over to James’ side cabinet and helps himself to a brimming rock glass of whiskey.

“I’ve haven’t been dick deep in the Washington scene for those assholes’ senses of humor. The entire space program is a bust, and they all know it. They’re just hawking that shit to buy as much time as they can, before everything changes.”

Clenching his hands in his lap, James starts cycling through a whole series of possible responses, but once again stops himself. Over the years, James has learned not to engage Donovan when he’s been drinking. At the end of the equation, Craze is still his superior. James reminds himself that being silent isn’t technically supporting Donovan’s claim. It’s the path of least resistance.

Unchallenged, Donovan continues.

“This thing that we’re building… it’s a second chance. For Christ’s sake, we won’t even be able to walk around in sunlight soon. Mankind needs a new home, and it’s sure as shit not in space.”

Donavan points at James’ computer.

“It’s in that.”

Unable to hold his tongue, James counters.

“With all due respect, a lot of people would disagree with you on that. Just the other day I read about a company out of Colorado that says they’re working on bio-domes. Or that company out of Maryland, working on those underground vaults.”

Despite Donovan’s mocking laugh, James is determined not to relent.

“What about everyone with families? You’re going to ask them to give up everything they actually have, for a virtual… habitat? ”

Donovan’s eyes and voice turn instantly cold. He gestures emphatically with the hand holding the glass, somehow not spilling a drop.

“Who said anything about asking them? We TELL people what they want, and they love us for it. People don’t like making decisions, James. They do like being cool. We route hundreds of yottabytes of traffic on a daily basis. And each of their clicks in our direction is control and power. Power, James. So yes, we will make decisions for them, when the time comes.”

These words run down James’ spine like cold water. Part of him wonders just what sort of company he is working for. Another part of him wonders if Donovan will even remember having spoken these words.

With eerie alacrity, Donovan’s scowl evaporates. He beams and claps a chummy hand on James’ shoulder.

“Anyway, good talk, James. See you around, buddy.”

Only after Donovan leaves the room does James remember to breathe.

A kick to his boot jolts Taciturn back to his surroundings.

“Seriously, are you okay? Do you normally just space out like that after a fight? As your employer, that might be good information to know.”

He gets to his feet without comment and moves toward the gateway platform. Pushing a body aside, James lights a cigarette and inspects the device. He smokes pensively, attempting to jigsaw this situation’s insane pieces together –the slavers, Matilda, and Donovan. The answer eludes him. Is Craze involved? he wonders.

If so, why would he send assassins after Matilda?

James watches Matilda dead-check a slaver by casually giving the body a hefty kick. The body remains motionless. Spatters of data-blood and smears of dirt, marks of the slaughter he has witnessed, still cling to her jacket. James has dealt with Scry before – but Matilda is unlike anything he’s ever encountered. He takes stock of the carnage around the platform, committing the wake of the bloodbath to memory.

Matilda’s disarmingly-beaming smile appears as she rubs her hands together.

“So… we going to visit this guy or what?”

James leans down to access the portal controls and makes necessary adjustments.

Curiosity piqued, the Scry stands over him.

“So, what? You going to ramble on about some guy you used to know, and then go back to the creepy silent treatment? You going to tell me what we’re doing next, or not?”

James spits the cigarette butt onto the bloodied dirt and continues tinkering with the portal’s controls.

“We’re going to need help with this. I think it’s best if we go see a friend of mine first.”

Matilda takes an exaggerated step backwards, palms extended before her.

“First, I see we’re still keeping things in the ‘vague as hell’ column. Second, did you just admit that you actually have a friend?”

Closing the hatch to the maintenance panel, James stands up.

“The best friend any Taciturn ever had. A program.”

James adjusts a final knob, and the portal comes back to life. James reviews the device’s diagnostic screen and frowns.

“Pretty shitty connection out here, but it should hold up for a bit.”

Matilda claps her hands to her forehead.

“ Where . The hell. Are we going?”

James gives her a slow grin.

“You ever been to Hawaii?”

Matilda gazes out the dirty window of the rattletrap empty Greyhound bus and lets out a dispirited sigh. She’s been stuck in this decrepit vehicle for almost eight hours. Evidently, the communication lanes out of the Wastelands are teeth-gnashingly slow, and she doesn’t care much for how the System has decided to manifest the transportation.