《The Determinism Principle》


 Prologue

    The branches in the periphery swayed to the cold evening breeze like a muted warning. The stone fountain looked uncomfortable. Even in the scarce lighting of the night, its surface looked rough and starved of the maintenance it so desperately needed. I chuckled. That was a good metaphor. Unintentional, but applicable to everything here. Tangible or not. It even applied to the man sitting at the edge of the fountain.


    Starved of maintenance? Definitely. Rough? Well, he was understandably upset. Not that he was getting an apology any time soon.


    I was impressed by this unusual display of patience. It was well over an hour. I didn¡¯t think he would wait even half this long. If I hadn¡¯t known, then all the evidence I needed for his messy psyche was this document sitting on his desk. It had been torn up into a hundred little pieces and put back together with tape like a shitty jigsaw puzzle. It wouldn¡¯t be long before he returned to this pitiful apartment.


    The feed on my handheld was magnified from a distance, but the image quality was perfect. He was contemplating something over his phone. I sighed. I wanted to get this over with.Stolen story; please report.


    There was a weight to my small black case that sat atop the table. I knew that what I was going to do wasn¡¯t pleasant. I had come to terms with the nature of the work a long time ago. But being unpleasant didn¡¯t mean it was wrong. Or that it was right. Not that they were relevant concepts. The only thing that mattered was what happened next. Only that would tell me what any of this meant. The only thing I knew for certain was that this was important. For reasons far beyond myself. Beyond him. But was it too much to ask for it to be important for us, too? In the ever expanding grand plan, we were all just grains of dust so miniscule that only a microscope could see us. But I was that microscope. I saw something meaningful. I wanted to know what it meant.


    The feed began to change. The angle shifted. The elevation changed. The operative behind the camera was moving and I didn¡¯t know why; he had been so still for the past hour that I wondered whether he was finally having muscle spasms. It took me a moment to gather myself. An hour of waiting and pointless brooding did that to you. And then I saw it. The mark was walking away from the fountain.


    It was time to do my part. No room for doubt. And even less for apology. I unzipped the black case and began the preparation. He would be here shortly and it would be all over soon.


    No. It would be the beginning.

 Chapter 1

    Subject: Research proposal


    From: Secretary <[email protected]</a>>


    To: Alex Young <[email protected]</a>>


    Sent: Sun 6/26/22 1:14am (PDT)


    Dear Dr. Young,


    We are impressed by your body of work on stochastic modelling. We are a research group of mathematicians and physicists that work at the bleeding edge of particle physics, and we believe your world-class expertize in probability theory is the key to advancing groundbreaking research in our field.


    Due to immense interest in our research, we have secured a research grant of $42,000 USD for a specialist role in the project. We would like to offer you this research opportunity. We look forward to your response.


    Regards,


    Receiverist Particle Physics Research Group


    I chuckled wryly, before summarily executing the email with a singular satisfying click of the ¡°Junk Email¡± button. This was easily the fakest email I had seen this month. For an academic, it was a rite of passage to become used to spam from desperate and disreputable journals. Poorly written boilerplate invitation letters with only my name and the title of the first article that appeared when one searched it. Last month, I even had the pleasure of receiving an email containing ¡°<insert name here>¡± and ¡°<insert publication title here>¡±. Whoever authored the present abomination of a letter was surely going for an Olympic medal in poorly forged scams. A meadow of red flags. No details about the research. No evidence that they knew anything about my work. No names, only an enigmatic ¡°secretary¡±¡ªbecause of course,  research groups both needed and could afford secretaries who wrote emails at one in the morning. But even if all of those details were to be overlooked, you would still be obliged to apply Occam¡¯s razor to eviscerate the email based on the old faithful principle of being too good to be true.


    To say that I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed would be to severely miss the point. The offender was I had woken up at all. It was a Monday, but that detail was merely an incidental bystander that risked being wrongly accused. The culprit was the twenty-seventh of June. My mother¡¯s birthday. I wasn¡¯t going to call her this year. I briefly pondered whether that made me a terrible son, but I shoved the thought to the back of my mind just as I did the last time the twenty-seventh of June rolled around. And the one before that. Regardless, it wasn¡¯t like I could just change my mind and call her. No. The prison wouldn¡¯t let me do that without arrangements made in advance.


    After having my morning porridge¡ªbland and runny and affordable¡ªI left my tiny apartment and immediately felt regret. It was only after seeing the cloudless sky from the hallway windows that I remembered it was going to be a hot day. Something like thirty-degrees celsius. I loathed this for two reasons. Firstly, temperatures above thirty degrees celsius were exceedingly rare in where I grew up. Or at least that was the case a decade ago. And secondly, I was annoyed at the audacity of the sun to mock me with its bright optimism. Do me a favour and never come back, I thought defiantly.


    I arrived at my office early in the morning as usual, saying ritualistic hellos to the other inhabitants of the faculty. Despite my moody start to the morning, the day didn¡¯t seem so bad. The planets had aligned favourably as the coffee machine wasn¡¯t out of order for once. Going through my emails, the comedy of sending that spam message to the email jail had brightened my mood. I could laugh about it with the couple of colleagues I got along with. But I refrained. It occurred to me that it was entirely possible the fake email was a practical joke played on me due to my own troubles. The thought lingered bitterly. I tried to relieve it with a sigh and set off to print my lecture notes.


    The Mathematics Institute of Miller University was not particularly noteworthy. An outsider would be forgiven if they concluded, based on the bland and outdated architecture of the building, that the institution was an underfunded public college in a state that saw research as heresy. This deception would be comical if the truth wasn¡¯t so humiliating. No, it was a private university that raked in obscene levels of profit from wealthy students from every corner of the world who lusted for a fancy piece of paper that included ¡°business administration¡± or ¡°corporate finance¡±, rather than an education. The figures were redundant. You only needed to glance at the Porsche the Dean of Commerce drove to and back from his office¡ªthe trip amounted to no more than a few minutes each time. The commerce and law faculties lived in neo-futuristic architectural expressions of art. The kind that separated the general populace into those who felt humbled, and those who saw something of themselves in the magnitude of ostentatious grandeur on display. In comparison, the mathematics building¡ªand the faculty itself¡ªwas merely an afterthought. Profit followed money. Money followed profit. And neither followed abstract mathematics.


    When I entered the lecture hall, there were a few students peppered among the seats. Most of them continued to scroll social media on their phones while wearing earphones. One who sat a couple of rows from the front nodded at me. I nodded back. Students perfunctorily took first year maths as a requirement for their commerce, science or engineering degrees, and so there wasn¡¯t genuine interest. Hence, even though those courses were straightforward and easy, failure rates were high and satisfaction rates were low. I didn¡¯t blame the students. In fact, I sympathised with them. I too played my part in this perfunctory duet. My job was to research. Well, to publish papers and acquire research grants really. Teaching was merely the dish cleaning duty.


    As more students took their seats in the lecture hall, I switched on the projector. A lot of my older colleagues preferred the blackboard, which seemed awfully antiquated. The dryness that chalk left on my hand and the grating sound of the blackboard being struck by it outweighed the prestige of being an old-fashioned mathematician. I attached the microphone to my collar and switched it on. For once, I was grateful that my lecture was early in the morning. The air conditioner still hadn¡¯t been fixed since the previous semester, when a bored student had a moment of comedic genius and fired a spitball into it.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± I said. The echoes of my voice through the speakers still sounded foreign to my ears. I didn¡¯t receive any ¡°morning¡¯s¡± back as usual. ¡°Before we get started, I want to remind you that your assignments are due next week. Failing a student is much easier than marking their work, so I¡¯m not at all implying that I want you to submit on time.¡± That earned some chuckles. ¡°Anyway, let¡¯s push on. Today I¡¯m going to introduce the single most important concept in this course. Eigenvalue decompositions.¡±


    I began to write mathematical notation on the paper in front of me, projecting onto the large screens in front of the class. With a little luck, it would also project onto the notes the students took and into their minds. A first year linear algebra course was an unpleasant course to teach. Not because it was hard¡ªin fact, it was painfully easy¡ªbut rather it was the most crucial cornerstone in modern mathematics, yet also the most boring maths in the classroom. For the students and myself. I hypothesised the most entertaining aspect of the course for the students was my Estuary accent from growing up in London, but the effect was impermanent and I suspected I could write an impressive array of profanities into the lecture before anyone bats an eye.


    It wasn¡¯t long before the hour was exhausted and I dismissed the class. As I began to pack up my materials, a student approached me shyly. He asked politely in an Eastern European accent about proving the irrationality of the square root of two, a bonus problem I had snuck into the last practice set. The idea that an interesting problem might inspire a lifetime of mathematical pursuit was probably the only romantic notion that existed in my neurons. After providing a hint about starting the proof, he responded that he hadn¡¯t thought of that and thanked me. There was a momentary spark of satisfaction, perhaps even joy, at the thought that a student cared enough to try the problem. But like root two, it was irrational. As I watched his retreating back, I tried to guess whether he would go on to work for an insurance company or a trading firm.


    As I left the lecture theatre for my office, past the sparse students waiting outside for the next class, I wondered when I would hear back about a research manuscript I had submitted to a conference several months ago. I was about to enter through a set of doors at the back of the courtyard when something compelled me to freeze. It was like hearing the ghostly sound of being watched. Paranoia wasn¡¯t something I typically experienced, but the hairs sticking up at the base of my nape convinced me to look around my vicinity. There was no one there. All the students had entered their class for the next hour, or were taking a break somewhere that actually had seats. I might have imagined it, but it was difficult to shake off a feeling that wasn¡¯t in my usual repertoire of sensations. It had broken my train of thought.


    After a couple hours of exploration into some vague ideas for new research directions, it was lunch time. I made my way to the cafe in the courtyard of the mathematics building and ordered a chicken wrap. It didn¡¯t taste good¡ªthere was always either too little mayonnaise, or too much¡ªbut it was filling and affordable. I sat at my usual table that was off to the side with a coffee I had made from the staff kitchen. It was my table precisely because students and staff alike tended to either miss it, or it was so close to the corner that it looked dank from a distance. The table was underappreciated. On this particular day, it was a luxury to avoid the punishing sun. There were several students spread across the other tables, a few eating and chatting together, while others were making study notes as they nursed a cup of coffee.


    ¡­ Some experts argue that the rising military tensions in both the Mediterranean Sea and the East China Sea is evidence of the need for a firmer US foreign policy to secure strategic interests in those regions. The woman on the television spoke in the voice that trademarked her profession. My eyes naturally drifted towards the hanging screen like the involuntary motions of an addict. I took a modest bite from the wrap, careful not to stain my only collar shirt that was washed. In other news, a whistleblower has accused the social media giant ConverXe of harvesting user data to target susceptible users with political advertisements involving conspiracy theories and hateful content. A spokesperson for the company responded to criticisms by stating that third party consultants are currently auditing their ethical use of data, and that the company was founded on the philosophy that ethical advertising and free speech can coexist. Their share price remains stable at just under thirty-three dollars.


    Healthy wasn¡¯t an adjective I would assign to my relationship with the news. Simply put, I couldn¡¯t take my eyes off of it. There was a distinct kind of powerlessness that came from knowing the trajectory of the world. A taunt from an ugly, authoritative voice saying, Well, what are you going to do about it? Yet to avoid the news wasn¡¯t any better. The climate of anxiety permeated in the air, and through osmosis, one would know precisely how bad things were without a single detail. So it was futile. One could choose to read the doctor¡¯s diagnosis or throw it out the window, but it didn¡¯t change the fact that they were on the deathbed. Perhaps it was naivety¡ªor masochism¡ªbut I had always imagined there would be less guilt with the former. I wasn¡¯t sure that was true.


    ¡°Alex,¡± came a reedy voice. I resigned my fate and needlessly looked up to greet the stubby, mid-forties man who approached my table. I held a barely contained sigh.


    ¡°Peter. How are you?¡±


    ¡°Good!¡± he answered in his unique tone that blurred the boundaries between joyful and assertive. ¡°Mind if I sit?¡± I nodded, which he seemed to take as an invitation. He took the napkin that was for his greasy sandwich and wiped across his forehead, before dropping it onto the table. ¡°Christ, it¡¯s hot today.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Yeah. Makes you wonder if they¡¯ll ever fix the broken ACs around here.¡± I strategically took a bite of my wrap to relocate it away from his discarded sweat napkin.


    Peter took a large sip from his iced coffee. ¡°I¡¯m honestly this close¡ª¡± he pinched his meaty thumb and index finger for emphasis, ¡°to buying a portable AC for my office out of pocket. I know it¡¯s not great for the environment and all that jazz, but how am I meant to think in a god damn sauna?¡±


    I chuckled in what he thought was agreement. The answer was simple; he didn¡¯t need to. Peter was, by all metrics, a successful academic. His research papers had garnered an impressive amount of citations and he was in a comfortable tenure track position that he didn¡¯t need to worry about. Not the least because he had beguiled a regiment of postgraduate students who slaved away at the actual research work in exchange for Peter¡¯s name on their testamur. His contributions were merely signing off on their research proposals. He was an excellent researcher once¡ªhe had to be in order to reach his position¡ªbut at some point he became more interested in entrenching his own status by any means possible.


    ¡°How¡¯s the linear algebra course going?¡± he asked after a moment of mutual mastication. ¡°It sucks that you drew the short straw, but you¡¯re saving all of our asses here.¡±


    Before each semester, my colleagues and I drew straws. The unfortunate few who drew the shortest were assigned to teaching the first year courses.


    I shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s going alright. I really could have used that time to focus on research grant applications, but somebody had to do it.¡± I realised my mistake too late. This wasn¡¯t a conversation I needed.


    ¡°Oh yeah,¡± Peter said in a sympathetic voice that he knew he was good at. He leaned back into his chair, pretending to be bearing the metaphorical weight of trying to survive in the research industry. ¡°It¡¯s a real shitty time to be an academic, let me tell you. Did you hear about what they did to Sewell Uni?¡± Of course I did. ¡°Fuck, man. It makes me sick. Can you imagine that? Dedicating decades of your life to this fine discipline, only to let you and half of your colleagues go because of the lack of funding. And the surviving half merging with the surviving half of the physics faculty too. It¡¯s criminal.¡±


    As I watched him shake his head with Shakespearean prowess, I couldn¡¯t help but realise that perhaps we did have something in common. The academic world had never been kind, but it had never been existentially challenged with the vicious winter that now threatened even the embedded veterans. Not unlike the tourism industry, the pandemic had devastated academia in ways that no one had foreseen. The halt of international students had meant that every universities¡¯ most plentiful source of funding had dried up almost overnight. While countries had begun to timidly test the waters of international travel and some students were returning, the universities were in trauma. Cost cutting was at the forefront of every budgetary policy, and mathematics faculties were seen as little more than necessary cost centres. They can exist on but a drop of water, I imagined the gluttonous board members would declare.


    ¡°But I¡¯m sure you¡¯re safe from the chopping block,¡± Peter continued. I resented that he brought me as a subject into this conversation. ¡°I¡¯ve heard you¡¯ve applied for a few research grants, and I know you have a safe number of papers in review. It¡¯s the ones that don¡¯t who should be worried.¡±


    The conversation continued into faculty gossip, which I couldn¡¯t have cared less about, and so the relief I felt when Peter realised he was late to a seminar was immense. When I returned to my desk, my muscle memory involuntarily made me click the pixels that opened my email inbox. I never understood why the idea of notifications settled into the collective consciousness of humanity without violent resistance. For that reason, I set aside times of the day to check my inbox, and after lunch was one of them. Usually, this would involve me deleting spam or irrelevant emails and responding to students¡¯ enquiries with two-sentence messages. On good days, I would even respond to questions about my publications from other mathematicians or journals.


    Unfortunately, today was not a good day. In fact, the day conspired against me to become a calamitous one. The topmost email in my inbox was from the National Science Foundation. I was initially pleased I had finally heard back after months of waiting, however that was quickly and harshly rectified when I had read the contents of the email. It was to inform me my application for the research grant had been rejected. Worst of all, the reason they gave was laughable. What do you mean ¡®the research did not meet our standards for relevance¡¯? I angrily asked an imaginary old geezer who had no hair left to lose. Why am I penalised for originality? Just because I¡¯m one of the only researchers who¡¯ve tackled this problem doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s worthless!


    What had left me seething wasn¡¯t the rejection itself, but the fact it had taken them over two months to write this rejection letter. That was two months in which I was criminally misled to believe I had a safe research grant baking in the oven. I couldn¡¯t even begin to think about the implications of this rejection, which was surely to reach our head of faculty. In my wrath, I took a moment to calculate the average rate of neuron firing that was logically implied by the length of time they took to produce a rejection decision and letter. It did not look good for them.


    The admittedly silly mathematical exercise proved to be therapeutic, and in amusing myself I felt soothed, even if only a little. For a brief moment I considered sending them these calculations as an example of a ¡°truly relevant¡± research, but I refrained. This proved to be merely a respite, however, as my eyes landed on the next email in my inbox. A rejection letter from the conference I had submitted my manuscript to. With the weight of two back-to-back rejections, I could not escape the implications that it had on my career. For most academics, rejections were simply a part of the job. One had to push on to the next journal or research council to submit their respective paper or research funding application. However, I was in a perfect storm of multiple contexts that conspired to destabilise my life. The fact that times were tough and that the faculty was more stringent than usual when it came to renewing contracts wasn¡¯t enough to imply my livelihood was at risk. But that was compounded by the additional constraint that performance appraisals were just around the corner. And now, I ran the very real risk of not only not having nothing to show for this season, but I had earned the additional honour of incurring two consecutive rejections in a prestigious and expensive institution where I was supposed to be a world-class academic.


    My vision caved in as the colours dimmed in their hue. My heart thumped against my chest, each beat heavier and faster. The only thing I could do was grip the end of my desk as if it was a lifeline, I was a drowning man, and everything else was an antagonistic void threatening to engulf me with its hungry, infinite mouth.


    The moment, like everything else in life, passed indifferently as if it hadn¡¯t even noticed that it stepped on a nondescript insect. It was only afterwards I realised what it was that truly shook me. The rug under my feet had been pulled and my delusions about the stability and control in my life came crashing down into unsalvageable pieces, requiring the purchase of an expensive vacuum cleaner that I¡ªdespite being an early-thirties man¡ªcouldn¡¯t afford. My one-bedroom apartment appeared almost anachronistic with its outdated aesthetics and functionality, but rent wasn¡¯t one for discrimination. And even that was the least of my problems. Losing my position at the university would mean I would have to return home.


    I drifted through the rest of the day in an ethereal haze. My emotions cycled between the seasons of indignance, despondence, dismay and detachment in such fluidity that I wasn¡¯t truly sure what I had been feeling at any given moment. All the while the rational parts of my mind tried to reason out futile plans to revive my prospects that were indistinguishable from fantasy. I was glad I didn¡¯t have any teaching duties for the rest of the day¡ªnot because I had better things to do, but because I was sure the students were paying eighty thousand dollars a year to see more than just a sad man in a crisis.


    By the time I had decided that ruminating on all the variables that had double-crossed me wasn¡¯t an equation worth solving, it was late. The university ran night classes, but it was an hour that from my window¡ªthe one I had been pacing in front of for hours¡ªI saw not a single living soul on the main avenue of the campus. The late summer sun was finally, mercifully beginning to set. No sounds of life could be heard from the hallway, but that didn¡¯t mean there wasn¡¯t anyone around this late. At every hour of the day, there was always a postgraduate student or a junior researcher struggling with something, somewhere in these corners. When I walked past the closed cafe in the courtyard, I was reminded that my last meal had been about eight hours ago. Comfort eating wasn¡¯t something that I did, but I figured if there was anyone who deserved a minute spark of happiness in the material form of a greasy meal they couldn¡¯t afford too often, it was me a thousand times over.


    The burger joint was five minutes in the opposite direction from my apartment, but the stroll was appreciated. The middle-aged man who served me was undoubtedly an immigrant, and not at all the owner of the restaurant. His tired disinterest as I gave him my order was evidence enough of the minimality of the wage he was paid. I couldn¡¯t blame him. If anything, I empathised. My title as a researcher at a renowned university might carry some sense of prestige, but at the end of the day we were all just going through the motions of the same patterns.


    The food arrived at my table after a couple of minutes. God, I don¡¯t even like greasy food, I thought wryly as I bit into the burger. The advertised sordid pleasure of unhealthy comfort eating never came, but I could at least appreciate the mechanical distraction in the repetitive motions of chewing and sipping. It was during this unexpected bout of clarity that my mind drifted to a subject I thought had exited my consciousness already.


    The strange email. The one I had received much earlier in the day. From before my derailment. I chuckled. I must be really desperate if I¡¯m even thinking about this, I thought self-deprecatingly. But really, what did I have to lose?


    A fair amount. There were several hurdles that needed to be overcome in order for the endeavour to be worthwhile. Firstly, it could simply be a scam. One in which I would accept, and they would try to lure me into providing my bank details to syphon the pennies of a poor mathematician. But even if it wasn¡¯t a scam and I ended up publishing with disreputable individuals, then my career as a serious academic would be in jeopardy. But is that risk greater than the risk of not having anything going for me? I rebutted internally as I shoved several chips¡ªfries¡ªinto my mouth.


    Perhaps not. And the research itself was an afterthought. Whatever it was, I could certainly do mathematics, so that wasn¡¯t a variable at all. But even then, it was still just so odd. Receiverist Particle Physics Research Group. Receiverist. What kind of a name is that? I pondered with incredulity. Is this a niche religion? Or is it meant to be taken literally, like researching receivers? Who the fuck researches receivers?


    The more I thought about it, the more peculiar it seemed. I wiped my hand with the napkin and typed ¡°Receiverist¡± into the search engine on my phone. Zero search results. I could feel my right brow jump at the digit. Nothing had no search results. One could type a random sequence of letters into a search engine and something would appear. No search result was surely a violation of some kind of law of physics.


    I quickly finished the rest of my fries and my drink¡ªwhich began to taste foul the more I drank¡ªand paid at the counter. If it were not for the man clearing his throat after I turned around to leave, I would have forgotten to tip. It was dark now, and I walked briskly not out of fear of being shanked but because of my piqued interest in the strange email.


    After getting home, I immediately stationed myself at my desk and opened my inbox on my laptop. Reviving the email from my junk inbox, I resumed searching for clues that might reveal who these people were. This forensic task tickled the same part of my brain that enjoyed maths problems. The term ¡°Receiverist¡± must imply the existence of ¡°Receiverism¡±, I deduced with mild satisfaction, which evaporated as the number zero returned from the new search query. Even searching for the email domain turned up nothing.


    Hours passed by as I obsessively tried to grasp any grain of detail about this ¡°Receiverist¡± group. It was futile. Like a phantom I was aware of purely by the impossibility of its vacuum and nothing more. It was no longer just my life that lingered on the authenticity of their proposition, but also my insatiable desire to find out what there was to find out in the unending negative space.


    My hands felt like they were somebody else¡¯s. They were sticky with sweat and I didn¡¯t know why, until I realised too late that I had already finished writing a response to the email. A part of me was afraid. Something didn¡¯t just feel wrong, but sinister. But it didn¡¯t matter, because the choice had been made. Perhaps it had never even existed.


    With a feather soft click, I felt an unnerving, fatalistic omen that my fate had been sealed.

 Chapter 2

    Since I had replied to the strange email a couple of days ago, silence had been their only response. I was loath to admit I had been waiting anxiously for any sign of life. A starving dog waiting for the feeding hand of a reticent master. This involuntary abjection of myself gave rise to a self-directed frustration.


    This ¡®Receiverist¡¯ business is not worth my attention, I had thought on more than one occasion. So why am I opening my damn email every fifteen minutes?


    My days had become unbearably long, yet utterly unproductive. In the lecture halls, I would absentmindedly give an admittedly dry delivery of the course material. I would sometimes enjoy going on tangents into the history of mathematics, or present a particular argument or result that I thought was beautiful. But as my mind repeatedly oscillated between the anxiety that underscored my future and the eager anticipation of an electronic response, there was not much room left for anything else. In my office, as my anticipations were always rewarded with frustrated disappointment, I would revise my previously rejected manuscript in the hopes that the nth iteration would finally overpower the negativistic gaze of an argumentative reviewer. But it was done half-heartedly. I knew the maths were correct and the theorems were novel, so what more was there to revise? Perhaps I had felt a sense of dejection from the dismissal of my work, and that my so-called revising was merely the twiddling of my thumbs as I tried to stretch the intermediary period that preceded a future rejection. I didn¡¯t think of myself as a defeatist and I certainly didn¡¯t like to. After all, no one in academia could be, for what was academia if not the perseverance of failed research and bitterly forsaken efforts until the breakthrough of a single outlier? Or perhaps we were all defeatists merely acting as if we weren¡¯t. It would have been funny to logically deduce that all academics were therefore closeted masochists, but if there was sordid pleasure derived from having one¡¯s modest hopes of stability crushed, I certainly didn¡¯t feel it.


    And so when the uncertain response did finally arrive, I had expected immense relief. However unlikely it was to solve all my problems, it would at least satisfy some curiosity that squatted in a sizable estate within the finite acres of my mental energy. The effect that the response actually had, however, was antithetical to the extreme. If the strange email had been an annoying curiosity, it was now an existential conflagration that threatened to displace a chunk of some betrodden nation state suffering from a climate catastrophe.


    A box. I had woken up this particular day with the expectation it would be exactly like the previous. A lecture in the morning had necessitated an early alarm on my phone that blared at me to begin yet another day of stagnation and worrying. After completing my morning monotonies, I opened my door to be greeted with the nondescript cuboid in its full glory. It was the perfect symbol of perplexity; whoever had left this outside my door in the early hours of the morning couldn¡¯t possibly be employed by a delivery service, as there was no written information on any of its six surfaces. Nothing but the generic brown of a cardboard box, which only made it seem coy. I peeked my head out of my door. The hallway was empty. I was suspicious of the box¡ªnot necessarily apprehensive, but rather I was somewhat annoyed by its obscurity. The box was about half a metre in length, as if a laptop could fit into it. I nearly fumbled when I picked it up. It was surprisingly light. An apparent contradiction.


    Setting it on my table, the box presented a choice. I could open it to see what was inside, or leave it closed. This might appear like a trivial choice, given that I had the urge to savagely rip it with my bare hands to access whatever hidden world that lay within. Unfortunately, I had a lecture to give. And the time that I had spent appraising the surface of the enigmatic box inched away at the small window I had left before I would be regarded as late. And I couldn¡¯t be late, not when the stakes were this high. But therein lay the conundrum; I could throw my curiosity a tiny bone by taking a peek at the mystical contents of the box. It wasn¡¯t my box. No. It was Schrodinger¡¯s. Within this unassuming box was an overwhelmingly infinite collection of possible outcomes. Unless I observed inside the confines of the brown cardboard walls, it could contain anything I could and could not imagine¡ªas long as it could fit within this moderately sized box. Knowing that I could easily and swiftly collapse its wave function was simply irresistible. Intoxicating. I must open it. However, the contents inside might only lead to more questions. And so with a quick glance at the clock that nagged at me, I set off for the university. The mystery box sat safely on my kitchen counter, waiting¡ªcalling¡ªfor my impatient return.


    The lecture, as expected, was torturous. It was difficult to focus on teaching a subject, even a trivial one, when your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. My body had left my apartment and was perfunctorily defining the concept of an eigenspace, but my mind certainly had not. It stood in front of the kitchen counter, gazing down hypnotically at a physical rendition of a geometric concept. When I returned to my office, I checked my inbox for perhaps the hundredth time that week. There were emails. A stern reminder from the IT administrator to the faculty about not exceeding one¡¯s allocated computing resources. A plea for leniency from a student in consideration of the political instability in their home country. An apologetic institution-wide email that sponsored work visas would be more difficult to obtain due to the shift in government policy. But nothing from the Receiverist Particle Physics Research Group. I knew it in my bones; the box and the email were intertwined. But until I inspected the box properly or received another email from these shadowy figures, I could only speculate. And so I resigned myself to pondering on the contents of the mysterious object as my hands mechanically dug at the pile of unmarked midterm exams.


    As I wrote the umpteenth ¡°F¡± in my oily red pen that could leave no ambiguity in its authoritative calligraphy, my thoughts experienced a sudden paradigm shift. I had continually and fruitlessly contemplated the interior of the mysterious box, but perhaps I was missing the point. The question wasn¡¯t about what, but rather, who. Maybe the box was a bait and I was a prized fish. But who were the fishermen? The people who emailed me? The person¡ªor persons¡ªwho had discreetly left the package outside my door? I felt a shiver as I imagined a human shadow watching me during the day and sneaking outside my apartment at night.


    But even this line of questioning was incomplete. Was I really the prized fish? Or was it something else, and I was merely a part of a larger machination?


    The rest of the day passed through me as though I was but a stubborn pebble in a gentle brook. Time strolled forward at a leisurely pace as my abstracted mind lay outside of it. During lunch, I was yet again at my special table in the courtyard, nibbling away at a sandwich. I didn¡¯t even register what kind of sandwich it was. My eyes stared past the images of refugees on the television and into an imaginary corkboard. It was barren with only a couple of red pins, yet I was convinced there was something in between the spaces. For the sake of keeping up appearances, I stayed in my office until the last grain of the contractually obligated hourglass had fallen. Even as I attempted to revisit my backlog of research ideas, my mind was painfully aware of the lethargic march of the seconds. Contractual obligations had never seemed more pointless. Nothing could be accomplished when the seductive itch of curiosity beckoned.


    As I had entered the front door to my apartment complex, I imagined the feeling was akin to that of a dehydrated man reaching a fabled spring in a desert. But as I reached the corridor on my floor, it occurred to me that a little more waiting would be tolerable if it meant some answers. I stopped at the apartment a couple of doors before mine and knocked. I wasn¡¯t sure if she would be home.


    I had been poised to turn to leave, when a muffled ¡°coming!¡± came from the other side. A couple of beats later, the door opened and revealed a woman dressed in a white T-shirt and grey chequered trousers. She must have returned home only a short time before I had¡ªthe mismatch between the formal bottom and casual top would have been odd in public.


    ¡°Oh, Alex,¡± she greeted with a cheery smile and a nasal voice. She gestured at her attire with an exaggerated embarrassment. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting you at all.¡±


    ¡°Hey Hope,¡± I said in what I intended as whatever the opposite of awkward was. ¡°I was wondering if you could help me out with something? I think¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course! Come right in,¡± Hope interjected with a cordial invitation as she moved aside.


    It hadn¡¯t occurred to me that the exchange with my colleague would be more than a couple of sentences, and so in my flustered state I could only nod and mutter some expression of gratitude as I passed her in the doorway. She gestured for me to sit on her light blue couch before disappearing into her kitchen to retrieve the tea she had been making. This was the first time I had been inside of Hope¡¯s apartment since her arrival at the university nearly a year ago. Compared to mine, it felt more homely. Comfortable. And more photos of family.


    After a minute or so, Hope returned with a tea set and placed it onto the coffee table. She sat on the same couch and began pouring two cups. The couch could fit only two and a half people. The intimacy made me uncomfortable. I wondered if she noticed my subconscious jerk towards my end of the couch when she had sat. After setting the teapot down, Hope angled herself towards me and rested a leg on the couch.


    Were her eyes always green? I wondered.


    ¡°How have you been?¡± Hope asked. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you as often these days.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been good,¡± I responded. The intonation on the last word almost made it sound like a question. ¡°And you?¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Hope rested her elbow on the back of the couch and began playing with the ends of her hair. I wondered if they would still remain blonde in a couple of years. ¡°Not as good, sadly,¡± she said. ¡°Research has been kinda slow. I¡¯ve been stuck on this one problem for weeks. Not a great place to be at this time of the year, huh?¡± She smiled ruefully. ¡°Anyway. What¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°So, uh¡ª¡± It was the first time I had to vocalise my strange situation, and I was only now realising how hard it was to broach the topic without sounding weird. I ran a hand through my messy brown hair. ¡°Did you hear anyone last night?¡±


    Hope tilted her head. ¡°What do you mean ¡®hear anyone¡¯? In your apartment?¡±


    ¡°No, I meant in the corridor,¡± I corrected. ¡°Not necessarily in the night either. It could have been very early this morning too.¡±


    ¡°Hm. Maybe,¡± Hope pondered aloud. ¡°I mean, I hear people walking in and out occasionally at night. Can you be more specific?¡±


    ¡°Well. I received an anonymous box early this morning. And I didn¡¯t see or hear anyone deliver it.¡±


    ¡°An anonymous box?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said simply. It made total sense. ¡°There wasn¡¯t any information on it. You know, the stuff you¡¯d normally find on a parcel.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That sounds weird,¡± Hope said as she quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. ¡°What¡¯s inside it?¡±


    ¡°No idea,¡± I admitted with a shrug. ¡°I haven¡¯t opened it. Not yet.¡±


    ¡°Well I hope it¡¯s not a bomb,¡± Hope joked.


    ¡°Hopefully not,¡± I responded earnestly as I took a sip from the simmering tea. To my disappointment, it had honey. ¡°Or maybe. I really have no idea.¡±


    Hope considered me sincerely for a moment. ¡°No. I don¡¯t think I heard anyone that might have delivered it. And it certainly wasn¡¯t me. My schoolgirl days are over.¡± Her smile returned.


    ¡°Ah. That¡¯s alright. It was a long shot anyway,¡± I said politely, trying not to let slip my disappointment.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a bomb technician, but I can come take a look at it,¡± she offered, before quickly adding, ¡°if you¡¯d like.¡±


    It was then that I realised that perhaps I had made a mistake in seeing Hope. It wasn¡¯t that I received no information from this exchange¡ªI did. The fact that she hadn¡¯t heard anything confirmed that whoever dropped the box in front of my door did so at a suspicious hour and suspiciously didn¡¯t want to draw attention to their suspicious self. No. The mistake was in overstaying my welcome. Yes, she was very welcoming and would perhaps be receptive to my continued presence, but therein lay the problem.


    I had suspected for some time now that Hope fancied me. In a romantic context. One never had definitive proof in these matters unless it was revealed by the other party, but I felt it to be likely. It was a thought that troubled me for various reasons. Of course, I thought she was perfectly pretty in her own way and had an endearing charisma that was atypical for a researcher in a high calibre institution. As rare as an altruistic personality in executive management. But that was neither here nor there. My reasons for not reciprocating Hope¡¯s signals¡ªand, admittedly, for avoiding her recently¡ªweren¡¯t straightforward. One reason, I had rationalised, was because she was a colleague. It could entirely be the case that she desired getting close to me not for my personhood, but for my intellect and status as a researcher. That perhaps she merely wanted to collaborate and share authorship over a publication or two¡ªnevermind the fact that she researched number theory and cryptography while I worked on probability and financial maths¡ª, or that she wanted me to help solve her maths problems to maintain her early career. Some might see this transaction as not wholly unfavourable, but I was not that person. I was principled. I would not be used in that way.


    But that line of thought wasn¡¯t entirely fair to Hope. There was a small possibility that she truly liked the person she saw. That would be truly calamitous. I had been in relationships before. Twice, in fact. I certainly didn¡¯t need a third failure. And neither did Hope, whether she knew it or not. And so for both of our sakes I would valiantly uphold my policy of restraint.


    ¡°Thanks, but I¡¯ll be fine,¡± I said with feigned nonchalance. ¡°But I know where you live if I do need a not-bomb technician.¡± I prayed my attempt at humour was sufficient to cushion my rejection but not enough to lead her on.


    Hope gave her ever-polite smile that I felt almost ashamed to look at. ¡°Of course.¡±


    When the door to Hope¡¯s apartment closed, I sighed in relief. My mind did its best to pivot away from an unreciprocated romance and towards an unreceipted rhombus. Checking that the box was still resting on the kitchen counter was the first thing I did after entering my apartment. No more dallying, I thought with conviction as I reached for my box cutter. With a few slashes of tape, the box unfurled to reveal its hidden contents.


    A file. It had an unassuming cream colour and was bloated with papers. There was only a single phrase printed onto its surface.


    Property of Receiverist Particle Physics Research Group.


    My palms began to sweat as my beating heart pumped adrenaline into my veins. I felt a myriad of feelings and thoughts overwhelm me. It took effort to decouple them. I was right, I thought with some inking of satisfaction. The email and the box were connected. Cause and effect. A part of me must have doubted the tangibility of this mystical Receiverist research group, because I felt a surreal disbelief that threatened vertigo. My mind raced with implications that I pondered and discarded at a dizzying rate. In order to see the meaning behind the facts, I needed to see the insides of the folder.


    My clammy hands opened it with the hope of finding a title that summarised the subject matter of the documents. However, I was perplexed to find that it had no such thing. No title, nor any discernible summaries. The first sentence was ¡°Notations that will be used throughout are defined in the following.¡± It then proceeded to define unconventional mathematical notations for six pages, before launching into several sections, each averaging about a dozen or so pages. As I rummaged through them, I couldn¡¯t find any words that might hint at what the document was actually about or who the sender was. In fact, there were barely any words at all. A typical page had at most a dozen words, which were generally isolated instances of ¡°assume¡±, ¡°define¡±, ¡°such that¡± and so forth. Even for a mathematical document, this was highly unusual. This was not a document written to be understood. It was composed as if the author had explicitly intended for no one else to understand it. This was, in effect, an alien language.


    What few questions that were answered by the opening of the mystery box were quickly replaced and multiplied. Of the material per se, it was difficult to say whether I was disappointed by the lack of clarity, or even more intrigued by the seemingly impenetrable puzzle. Regardless, I wasn¡¯t discouraged.


    If there was one benefit of opening the box, it was that I had something more to do than wait impatiently like a Shakespearean character for their reticent lover. I was now armed with the privilege of going through this mathematical enigma in my office without feeling like my time was misspent. It felt paradoxically freeing to be tied down to these physical documents. My thoughts flowed in a more compartmentalised way. The Receiverist business sat neatly in a physical folder to be opened at my leisure, and I could now spare some thought for the rumble in my stomach.


    I cooked a pasta meal that took only a couple dozen minutes. It was absent of taste, but it made up for this with convenience and inexpensiveness. After washing the dishes, I decided to take a hot shower. The bathroom lights flickered on and off several times as if they belonged to a nightclub, not a cheap apartment. The water had languidly ramped up in temperature before I got in. The last few days had been a feverish mix of insecurity and worry. The uncertainty brought on by the lack of success of my research made me aware of the thin thread my life dangled on. A mild, untimely gust was all it took for it to fall into a chaos I had vowed never to return to. Crawling out of the desolate wasteland once was a miracle. A second time was an impossibility. The only lifeline I had seemed to be an elusive, phantom rope cast out from the unknown. It could be nothing but a false hope, a final torment from a vengeful god looking to write an elaborate irony. But if it was real, it could be my only chance to claw back to a sanctuary. I didn¡¯t have a choice. My salvation sat in a cream folder atop my desk.


    Returning from my shower, I decided to roll up my metaphorical sleeves and properly sift through the documents. To call it painful would have been to describe the sun as hot.


    In most mathematical publications, the introductory section that would describe the notations used throughout the manuscript would be brief and filled with explanations of the choices. Neither of these were true of the Receiverist document. The notation setting stretched across multiple pages, each one a formidable desert made up of grains of symbols that were dehydrated of elucidation. There was no intuition to be found. A warehouse of tools for an unknown purpose without manuals. After spending an hour puzzling over the first page of notations, I decided to skip to the other sections.


    Naturally, given the difficulty of the notations¡ªthe language¡ªit was not at all surprising that the sections were even more indecipherable. With commendable effort I tried to flip back and forth between the first section and the notation introduction whenever the need arose, which turned out to be every second symbol. At some point I felt a headache coming on and had to rest my eyes. There were some concepts I recognised. Probabilities. Randomness. Equilibrium conditions. These were few and far in between, but they lent me hope that perhaps the mathematics wasn¡¯t gibberish and that I could chip away at the monumental task of understanding it.


    It wasn¡¯t until the early hours of the morning that I began to feel that there was real maths behind the veneer of maths that the documents presented. That there were fundamental questions posed, questions that had been posed by mathematicians over the centuries in vastly different contexts. The documents appeared to describe a vague idea of some kind of stochastic dynamical system; a complex structure of numerous evolving parts that at its core was completely random. Such things have of course been widely studied and published on, but nothing like this. They outlined a deeply intricate system that satisfied obscure and counterintuitive properties that I had never seen before. The first section I had invested my night into unravelling seemed to pose the age old question of ¡°can such a thing exist?¡±


    It had only been the beginning. The beginning of the beginning. What little understanding I had gained was but a small peek into the shadows of something much larger. Both in difficulty and significance. This research was important, even though I wasn¡¯t sure why or how. I could feel the weight of its consequence bearing down on my blood. It unnerved me in ways I couldn¡¯t understand. The whole situation felt terribly off. But that was secondary now. I was rapt. There was no direction but forward.


    Whatever small progress had been made was at the expense of my physical and mental self. My body gave out in the early hours of the morning and I fell asleep at my desk. My sleep, however, was not restful. I heard the endless echoes of my mother¡¯s horrified screams. A bloody red permeated the fabric of my dreams.

 Chapter 3

    Most things in life merely require a partial understanding in order to be applicable. The knowledge of how an engine works is not required to drive a car. A complete account of the amalgamated societal factors is not necessary to sense our aggregated trajectory. There is an evolutionary case for this; the lifespan of a human being is finite, hence so is our capacity for comprehension. Our survival relies on our ability to act on incompleteness. But maths is one of the rare exceptions. To understand a mathematical theory, one must understand the individual components that comprise that theory. In order to understand the consequences of an isolated result, one requires the holistic context granted only by a subjugation of the theory. And when a mathematical insight is detached from its rightful context, it is a sin punishable by divinity. The naive engineer without an understanding of harmonics would find their metallic bridge wobbling like a rope before collapsing under him. The programmer ignorant of fluid dynamics would feel the crushing weight of manslaughter as their missile defence system narrowly misses a target. We can therefore conclude that mathematics exists in a divine realm not meant for human understanding. To study it is a profoundly unnatural endeavour that risks the wrath of gods. And there are few who lacked the self-restraint from repeatedly committing this transgression. From this treacherous, unholy heist we discover a pragmatism and beauty that entices us further from some natural order.


    Was this strange research proposition the same? Was it enough to take the incomplete pieces of the puzzle at their face value and act on my best judgement, or would it be impossible to understand the repercussions of my role without grasping at the ghostly context? And what would the research itself ultimately amount to? While I admired the beauty of maths and its potential towards greatness, I couldn¡¯t delude myself into ignoring that most of the discipline was motivated by the seductive pursuit of multiplying one¡¯s money, or the destructive demands of warfare. I wasn¡¯t a romantic. Mathematics would not save us. And so as I slaved away at the maths bestowed upon me by some mysterious power, I couldn¡¯t help but wonder what this research would amount to¡ªand whether I would be struck down by the gods for peeking into their papyrus.


    If there was anything that I could be sure of, it was that the maths was really fucking hard. Each day, I woke up early with a determination that that particular day held the revelation in which I would understand the mathematical payload the Receiverist research group had dropped on me. The only times that compelled me to leave the confines of my unimpressive office were coffee, the washroom, and the occasional lecture. Every second I had in my office was spent on trying to decrypt the impregnable manuscript. Even lunches no longer sufficed as a persuasive reason to take a break. I¡¯d bring barely tolerable snacks or¡ªif my body could no longer endure¡ªsandwiches to my office and occasionally nibbled as I slaved over the document. I was never a social butterfly to begin with, but this obsessive episode over these documents of unintelligibility had certainly turned me into an unapproachable hermit. An apparition haunting the maths faculty, the existence of which no one could be sure of. With certainty, I was the first to arrive and last to leave. My mathematical preoccupations didn¡¯t end when I returned home. Every night, I would do the bare minimum level of chores before resuming my plunge into the sea of unforthcoming symbols. And each night would end in much the same way; defeated. My mind would feel mushy at around an hour past midnight, and I would consummate my inadequacy by collapsing onto my springy bed.


    During the hours of my subconscious, my dreams took on a consistency I hadn¡¯t experienced in years. They were feverish. Upsetting. Images of what I could only describe as total societal collapse. Hostile wastelands ravaged by the brutal reclamation of nature. Violence between peoples whose sides were indistinguishable. Scenes transitioned from one to another without logic, the way dreams often did. And in between the cracks I saw familiar faces. Ones I hadn¡¯t seen in a lifetime.


    If the impasse had lasted a couple of days, then that would have been acceptable. Mathematics was generally difficult even for a seasoned veteran. A slow start to understanding a new problem area was perfectly reasonable. Expected, even. If the stalemate with the documents persisted for a week, then yes, that would be rather frustrating. A barrier to entry for mathematics was in knowing how to learn new maths, and I, a supposed world-class practitioner, should already know all the shortcuts in producing the most efficient route to comprehension.


    Except it had been over two weeks. Two weeks of being unable to make heads or tails of the hellish documents. It was beyond frustrating. I began to doubt my own credentials as a mathematician. There had never been an instance in my entire life where it took me more than a few days to understand a concept. Two bloody weeks was downright unacceptable. I had initially felt a relief that I had a project that might rescue my tenure from fissuring grounds, however dubious the project seemed. Now, my anxious worries returned, compounded by a full assault of crippling inadequacy.


    My awful mood had also bled into my interactions with others. In one instance, I had been lecturing when a student asked a question.


    ¡°Dr Young,¡± the student called out after my abstracted gaze accidentally landed on his raised hand. ¡°Can you give us examples of why the Cayley-Hamilton Theorem is useful?¡±


    This was, in hindsight, a perfectly reasonable question. Applications of abstract results were often not obvious on first acquaintance, especially to those new to the discipline. But in my irritable state, I had interpreted the question in the least charitable lens possible. It sounded snarky to my ears, as if in between the words they had said in the most petulant tone imaginable, ¡°Why are we wasting our time learning this useless result?¡±


    ¡°Of course I can,¡± I summarily responded in a forced nonchalant tone. Not that I would have minded if it betrayed my impatience. ¡°But what would be the point of that? The result is stated as-is. If you understand it, then it only takes a pinch of creativity to see its value. If you don¡¯t see it, then you probably won¡¯t even need it anyway.¡±


    The atmosphere in the class became tense and uncomfortable. I could see that the students were stunned by my answer. Understandably so. It was unusual, even for me. In the heavy silence, I regretted my response. But the damage had been done. I wasn¡¯t sure how to undo the tangible shift in mood¡ªit was as if the temperature in the lecture theatre had suddenly become frosty. Apologising or properly dignifying the initial question wasn¡¯t an option; I didn¡¯t want to appear capricious. The students and I had no choice but to trudge through the fallout. I received no questions in the following lecture. Nor the lecture after that. It occurred to me sometime later that I didn¡¯t remember seeing that particular student since.


    On another occasion, I had ventured out from my office to the staff lounge. To my chagrin, there were a few colleagues having a chat near the coffee machine. It wasn¡¯t so much that I didn¡¯t like my colleagues, but rather in my current mental state I had less than zero interest in idle chit chat.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I muttered as I approached the coffee machine.


    ¡°Oh Alex!¡± Peter exclaimed in his usual boisterous tone. ¡°How are you doing? Haven¡¯t seen you for a while.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I responded tersely as I set my mug and pressed a button. ¡°Just cooped up in the office, is all.¡±


    ¡°Solving a good problem?¡± a fellow colleague asked with a smirk. She was a short woman who had been at the university for nearly a decade now.


    ¡°God, I sure hope so,¡± I responded nonchalantly. ¡°Either that or I¡¯m wasting precious time.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I know exactly what you mean,¡± Peter said with a sigh. ¡°A lot¡¯s riding on it, huh? I¡¯ve been there.¡±


    Perhaps it had been the way he said it, or the subject matter itself, but there was an insuppressible annoyance bubbling in my chest. I turned to him and looked him in the eye. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Peter must have sensed the change in my demeanour from being not really there to suddenly being very present. He took an awkward sip from his mug. ¡°Oh you know. I heard about what happened to your grant application. I get it.¡± He shrugged, as if it was no big deal. ¡°Times are tough. We all gotta do a bit of crunching when we need to.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to pretend to ¡®get me¡¯,¡± I said with barely contained intensity. I could see Peter¡¯s lip quiver. ¡°Times are shit. Sure. But I¡¯m the one working fifteen-hour days with no weekends. Not you.¡±


    The room went dead still. Peter¡¯s jaw hung agape. In defiance of not having been the one to cause the awkwardness¡ªit was Peter, surely¡ªI strolled to the fridge and back to add milk. I didn¡¯t even like milk in my coffee. Punctuating with a ¡°good day,¡± I walked with my mug towards the door. That was when I realised Hope had seen the entire exchange as she stood at the doorway with a shocked look in her eyes. I nodded at her and muttered an ¡°excuse me¡± as I walked passed.


    I wasn¡¯t sure why, but it only occurred to me I was being unpleasant after seeing the expression on Hope¡¯s face. Entering the sanctity of my office, I finally decided that this couldn¡¯t go on any longer. Not only was no real progress being made, but it was affecting me. Transforming me into someone I didn¡¯t want to be. And so I resolved to make contact with the shadowy people who had set me up in the first place. In my office, I spent half an hour composing an email. It had gone through several revisions, but I wanted to ensure the message carried the greatest likelihood of receiving a response. The final iteration contained my struggles with the convoluted mess of a manuscript they sent me, my dissatisfaction with their lack of communication and my ultimatum that if I couldn¡¯t meet them, then I would dismiss the research entirely.


    After pressing ¡°send¡±, there was a slight but unmistakable reprieve. Progress in the research now depended on them to respond, not on me to grapple with the seemingly impossible. Not that it meant I wouldn¡¯t of course. But the thought was refreshing.


    Truth be told, I wasn¡¯t actually anticipating a response from them any time soon, if at all. Perhaps I had imagined that they would take a couple of weeks before dignifying me with a ¡°no¡±. And so when not only had I received a response, but a call later that same day, I was flabbergasted.


    ¡°Hello?¡± My voice was breathless as the phone was held up to my face. I had just finished taking a shower in my apartment when I heard the muted tones through my bathroom door. It is a universal law that phone calls never come at a convenient time.


    There was a pause. My thumb hovered over the red button when a voice came through the speaker. ¡°Good evening, Dr Young. Can I call you Alex?¡±


    It was a woman. Her voice was smooth but flat in a way that made her sound naturally indifferent. It lay somewhere the middle of the spectrum of women¡¯s pitches I had encountered in my life.


    ¡°Sure. Who¡¯s this?¡± I asked with a tone that conveyed my expectation of the caller being someone from the university or a conference.


    ¡°Irene Law. I work with the Receiverist Particle Physics Research Group.¡±


    My thoughts grinded to a halt. Hearing that phrase uttered from the voice of another person invoked a surreal sensation, not unlike that of a magician reciting one¡¯s social security number. The accent sounded uncommon. I couldn¡¯t place it. The way she pronounced the second R in ¡°Receiverist¡± was rhotic in the North American manner, yet her inflections sounded English or Australian. ¡°Oh. Nice to meet you Irene. I wasn¡¯t sure I¡¯d ever hear from one of you.¡±


    ¡°Well today¡¯s your lucky day,¡± she said with lukewarm amusement. ¡°Would you be available to meet tomorrow?¡±


    Now it appeared to be moving too fast. ¡°Tomorrow? Yeah. Sure.¡±


    ¡°Say, 3pm at Smith¡¯s Cafe?¡±


    ¡°Let me just check if I have a lecture on¡ª¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t,¡± Irene said dispassionately, as if that wasn¡¯t unsettling at all.


    I hesitated. ¡°You¡¯re right. Okay. Can I ask a question right now?¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°That¡¯ll depend on the question.¡±


    ¡°How much of it is real? The maths. The Receiverist stuff. You.¡± This question was perhaps too on the nose, and if I had more tact I would have waited to ask this in person where Irene couldn¡¯t change her mind about meeting me. But I was impatient. Bothered.


    ¡°All of it,¡± Irene responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. I could imagine her shrugging as she said it. She ended the call on her end.


    It was somewhat of a pointless exercise to ask the suspect whether they were lying or not. The few cases in which a deceiver would admit the deception without being cornered were astronomically sparse. But there was information gained. Irene had sounded convincing. Hence, it was either the case that she believed in the answer she gave, or she was an excellent liar.


    Even a few hours ago, the idea of meeting someone associated with the Receiverist research group was inconceivable. This outcome was astonishing. Returning to my desk, I opened my laptop and began querying for ¡°Irene Law¡± in the search engine. There were thousands of hits, ranging from social media accounts of various people sharing the same name, to encyclopaedia entries of semi-famous individuals I had never heard of. While I couldn¡¯t rule out with complete certainty that these people weren¡¯t the same woman I spoke with minutes ago, they didn¡¯t quite fit the profile generated in my mind. A terse, enigmatic woman whose extent of knowledge about me seemed uncannily deeper than would be polite. Querying for her name along with the keyword ¡°Receiverist¡± led to no results, which was expected. It appeared that the only thing I could be sure about was how little there was to be sure about. It was almost as if anything that the Receiverist touched would be infected by obscurity. Perhaps I too would eventually vanish. The thought was meant to be amusing, not unsettling.


    Smith¡¯s Cafe was not a particularly notable establishment. The coffee wasn¡¯t spectacular. The menu items were consistently priced at least fifty percent higher than what they were worth. The interior was quaint, for better or worse. It lacked the hipster air that the vast majority of inner city cafes abided by. I had only visited the place once, but an impression had been burned into my frontal lobe. The texture of the walls. The shape of the tables. The material of the seats. They all reminded me of the cafes I had been to on the outskirts of London. But the bald, middle-aged man who had served me last year had spoken in pure and plain American. Perhaps the sole redeeming quality of the grounds was that it was situated near the university. Unfortunately, it was closer to the law faculty on the other end of the campus from mine, so the few students who were found in the cafe at any given moment were typically studying corporate law rather than the relationship between copula and probability laws.


    Walking to the cafe had felt like the culmination of my day¡¯s tiresome labour in waiting impatiently. By lunch time, I had berated myself for not having the foresight to negotiate an earlier meet up time that would have rescued me from spending my waking hours speculating about the meeting. Coffee was no longer a feasible distraction. The staff lounge was, for all intents and purposes, closed off to me like the Garden of Eden. This exile was self-imposed. Thinking back to my outburst the other day invoked shame and embarrassment. Of course, I still thought Peter was a loud conceited prick, regardless of how he liked to pretend to be just a good fellow. But the unnecessary escalation was admittedly my fault. I should have just let it go, no matter what perceived slight I had felt. Whenever my mind wandered back to the event, it was always the image of Hope¡¯s expression that punctuated my misconduct. Being outside of my office for the first time that day had felt nothing short of leaving a scorching sauna.


    As I approached the cafe, my eyes drew towards the couple of tables outside. Only one table had a single occupant. A woman. A dark floppy hat rested on top of brunette, shoulder-length hair that was tied back into a clean ponytail. She wore a long, sleeved navy dress that revealed hardly any of her medium skin. Perhaps it was that the dress was rougher than it appeared, but it was devoid of creases. A little too perfect. Her arms folded in front of her, with gloved hands resting on her arms. Despite wearing sunglasses, the subject of her gaze was obvious. Her expression could have been bored or dryly amused. It was pointless to look any further into the cafe.


    ¡°Miss Law?¡± I probed on approach.


    ¡°Irene, yes,¡± she answered in the same flat tone I had heard the previous night. She nodded lightly to the unoccupied chair. ¡°Please. Take a seat.¡±


    As I sat down, I tried to think of something to say. ¡°So.¡±


    Irene dignified my monosyllabic utterance with the quirk of an eyebrow.


    ¡°You¡¯re with the Receiverist research group?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°That¡¯s right. I help out from time to time.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re a physicist?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Irene said as she lifted the teacup and took a sip.


    ¡°A mathematician, then?¡±


    Irene chuckled. ¡°Definitely not.¡±


    I began to feel exasperation. ¡°Sorry, but can you give straightforward answers? I really don¡¯t want to be playing twenty questions all day here.¡±


    ¡°I told you. I just help out from time to time.¡±


    Before I could retort, a waitress gently cleared her throat. ¡°Have you thought of what you¡¯d like yet?¡±


    Irene gestured towards the waitress with an almost imperceptible head tilt, and without a thought my gaze followed. ¡°A flat white, thanks.¡± The waitress assured that the beverage would arrive shortly, before returning to the cafe.


    I leaned back into my mildly uncomfortable chair. ¡°A helper, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Irene responded. I wondered if she took pleasure in being nebulous. ¡°A very helpful one.¡±


    ¡°Okay. What is it that you help the research group with?¡±


    ¡°Being here, for one,¡± Irene said. ¡°When the occasion arises, I help facilitate connections with researchers who may contribute to their projects.¡±


    ¡°Like me.¡±


    ¡°Like you,¡± Irene agreed.


    ¡°Frankly, I¡¯m confused,¡± I said. ¡°Why can¡¯t I simply talk to the researchers myself? I mean, you haven¡¯t exactly done the greatest job in communicating with me. No offence.¡±


    ¡°None taken,¡± Irene shrugged. ¡°Communication is not easy for my associates. Simply put, they can¡¯t communicate with you directly.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°The research they do is sensitive. There¡¯s an incentive to only use channels like myself to communicate with outside collaborators. And they can¡¯t communicate with you, but that¡¯s beside the point,¡± Irene smirked. ¡°And anyway, you say that I haven¡¯t done the greatest job, yet you have the research. And I know you¡¯re working on it. What more is there for me to do?¡±


    ¡°Well, for starters¡ª¡± I started before the waitress returned with my flat white.


    ¡°Enjoy,¡± the waitress said with a practised smile before leaving us once again.


    ¡°For starters, the least you could do is tell me about the research. Just a little context,¡± I said. It took effort to avoid sounding whiny and I wasn¡¯t sure I succeeded. ¡°I¡¯m going in blind here. I¡¯m not even sure if I can read this stuff.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not something I can help you with,¡± Irene said. There was a hint of annoyance teetering at the edges of her flat tone. ¡°The only thing I can tell you is that the problem is around a particle model that captures some fundamental dynamics of some sort. But I¡¯m not an academic.¡± She paused for a moment. ¡°And I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t really need the context. I¡¯m not a physicist, but neither are you. You¡¯re a mathematician. And a good one, apparently. Everything you need to solve the problem is already there.¡±


    I had two whole weeks of evidence that justified my dissatisfaction with her answer. I took a sip from my flat white, hoping that the stretching of the silence bothered her as much as it bothered me. It didn¡¯t appear to. Irene was like a rock. Apparently sturdier than what I was made of. I sighed, and asked in a resigned voice, ¡°Why are you even here?¡±


    ¡°Because you asked me to,¡± Irene shrugged. ¡°It seemed like that was what you really wanted. To see me in the flesh. A face to put the research group to. Am I wrong?¡±


    Her question was a challenge. An invitation to contradict her. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right. Yes. But only partially,¡± I responded. ¡°I was hoping you could offer some suggestions on the material, but you admitted you can¡¯t. Then, can you at least tell me more about this Receiverist research group? I¡¯m not convinced at all that they exist.¡±


    Irene smiled knowingly as she sipped her tea. ¡°You are many things, Alex. But what surprises me the most is that you¡¯re a terrible liar.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± I tried to sound offended. I am offended, I thought with indignance.


    ¡°You¡¯re already convinced that the research group exists. You¡¯ve seen the maths. Difficult, sure, but I¡¯m sure you see traces of something there. Something great. It¡¯s why you¡¯re here, instead of in your office scrambling to find something new to research.¡±


    It was difficult to meet her gaze. ¡°Why do you presume to know so much about me?¡±


    ¡°Call it instinct,¡± Irene said. ¡°Comes with the profession.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure I believed her.


    ¡°I was told there was a grant involved. It was why I accepted the research in the first place. Can you prove it¡¯s real?¡±


    Irene smiled. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a manilla folder and handed it to me. I opened it. A single page sat inside. It was a formal request to include me as a recipient of the research grant from the National Science Foundation. There were no signs of forgery; I had received one previously for my involvement in a financial mathematics project. It was perfect down to every detail. Even the tacky border I hated.


    ¡°All that¡¯s left is for you to sign it.¡± Irene passed me a heavy fountain pen.


    ¡°But I don¡¯t even know who I¡¯m signing this with,¡± I said. ¡°Why is it that I can¡¯t find any information about the research group anywhere? Not even anything about ¡®Receiverist¡¯ comes up.¡±


    Irene sighed. She didn¡¯t seem like someone who sighed as a habit. ¡°Look,¡± she started wearily, ¡°we just need someone to do the research. You¡¯re promising, but I¡¯m sure we can find someone else if we have to.¡±


    Even before she finished her sentence, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. There was a tangible, falling sensation¡ªI couldn¡¯t tell if something was falling away from me or I was falling away from it. ¡°I¡¯ll sign it,¡± I said, praying that I didn¡¯t sound as desperate as I felt.


    Irene smiled subtly. Almost condescendingly mild, as if making the statement that she could boast about her exploitation, but choosing¡ªwith the goodness of her heart and the self-restraint of a saint¡ªnot to. ¡°Fantastic,¡± she said. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll see each other around, Alex.¡±


    There was a coyness undercutting the seemingly casual inflection in the pronunciation of my name. I didn¡¯t know what it meant. Before I could collect myself, Irene had already stood and began walking away. She was tall. Perhaps even slightly taller than I. She walked with a definitiveness that could be graceful. Or military. As I watched Irene¡¯s retreating back, my only thought was, What did I just sign away?


    My walk back to my office was at a meandering pace. It felt not unlike a walk of shame, like some unrighteous punishment administered by a cruel village chieftain. I hadn¡¯t gained any clues to unlocking the guarded secrets behind the mathematical symbols I had puzzled over for so many nights. Nor any information on the so-called Receiverist group. Irene was tangible. Corporeal. But she was a mystery within a mystery. The grant appeared to be real, and I had signed it, but it felt at best a condescending consolation prize, and at worst an irrevocable deal with the devil. It was as if for every step I took, time reverses and I find myself ever further from whatever truth I sought.


    Sitting at my desk while struggling to parse the same permutations of symbols over and over, I had the strange sensation that my office no longer sufficed. It felt disappointing. Inappropriate. That this painfully mediocre room should bear the guilt of my inability to make meaningful progress¡ªperhaps in more ways than one. But of course, it wasn¡¯t its fault. If anything, I should be grateful that it provided a convenient shelter from my colleagues who surely anticipated my disappearance.


    It was late into the evening when I had decided it was time to return to my apartment. As much as I¡¯d rather have gone directly home, I had no choice but to purchase groceries. Lest I fill my empty stomach with the murky tap water¡ªI would have reported it to the landlord if I hadn¡¯t been so sure that he would insist it was my responsibility to fix it with money I couldn¡¯t spare. My local convenience store was nearby, but in protest of their prices I always venture out much further to the supermarket. It was at an hour in which the baked goods were old and the vegetables were stale, but this was welcome; I could get functionally the same goods for a discounted price. Quality was a foreign concept to me. Only sufficiency mattered. As I reached the checkout, there was a short queue. The hanging television¡ªperhaps an investment by management to justify against a wage increase¡ªwas more noise than entertainment as it was ignored by everyone. Almost everyone. Despite regions of severe flooding in the north, Rural farmers in the south have experienced their sixth consecutive quarter of drought, forcing some to sell their land to investors betting on increasing property prices in the long term.


    It was near midnight at my desk when I suddenly realised something that took me away from the documents. Something that shook me to my core. Since meeting Irene that afternoon, there was an itch at the back of my mind I was barely cognizant of. It lingered. Like an amorphous shadow just outside of my recognition. And as it hit me, I felt a petrifying terror.


    When I had first arrived at Miller university nearly a year and a half ago, the head of faculty¡ªa white-haired man who moved and spoke at the same pace¡ªhad met me personally to introduce me to the institution. As we walked, he would alternate between asking about my research and lecturing on the historical prestige of the great university. After the half-hour it took for him to dazzle me with the fancier architecture, he finally led me to the building that I would be stationed in. The details were hazy, half-forgotten, but there was a single oddity that stood out in the moment, before vanishing from my mind in the next as our conversation continued. As we passed the cafe in the courtyard, there was a woman who was sitting at a table in a corner away from the others. She wore a navy dress that was oddly creaseless. Through her sunglasses, it was obvious who she was looking at. It was as if she had been waiting for me. Expecting me.

 Chapter 4

    Paranoia was not something I was prone to. Rationality dictates that most things in life don''t revolve around myself. It was something I accepted; the universe was an unpredictable, meaningless sea of chaos. Yes, that belief brought me some semblance of solace, but it nevertheless seemed reasonable. If there appeared to be patterns that defied our notions of plausibility, those must be merely illusions. Misleading silhouettes projected by the narrow spotlight of our constrained perception. But when extremely unlikely events happen, where the probabilities are astronomically miniscule to the scale of observing quarks as containing universes, the line which segregates the impossible from the possible becomes hazy. Arbitrary. Any speculation about the unlikeliness of the event at hand was missing the point. It was about your belief.


    The chances of seeing the same woman across two vast points in time was not at all inordinary. But for her to be wearing the same clothes and regarding me with that same inscrutable expression, it would have only been appropriate if the distance between the points in time were measured in hours, not years. And in the context of everything else that had been so unnerving and odd¡ªthe suspicious generosity that happened upon me at the perfect time, the impossible opaqueness of this group of individuals, the research itself¡ªthere was something just impossible about the situation. Something sinister. I could no longer dismiss the oddities with the belief that there were reasonable, harmless explanations for them. This naive belief that was no longer consistent with the observations needed to be discarded as if it was dangerous. Because it was dangerous. Everything appeared to line up too perfectly. Like seeing a single beacon of light in deep waters where no sunlight could possibly reach. If I heedlessly advance any further into the machinations that felt uniquely tailored to me, then I risk being tethered to whatever that awaited me at the end of the trail. It could be salvation. Or a slaughterhouse. This amorphous pattern was unmistakable. I couldn¡¯t see the shape, but I could feel its gravity. It was slowly pulling me in.


    The following day after my meeting with Irene at Smith¡¯s Cafe, there had been a change. It felt as if the world had been taken apart piece by piece and replaced by identical looking yet sinisterly different pieces while I had slept. Every little thing was worthy of suspicion. Even the simple act of leaving my apartment became tumultuous.


    ¡°Hey, how are you?¡±


    The gruff voice from behind made me jump. My heart pounded frantically in my chest.


    ¡°Oh! Sorry son, I didn¡¯t mean to scare you there,¡± my neighbour reassured with a serving of laughter. He was a much older fellow who looked and sounded like a working class man past his prime. A worn tool that belonged in an unused cabinet at the back of a shed.


    ¡°No it¡¯s alright,¡± I said in a croaky voice¡ªthe aftermath of adrenaline. ¡°I didn¡¯t see you.¡±


    ¡°I could say the same, son,¡± the neighbour said. ¡°I barely see you nowadays. I mean, that¡¯s not to say that I saw much of you before. The college¡¯s working you hard, eh? What¡¯s got you so busy?¡±


    Why would he care? I wondered. Nothing I say will make sense to him. Unless he knows much more than I¡¯m aware of. Unless¡ª


    ¡°Sorry, I got to go,¡± I blurted out. ¡°I¡¯m late for something.¡±


    Before I turned, I saw a bemused expression on my neighbour¡¯s face. ¡°Alright, then. Don¡¯t let the old man keep you.¡±


    As I briskly escaped my apartment, my mind tried to pass judgement on the neighbour who wore the facade of a working class everyman. I knew nothing about him. His eagerness to make small talk had always felt unnecessary yet harmless, but now it was suspect. Was he always this nosy? I asked myself, trying and failing to recall our handful of brief and unimportant conversations. How much of the quintessential working class image was real? A fitter and turner, I remembered him mentioning at some point. Such a persona would certainly be an effective deception. I reminded myself that he had been living here before I had, and that fact alone appeared incongruent with the suggestion that he was somehow a shadowy agent. Then again, Irene seemed to have been around before I had. So no conclusion could be reached. The lingering suspicion remained, like a pervasive malodour that engulfed everything in an acerbic tinge.


    Reaching my office, I felt an insatiable compulsion. It overpowered whatever reservations I might have had about needing to act and feel sane. No drawer was exempt from scrutiny. The undersides of my desk and chair were checked. The furniture was shifted to reveal its dusty outlines on the floor. I ensured it. I had even poked out my head out the window to look along the exterior. Nothing peculiar turned up. I wasn¡¯t sure what I was looking for. Perhaps a bug or easy to miss lens that would have justified this unshakeable feeling of being watched I had felt crescendoing over the weeks. The only bug I found was a sizable cockroach behind my cabinet, which I summarily scooped with some student¡¯s assignment and dropped it out of my window¡ªit was probably capable of rudimentary flight. This, however, did not dispel my discomfort. The only thing I knew for certain was that my apartment was going to turn inside out when I returned. Like an itch where the more you scratch, the worse it gets.


    My compulsive preoccupations had unfortunately made me rather late to my morning lecture. So late, in fact, that only a small fraction of students were still waiting when I got there. The remaining had likely gotten the impression that I wasn¡¯t going to come at all. I felt a little slighted. Do those students really think I¡¯m that tardy? I thought indignantly. On the bright side, this natural selection of the cohort implied that the remaining students must have been the most dedicated. And so with a shrug, I proceeded to deliver what I could in the remaining time. It felt strange to see the mildly concerned looks a few of the students wore. They had assumed that I was late due to some personal misfortune. I supposed my face must have been flushed in my haste to make it to the lecture theatre. Of course, I didn¡¯t explain the real reason for my lateness. They wouldn¡¯t understand.


    The rest of my day was spent in my office. I continued my crusade against the mathematical fortification from the Receiverist group. To say that I didn¡¯t trust the shadowy group would be an understatement. I had begun to feel the inkling of peril in our murky association. However, my choice wasn¡¯t in whether I should conduct the research or not. Of course I would. I was determined to find out whatever beauty or danger lay in the impenetrable depths. I wanted to understand why this mysterious group lusted for it, so I could in the same way. No. My real choice was in whether I would cooperate with them. Whether I would share whatever forbidden knowledge I discover. That was the only power I held over them.


    That was, however, not to say I had made any progress. It would be more valid to say I had lost progress. The more time I spent on the mathematical document, the less I was sure of. Epiphanies and working theories that arose in my mind towards comprehension would inevitably prove to be momentary; they were always contradicted by a decisive placement of a symbol on a page somewhere. Early in my investigations, I was certain that there was a probabilistic element to the problem. Nondeterministic. However, a couple of days after meeting Irene, I had realised I wasn¡¯t entirely correct. Yes, there appeared to be uncertainty. But attempting to apply standard probability theory had only led to nonsense. It dawned on me that maybe the research demanded a probability theory, but not the probability theory. An entirely new account of uncertainty was perhaps necessitated. Hence, my task seemed to have expanded by many factors as conjuring a completely new and unorthodox foundation of probability was on my plate. This was bitterly demotivating. I would need to unlearn the familiar field that I had always considered myself to be an expert in. Would such an audacious, blasphemous effort even be publishable?


    An hour or two had been spent rummaging through my apartment for clues of a deep and invasive conspiracy after I returned home that night. Once again, I found nothing. This was unsurprising. What kind of a conspiracy would it be if it was that easy to verify? After all, this was the same group of people who were able to elude the omniscience of search engines¡ªthe summation of all human knowledge. My apartment had become a pigsty by the end. It was a scene that would have surely made my mother angry. Or entertained my brother. I swiftly directed my focus towards unrummaging the place.


    My colleagues seemed to avoid me as much as I avoided them. The few times a day in which I left my office, I could hear their conversations dip in volume as they recognised me in the hallways of the faculty. Their gaze on the back of my head felt heavy¡ªI wondered if they were accusing, pitiful or intentful. It had occurred to me that the way in which I had landed in the palms of the Receiverist group was almost elegant. I would have dismissed the initial email I had received if it wasn¡¯t for its perfect alignment with the sudden jeopardy to my career. Perhaps my academic downfall had been orchestrated. That someone had their sights set on me for years, and had been slowly and deliberately manipulating the cogs in a complex system to ensure I would respond in a precise way at a precise time. Even I had to admit that seemed far-fetched, but it didn¡¯t make me any less wary of the other inhabitants of the faculty. Peter and I had briefly locked eyes as we walked past each other in the hallway. I slightly nodded towards him in acknowledgement and he returned the gesture in the same way. It was painfully awkward. But I realised in the brief moment that, whereas I had once been so certain of the kind of man he was, I no longer carried that confidence. I wasn¡¯t sure of the contents behind those eyes. It was no longer something I could assume of anyone else, either. And so contrary to what I had hoped, it seemed that meeting Irene had only multiplied my problems.


    The cold evening breeze whistled as it scraped against my window like a dog with an itch. It was the first time since working at this institution that the building was this desolate. It was later than usual. I had thought that I whiffed the scent of an approach that would make sense of the variables. When one feels they are close to a breakthrough, it would be unconscionable to abandon their efforts for the sake of adhering to the mythical nine-to-five. Genuine inspiration is elusive. Spontaneous. Like a slippery eel, one can lose it just as swiftly as it comes. And so I had an obligation to stay in the office for as long as necessary until this inspiration played out. Unfortunately, it was a dud. After a few hours of grasping at the last ethers of the fading, erroneous inspiration, I felt a deep disappointment that seemed to have entrenched in my life over the last few weeks. There were moments in which I had sat at my chair, staring into the dusty cream-coloured wall in defeat. The wall was once white. And I was once self-assured.


    The hallway was dead silent. No sounds of pacing behind closed doors. No clinking of teaspoons in ceramic mugs from the staff kitchen. It was unnerving. As I waited for the elevator, I turned back towards the direction of my office. I froze. A shadow. The shape of a man. I could barely make out the outlines in the darkness, much less the details. The figure appeared to be perfectly still, facing towards myself. As if daring me to move.


    The elevator dinged, signalling its arrival. With uncoordinated, frantic movements, I threw myself into the elevator and mashed the close door button. In those few seconds, I waited with distilled fear for the figure to appear from the side of the door. And with relief, the door closed without the drama I had anticipated. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my palm. It wasn¡¯t until a dozen seconds later that I realised with panic that the elevator wasn¡¯t moving¡ªI hadn¡¯t pressed my destination. Rectifying that error, I shortly found myself at the bottom floor and briskly exited the building.


    The pilgrimage back to my apartment had felt dangerous. I walked hurriedly with large paces and even larger suspicions of the other pedestrians. About a few blocks from my apartment, I saw a bald man in front of me, walking in my direction. Not wanting to draw attention, I initially had set on averting my gaze. As the man walked past a streetlight, it seemed he was staring at me. With wide, intimating eyes that never left mine as our distance shrinked. Naturally, I walked on the right side of the footpath to allow for others to walk in my opposite direction. Rather than taking my implicit invitation to walk past me, the man walked right up to me.


    ¡°Get out of my way,¡± he demanded with an oddly harsh yet reedy voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m not in your¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get out of my fucking way.¡±


    He began kicking at my feet. He seemed unhinged and I wasn¡¯t sure how he would respond to anything I might say or do. Without knowing what else to do, I cowardly walked even further to my side. It was only after that he walked past me and left me alone. I was rattled, but without dallying further I continued. I had checked over my shoulder multiple times to make sure he wasn¡¯t following. A minute or so later, I reached my apartment.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    I wasn¡¯t sure what any of it meant. The shadow man in the office could have been merely a trick of the light. My¡ªundoubtedly overworked¡ªneurons trying to identify patterns that weren¡¯t there, much like what I was doing with the maths. The aggressive man that had bothered me on the pavement without provocation might have been just another unhinged member of society that didn¡¯t adhere to any reason, much less conspiracies. But I couldn¡¯t help but think that there was more to it. Was my mind conjuring up paranoid nothings, or was it trying to dismiss signs of something deeper in a desperate attempt to reach the familiar, comforting belief that the world was merely chaotic and random and devoid of frightening orchestrations?


    The very next day, I experienced an unwelcome coincidence. After the events of the previous night, I had resolved to leave my office much earlier. The broad daylight would dispel shadows and discourage delinquents. Doing so would risk awkward encounters with other colleagues, but that was much preferable to being in a genuinely threatening situation. And so I left my office at a little past six, when the summer sun simultaneously scorched and watched over me. As I crossed the intersection that formally distinguished between the university grounds from the general public, I saw a woman approaching the intersection perpendicularly from my direction. She wore a navy dress, a dark floppy hat on one end and black boots on the other. The expression that regarded me behind the opaque sunglasses was all too familiar.


    ¡°You,¡± I said on approach. She didn¡¯t deserve a greeting, but disappointingly my voice came out weaker than I liked. It didn¡¯t sound as accusing as I had hoped.


    ¡°Me,¡± Irene said dryly.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I asked warily.


    Irene tilted her head. ¡°That¡¯s an interesting question. I¡¯m enjoying the sun.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re enjoying the sun?¡± I parroted in disbelief.


    ¡°Sure. Or I can tell you that I¡¯m walking somewhere. Or any number of responses that won¡¯t satisfy you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re good at that,¡± I said as I shook my head. ¡°Being really unsatisfying.¡±


    ¡°I could be satisfying,¡± Irene said as she quirked an eyebrow in amusement. There was the slightest smirk on her lips. ¡°But that¡¯s neither here nor there. So tell me. How are you?¡±


    ¡°How am I?¡± I asked in puzzlement. ¡°Good. Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t really believe that, do you?¡± Irene asked in faux concern.


    Perhaps this is it, I thought. Maybe I can bait her into admitting something. ¡°How would you know?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the expression on your face. Even before you noticed me, you were frowning. You were looking behind you every few seconds. You have eyebags the size of walnuts. You look anything but ¡®good¡¯.¡±


    At the mention of my eyebags, my hand had instinctively jerked upwards to check before I willed it down. Irene¡¯s gaze flicked down for a moment. I imagined there was a self-satisfied glint in her eyes. My appearance wasn¡¯t something I normally felt insecure about, yet her words gave me the compulsion to look for the nearest reflective surface. I was reluctantly beginning to believe that perhaps there was no winning with her. This woman was just as impenetrable as the mathematical research.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I said petulantly. ¡°I¡¯m not so good. But you¡¯re not exactly helping with how unforthcoming you are. Why can¡¯t you just tell me the truth about what exactly it is I¡¯m doing? Or who you people really are? I don¡¯t trust you. I don¡¯t feel safe around you.¡±


    Irene looked thoughtfully. ¡°I¡¯m sorry you feel that way,¡± she said clinically, without an ounce of pity. No you¡¯re not, I retorted internally. ¡°But I¡¯m not the only person you don¡¯t feel safe around, am I? You seem pretty jittery around people in general.¡±


    ¡°Why do you keep avoiding my damn questions?¡± I said indignantly. ¡°You¡¯re always deflecting!¡±


    Irene signed¡ªnot in annoyance, but almost as if in agreement. ¡°I won¡¯t deny that I am. But you know why. I already told you. I simply can¡¯t give you any details. It¡¯s a condition of the research. Whatever danger you seem to feel is all in your head.¡±


    Yeah, right, I thought sardonically. Because why wouldn¡¯t you tell me that.


    ¡°After all, we don¡¯t need to threaten you to do the research,¡± she continued. ¡°You¡¯ll do that all on your own. Because that¡¯s the kind of person you are, Alex. And I suppose it¡¯s why you were determined for it.¡±


    ¡°You say that,¡± I responded with exasperation in my voice, ¡°yet this shit is honestly beyond me. I have half a mind to just tear it all up and move on with my life.¡±


    Irene paused for a moment. I wondered whether it was because she needed to reflect on what I said, or because she thought I did. ¡°No you won¡¯t,¡± she said almost musically. ¡°Because the research means something to you. More than just your career.¡±


    Before I could challenge her on what that meant, she continued in a contemplative inflection, as if she was thinking aloud. ¡°Although, I wonder if the problem is this.¡± Irene waved lazily to nothing in particular. ¡°Everything here is so pitiful. Maybe a change of scenery will do you some good. A sanctuary away from all this.¡±


    ¡°You mean like the countryside?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Irene responded with a shrug.


    ¡°I hate the countryside,¡± I said earnestly. I had the displeasure of being raised in it.


    ¡°Well, this has been interesting. But I¡¯m afraid I need to be on my way. I have more people to intimidate before I call it a day,¡± Irene joked wryly. Or at least I hoped she did.


    In the twilight moment, I blurted out, ¡°Will you ever tell me anything that will actually be helpful?¡±


    Irene regarded me like I had asked a funny question. ¡°I hope so,¡± she answered with a curious head tilt, before walking away.


    As I resumed my journey back to the apartment, I couldn¡¯t help but dwell on Irene¡¯s words.


    We don¡¯t need to threaten you.


    Does that mean they can? I wondered with a shudder.


    And I suppose that¡¯s why you were determined for it.


    Who determined me for what? I asked, before fantasising, I would love to give them a piece of my mind.


    Returning home, I took a hot shower long enough to turn my fingertips into prunes. My shower door groaned and clanked loudly as I slid it open to leave the confined cubicle. Dinner was a straightforward affair. The leftover chicken from the previous night was used in a chicken soup that took only a dozen minutes to cook and half that long to eat. Of course, all of that had been done absentmindedly. Muscles performing automated duties. My mind, however, chewed through my encounter with Irene ad nauseam. Toying with new angles and interpretations to decipher the meaning behind her words, and what motive she could have had for being there at that exact moment. Yes, it was entirely possible that she was there by coincidence. No, I refused to believe that it was. By the time I had washed the dishes, I was no longer sure whether the details I had revisited in my mind were even real or not. Was I remembering what had actually happened, or the many iterations of my impressions of what had happened? It was an endeavour with fractal complexity, and so with a sigh I pivoted to yet another labyrinthine task.


    It was about an hour or two into studying the research document for the nth time that I received a phone call. As usual, my fight or flight response was triggered by the sudden bombardment of vibration and noise. Reaching for my phone, I saw that it was a number I didn¡¯t recognise. In that instance, my mind raced. Could it be someone from the Receiverist group? I wondered. I anticipated something menacing on the other end of the line. It would fit some kind of a loose pattern I believed I was experiencing. Naturally, declining the call was not an option. I had to find out who was on the other end.


    I tapped to accept the call, and asked in a wary voice, ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Hello sir, is this Alex Young?¡± a bored voice asked.


    ¡°Yes. Who is this?¡± There was some inexplicable way in which the caller¡¯s Essex accent had put me at ease.


    ¡°I¡¯m from the communications centre in HM Prison Longfield. Your mother has requested to contact you.¡±


    I felt a slight panic that took a moment to quench. ¡°Is it an emergency?¡±


    ¡°No, not at all,¡± the voice said. ¡°Your mother made the request a few days ago. We only got around to processing it now due to high volumes and a temporary shortage in staffing.¡±


    I wondered how much of that was true. This person was likely a private contractor for non-essential services in the prison whose low wage didn¡¯t benefit from processing requests in a timely manner.


    ¡°You can put her on,¡± I said with a resolve that I didn¡¯t feel.


    ¡°Of course. Before I do that, I need to let you know that you have a maximum of thirty minutes. We¡¯ll also be monitoring the call to ensure the safety of our prisoners and yourself.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± I acknowledged.


    There was a pause, before an unmistakable yet indescribable change in the static. ¡°Alex?¡± The voice was familiar. I haven¡¯t heard it in years, but it was unmistakable. I had always felt that her voice had a quality to it that I could only describe as wooden, and it seemed that this quality had only grown. The question in the utterance of my name was tentative, somewhere between cautiously hopeful and capitulating. My heart sank.


    ¡°Mother¡ªmum?¡± I responded in a voice that felt like a reversion to a previous state that I had buried, and had hoped it would stay so.


    ¡°Y¨Cyes it¡¯s me,¡± my mother stammered softly. There was a mix of fear and excitement. ¡°It¡¯s me, Alex. It¡¯s been so long. So long.¡±


    There was something about the timid way she repeated herself that caught me off guard. It wasn¡¯t something that she used to do. It made me feel a basket of things that I couldn¡¯t¡ªor didn¡¯t want to¡ªput into words.


    ¡°Yes. It has,¡± I said awkwardly. ¡°How have you been?¡± It was a question purely out of polite habit. I wasn¡¯t quite sure whether I wanted the answer.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been¡ªI¡¯ve been, well, as good as I can be. I suppose.¡± It wasn¡¯t that my mother was trying to mislead me, but she was always terrible at expressing anything other than how she felt. No, I translated for her, but there¡¯s nothing that can be done about it, is there?


    ¡°There¡¯s¡­ really not much here,¡± she continued. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s a good thing. I imagined much worse. Not that it¡¯s actually good.¡± I heard a soft sigh, as if it had been largely unintended. ¡°How about yourself, Alex? How are things?¡±


    It was the second time that day I was asked this question. ¡°I¡¯ve been fine. Just work is all.¡±


    ¡°You still at Imperial College?¡±


    The band-aid had to be ripped off eventually. ¡°No, I¡¯m doing research at Miller University now. In the States.¡±


    ¡°The ¡®States¡¯? The United States?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. That one. They offered a good opportunity for me,¡± I said matter-of-factly.


    There was a pregnant pause. ¡°Well I¡¯m¡­ proud that you¡¯ve gone so far,¡± my mother said with a wistful voice. ¡°You never did seem to need any support or guidance. And I can¡¯t do much for you from where I am, but I¡¯m glad you sold the house to put yourself through university.¡±


    At the mention of the house I felt yet another pang of guilt. Putting myself through school had only been one reason why I sold it. ¡°I suppose so,¡± I said with a shrug. ¡°It¡¯s just what I had to do.¡±


    ¡°Alex, listen,¡± my mother began. I wasn¡¯t sure whether it was something that I had inadvertently prompted, or whether she had called with this conversation in mind. ¡°You still blame me for what happened. You do. I know it.¡±


    ¡°Mum I don¡¯t want to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just listen. Please,¡± she pleaded. ¡°It was my fault, I know. But you¡¯re my son. You¡¯re the only one I have left. Your forgiveness is the only thing that I have to live for. It¡¯s the only thing that gets me out of bed every morning. Every day I live among some of these¡­ deranged women. Sex traffickers. People who abuse their own children. Mental people. I¡¯m not like them. Not at all. You know me, Alex. You know me.¡±


    My mother¡¯s tone crescendoed in franticness that mirrored my panic. The edges of my vision narrowed. ¡°I¡¯m¡ª¡±


    ¡°So please,¡± she continued. Her voice was at once wobbly and accusatory. ¡°Don¡¯t abandon me. A call a year would be enough for me. It¡¯s all I ask for. It doesn¡¯t even need to be on my birthday. Please, son. Without you, there¡¯s nothing left for me. Nothing.¡±


    I could feel my hands shaking. I could barely think. My breaths were fast and shallow, and I could feel the soup I had earlier threatening to leave.


    ¡°Sorry, I need to go,¡± I blurted out.


    ¡°Alex¡ª¡±


    I ended the call and dropped my phone. With a crash, it landed on the hard floor and I realised I wasn¡¯t at my desk. I had been pacing around my apartment as if I had been trying to find some kind of an anchor. I fell onto my bed and let out an animalistic scream that ended briefly in a violent coughing fit.


    It seemed that the past was inescapable. A shadow that followed me wherever I went, always right behind me. The thought that the past determined the future frightened me, because that meant that I would be forever trapped in that day. It wasn¡¯t that I didn¡¯t forgive my mother. It was that I didn¡¯t forgive myself. Forgiveness was an unattainable luxury when the fallout was uninhabitable.


    My gaze fell onto the mathematical document that sat atop my desk. In a flash of pure wrath, I lunged at it. And ripped it in a swift violent motion that brought me primal satisfaction. Over, and over, and over until it fell onto the floor like patches of snow.

 Chapter 5

    I was by no means an unhealthy person. As a child, I caught something every other week. My mother used to remark that I was the higher maintenance child despite being the second one. By the time I reached my teenage years, I would only catch a cold once every other year¡ªperhaps the tough love my immune system experienced had something to show for it. Or maybe it was because I didn¡¯t go out much. Physical exercise lay outside of the set of my interests. It brought me no joy and the promised wellbeing benefits were irrelevant. But I respected those who committed to it. I might not understand physical exercise, but they might not understand mathematical exercise either. So while I wasn¡¯t the beacon of what a healthy person looked like, I suffered no ailments. At least none that I was aware of.


    And so I was perplexed when I woke up that morning with a head-splitting headache. Just as unusual, when my consciousness came I found myself lying face down on my bed. My blanket was messily splayed across the floor. On my bed, I was in my¡ªnow entirely creased¡ªcollared shirt and blue jeans and¡ªto my immense disgust¡ªshoes. As I tried to lift myself up on all fours, it was as if gravity had multiplied overnight and retrofitted my bed into a cost-efficient prison that was the envy of the free market. Every attempt was discouraged by a throbbing pain in my head that I hadn¡¯t experienced in years. One side of my jaw clicked audibly as I tried to open and close it. The punishment of sleeping weirdly.


    As I laboured myself upright, the change in the gravitational orientation acting on my stomach made me realise I had less than zero desire to eat anything. Like an unstable equilibrium, a single addition to my digestive system would throw it entirely out of balance. I sat on the edge of my bed for what felt like minutes, holding my head down, trying to compose myself to minimise any potential cleaning I might need to do later. Feeling myself slightly stabilised, I lifted my gaze and saw what sat atop my table.


    Didn¡¯t I shred the document into tiny pieces? I thought in confusion. Why is it whole?


    I stood up at a slow, risk-averse rate, and sauntered to my desk. On approach, I saw that it was indeed the very same manuscript I had torn up, right next to a largely empty bottle of wine. It was held back together by surgical insertions of copious amounts of tape. What kind of a fucking masochist would torment themselves like this? I wondered, before, Oh shit.


    The memories came flooding back. Indeed I had ripped up the document that had been the bane of my existence for the past few weeks. That was not entirely true; my troubles were more than just the research. But the document was the only tangible problem I had, and hence it was the only problem of which I could derive cathartic pleasure from the act of brutally maiming it. And so in need of an outlet, I took what I could get. Afterwards, I left my apartment in search of salvation, which was conveniently just a few blocks away from the engineering side of the campus. Stepping into the dim pub, I was rather glad that it was a Thursday night. There were only a few students around, which minimised the propagation of rumours about a downcast lecturer drinking his sorrows away. The pub was favoured because despite its sticky tables and floor, the prices were cheaper than everywhere else in the vicinity. I ordered a pint of stout and sat at a table far from the sparse patrons that had already settled in. It tasted awful, but that was precisely the point. The numbing bitterness on my tongue and the warmth of alcohol in my throat forced my mind to think about those sensations, not anything else that bothered me. I didn¡¯t even like alcohol. And it had been a long time since I had last indulged. But its efficacy as a distraction was undeniable.


    The stout disappeared in record time and I ordered a heavier drink. It could have been whiskey. I forgot. But as I nursed that drink, my mind returned to the conversation with my mother. The buzz of the alcohol allowed me to feel somewhat detached, as if I was revisiting the distressing event except it was some geezer named Alex who was experiencing some kind of trauma, not me. Trauma? Is that what I¡¯d call it? I wondered. The alcohol in my mind gave me the unholy strength to dismiss the question. There were at least a couple sources of guilt, and I decided to think about the easiest. The family home. Gone, because I sold it to support myself.


    Why should I feel guilty about that? I thought indignantly. It wasn¡¯t a family home. It was barely a home. And I needed money if I wanted to do more with my life than flipping burgers while feeling sorry for myself. And she said she was proud. That she understood.


    But it didn¡¯t change the fact that I felt guilty. Memories, both good and bad, irrevocably demolished by the all too eager property developers. And what did I have to show for it? A worthless career on its uncertain, diseased breaths. A pathetic, thinly veiled attempt to escape a past that was about to be shattered into a million pieces. A life that amounted to nothing meaningful. It was almost laughably that my mother would want my forgiveness. Setting aside the other uncomfortable facets of the question, my forgiveness was worth less than nothing. If things had been any different, I should be begging for her¡¯s. With great reluctance, it dawned on me that the bloody research thrusted upon me by Irene and her associates was the only card I had left. Solving the mathematical problems would be a way out of at least some of my troubles. It could very well be the only way to make my sacrifices worth it. Our sacrifices. And I had shredded it in a moment of weakness like an untameable ape. I felt a stab of bitter anger for no one but myself. And with the resolve of a gambler who had lost it all and promised to win it all back, I downed the rest of my alcohol¡ªwhy are there four empty glasses?¡ªand stormed out of the pub.


    I stumbled into the only supermarket I frequented, and purchased a roll of tape and a bottle of the cheapest red wine available. Despite walking in a consistent sinusoidal path, I reached my apartment. Impressively, the only injury I had incurred was accidentally banging my head on the front door. There was no pain, the alcohol made sure of that. I collected the severed remains of the mathematical document from the floor of my room and made them into a pile on my desk. I couldn¡¯t remember how long I had spent playing the most difficult rendition of a jigsaw puzzle in my life while being drunk and juggling tape and scissors. It was almost like a drinking game; each new successful application of tape was rewarded with a sip of red wine straight from the bottle. Except I hated red wine. And there was a lot of taping involved. And alas, the devil was resurrected.


    Staring at the battered document, I wasn¡¯t sure how I felt about it. On the one hand, there was relief that I hadn¡¯t thrown away my only chance in a reckless meltdown. But at the same time, I felt a pang of disappointment that I was bound to the document in some intangible aspect. That I didn¡¯t have the will to commit to a course of action that, despite being potentially ruinous, might have freed me in some way.


    I had laboriously worked up my way to splashing cool water onto my face at the sink, when I heard knocking at my door. Jesus, I cursed internally. Each strike felt like a metallic assault to my skull.


    ¡°Coming!¡± I called out angrily when a second round of pounding struck my eardrums. My yelling briefly brought up the nausea I had been trying to suppress. I¡¯m gonna really need a nicer way to say ¡®fuck off¡¯ in a few seconds, I thought.


    I had expected to find someone I could unleash my unpleasantness onto on the other side of the door. That had not been the case.


    ¡°Oh. ¡®Morning, Hope,¡± I greeted in a pitiful effort. It came out as more of a mumble, and I wasn¡¯t sure whether that was because of the hangover.


    Hope¡¯s mouth formed a small O, as if whatever she had planned to say had evaporated. ¡°Alex, are you alright?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, all good,¡± I responded nonchalantly. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I be?¡±


    Hope regarded me for a moment, as if looking for hints of facetiousness in my eyes, before asking, ¡°Do you mind if I come in for a bit?¡±


    I, in fact, would. But expressing that would have been rather impolite of me. And I was anything but impolite. ¡°Of course. Come in.¡±


    Hope muttered thanks and awkwardly passed me in the doorway. Reaching the middle of my living room, she looked veritably incongruous and unsure of what to do with herself. I couldn¡¯t blame her. My apartment had never been organised with the intention of having visitors. There was no carpet in the living room. No couch. Just a small table with a foldable chair.


    ¡°Take a seat,¡± I said with a nod to the lonely chair. ¡°I¡¯ll grab a chair from my room.¡±


    I went inside and retrieved my desk chair and pushed it into the living room.


    ¡°Would you like some water? Tea?¡± I asked.


    ¡°No, thank you,¡± Hope said with a polite smile.


    ¡°Alright. Let me just go get some water for myself.¡±


    I entered my kitchen and poured myself a glass of water that had been left in my electric kettle since yesterday. It hadn¡¯t dawned on me just how thirsty I had been until I took my first sip. By the time I stopped, the glass was half empty. I returned to the living room and sat on my chair that was at the opposite end of the small table. It felt as if we were in a counsellor¡¯s office back in the public secondary school I had attended. The table size was about right. I wasn¡¯t sure whether I was the counsellor or the student.


    ¡°The view¡¯s pretty nice,¡± Hope remarked.


    ¡°Probably the only nice thing about this apartment,¡± I said with a shrug. The view really wasn¡¯t anything impressive. Not even on a low smog day. ¡°So what¡¯s up? Did you remember something from that night?¡±


    Hope looked visibly confused. ¡°That night?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You remember, the night before I visited you a few weeks ago?¡±


    A look of realisation washed over her features. ¡°Oh, no. Sorry. That¡¯s not why I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That¡¯s alright,¡± I said, hoping that my disappointment didn¡¯t bleed into my tone. ¡°Is everything okay?¡±


    Hope looked as though she wasn¡¯t sure how to proceed. ¡°I was actually hoping to ask you that.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± I was taken aback.


    ¡°Yeah. I mean, did you just wake up?¡±


    ¡°Yeah I did,¡± I said, before sheepishly adding, ¡°I guess it¡¯s probably lunchtime or something.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little past that,¡± Hope said. ¡°Nearly one.¡±


    I chuckled. ¡°Thankfully, it¡¯s a weekend. Otherwise I¡¯d¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Friday.¡±


    I regarded her for a moment. ¡°You¡¯re not kidding, are you?¡±


    Hope shook her head.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I muttered as subconsciously pinched the bridge of my nose. I had a lecture on Friday mornings. Being late for a lecture with hundreds of students was embarrassing. Missing it completely was¡ª¡°not good. That is not good.¡±


    Hope looked at me sympathetically. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it too much. You can always say that something personal came up. They¡¯ll understand.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so,¡± I said as I ran a sweaty palm through my dishevelled hair. ¡°Not between this and my research rejections and everything in between.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s not everything, right?¡± Hope asked in a reassuring voice. ¡°You still have the research you¡¯re working on.¡±


    I snorted. ¡°Yeah. And somehow I even have a grant for it. But it¡¯s not like that¡¯s going anywhere.¡±


    Hope looked puzzled. ¡°What is it, anyway?¡±


    I froze. Could she be a spy? I wondered with suspicion. Why is she even here, anyway? ¡°I can¡¯t tell you,¡± I said resolutely.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Hope asked curiously.


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t trust you.¡± It was only after the words had left my mouth that I realised how awful they sounded.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± There was genuine offence in her voice. Her eyes were more than shocked. Indignant. I had never seen Hope being crossed with someone before. It was so far removed from her usual self that it took me aback.


    ¡°I¡ªI didn¡¯t mean it in that way,¡± I stuttered. ¡°Things have been, well, strange for me lately. I don¡¯t want to drag you into it.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Hope appeared at least a little placated by my soft tone. Perhaps she detected my embarrassment. But it was clear that the words couldn¡¯t be taken back. ¡°Fine. Whatever,¡± she said as she crossed her arms. ¡°I don¡¯t know about your personal situation, so I can understand if things are tough for you. But you¡¯ve been acting really weird lately.¡±


    ¡°That I have¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never seemed like a heavy drinker. But last night when you came home I heard a bang. All the way from my bedroom. And you waking up so late. And outside of that one time I saw you getting angry at Peter in the staff room, I¡¯ve never seen you around. I don¡¯t think anyone else has, either.¡±


    I leaned back into my seat and sighed. ¡°Yes. I¡¯ve been¡­ under the pump. I apologise for not being my best self. Things haven¡¯t been going well for me. I just need to get through it.¡±


    Hope¡¯s expression softened. ¡°That¡¯s okay. It¡¯s been hard for a lot of people. Me too, to be honest.¡± She chuckled at herself. ¡°I¡¯m not even sure if I¡¯ll last as long as you have here. But it¡¯s not worth ruining yourself over it. My older brother did that.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know what to say. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± Hope said. ¡°Look, I just want you to be okay. Be kind to yourself. Things will work out, one way or the other. And if you need someone to talk to, I¡¯m literally just around the corner.¡±


    I could feel my teeth grinding. Hope was naive. Painfully so. It made me angry. With a heavy sigh, I responded to her with the truth. ¡°But things don¡¯t just simply work out. They never do. It¡¯s all so chaotic and fragile. All it takes is just one wrong thing at the wrong time and then there¡¯s nothing left.¡±


    Hope looked as if she had been struck. My reaction wasn¡¯t what she was expecting. ¡°I know it can feel like that sometimes¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen it. Lived it. And it¡¯s why I can¡¯t afford to be kind to myself,¡± I said unwaveringly. There was a heavy silence, before I continued in a softer, quieter voice, ¡°Sorry, but whatever it is you want from me, I don¡¯t have it.¡±


    Hope met my eyes, and I saw a range of emotions passing through her. I couldn¡¯t be sure what they were, but I nonetheless felt terrible. After the moment had passed, she stood up and left without a word. But at the doorway, without turning back, she said in a small voice, ¡°I was only trying to be kind.¡±


    When the door clicked shut, I collapsed into my hands. I didn¡¯t want to be awful to Hope, but I couldn¡¯t pretend that the universe was anything more than an unfathomable randomness that was indifferent to our suffering. We all lose in the end, but our individual struggle against the chaos that unceasingly threatened to annihilate us was all we had in this life. Maybe she will never understand, I hoped. A part of me wondered why Hope had really come to talk to me. Taking people¡¯s words at their face value was at best a convenient untruth. I knew better than most people that they generally didn¡¯t understand themselves. The narratives we presented to others and ourselves were nothing more than alibi. And I was certainly no exception.


    After emptying my glass, I stumbled back onto my bed. There was no point going to the university today. To show up with half the workday left was to concede defeat. To shout loudly that I had been tardy. Perhaps I had been, but that was neither here nor there. It was more important to present the facade of having intention. Hope didn¡¯t seem like the kind of person to report on me. She was as likely to do that as Irene to profess her unending fondness for me. My unfortunate conversation with Hope hadn¡¯t done my hangover any favours. As I closed my eyes, I focused on the throbbing sensation on the side of my head. Willing it to calmness like a sailor trying to placate the waters of a tempest. After some time, the rhythmic throbbing miraculously retreated to a slow metronome that lulled me closer and closer to a blissful oblivion in the void. It was pleasant. A respite from the unrelenting world that seemed bent on playing jenga with my sanity. Upon approaching the asymptotic threshold that divided consciousness and subjugation, I was violently dragged back into nauseating wakefulness by a violent earthquake.


    My phone vibrated with the vigour of a battered vehicle. A result of me leaving it at the edge of the desk, its corner dangling out the same way my brother used to sit on our couch. I cursed as I reached for the phone.


    Irene Law. If the vibration hadn¡¯t shaken the sleepiness from my brain, then the caller ID certainly did. What does she want? I wondered, before thinking wryly, To check in on my enviable progress?


    I sat myself upright and tapped to accept the call. ¡°Irene.¡±


    ¡°Well this is an improvement,¡± Irene said dryly. ¡°Yesterday it was ¡®You¡¯. Now it¡¯s ¡®Irene¡¯. Before long you¡¯ll be greeting me with ¡®Humbled to receive you, your majesty!¡¯¡±


    I was not in the mood for her condescension. Her¡ªadmittedly impressive¡ªimitation of received pronunciation only added to my irritation. ¡°Please,¡± I said with an unconscious roll of my eyes, ¡°I¡¯m not in the mood for this.¡±


    ¡°Hm,¡± Irene hummed. ¡°Had too much fun last night?¡±


    There¡¯s no way she could¡¯ve guessed that from my voice. ¡°No,¡± I responded nonchalantly, hoping that my indignance didn¡¯t leak.


    ¡°Really,¡± Irene said flatly, devoid of any inflections that would have made it a question rather than an expression of confident scepticism. ¡°Well. Are you in the mood for some answers?¡±


    I loathed the way my heart leapt at the last word. Like a dog salivating at the sight of a neglectful owner holding a bone. The parched part of my mind was an addict ready to accept any sordid offers that could ease its insatiable thirst. The dignified part, my rational faculties, warned me. There¡¯s no universe in which this can be good, it cautioned. Its voice was alarmingly muted. ¡°What kind of answers?¡± I asked warily.


    ¡°The good kind,¡± Irene said. ¡°The kind that I had to obtain approvals across multiple divisions to arrange.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I said in a nonchalant tone that was unmistakably a challenge. ¡°Do tell.¡±


    ¡°Not here, Alex,¡± Irene said. And there it is, I thought. ¡°Not over the phone. Are you free later tonight?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fairly sure you know I am,¡± I said wryly.


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit,¡± she said flatly, either dryly amused or not at all. I couldn¡¯t tell. ¡°Meet me at eight by the water fountain. Near the old philosophy faculty. You know the one.¡±


    ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll be there. The ¡®answers¡¯,¡± I said with a mocking tone, my left hand unconsciously making quotation marks, ¡°better be worth it. I¡¯m tired of being strung along like a dog.¡±


    Irene chuckled. ¡°Well, I guess the dog deserves a little bone. I¡¯ll see you later then.¡±


    The line clicked dead. I wasn¡¯t sure how I felt. On the one hand, the promise of information, perhaps an explanation, was intoxicating. But this also seemed like yet another carrot on a stick that will never reach my mouth. After all, what kind of context couldn¡¯t be explained over a phone? International terrorism? I pondered with mild amusement. The back of my mind couldn¡¯t help chewing on Irene¡¯s metaphor. Was I the dog or the bone? The thought inexplicably made the back hairs of my neck stick out. What the fuck did I get myself into?


    I fell back onto my bed and closed my eyes. There was a frustration in the vacancy left by my drowsiness, which had been purged and replaced by a restless anticipation. Sleep would not come now. With a sigh, I reluctantly pushed myself up and out of my bed and belatedly performed the familiar rituals of a morning. It was past two o¡¯clock now, yet I sprinkled oatmeal into my compact pot as if it was seven hours earlier. I nursed the bowl of porridge languorously. Its warmness pleasantly slid down my throat and rested in the pit of my stomach without turning it inside out.


    Returning to my desk felt like coming back to a lover after a bitter quarrel. The shame was there. Regretful actions that had taken place would be felt in every future touch. An apology lingered at the tip of my tongue. The only inconsistency with the metaphor was the lack of any sort of love that bound me to this ghastly document. The glue was obligation. And obsession. There was a brief moment when my thumb had slid over the uneven, taped pages of the document, in which I considered shredding it into infinitesimal snowflakes which couldn¡¯t be revived even by the most advanced forensic experts. It would be an orgasm of freedom in the short run, followed by the early end of my career. And a lifetime of wondering what kind of forbidden knowledge was locked behind the cryptographic permutations of symbols. And so I resigned myself to returning to the mathematical labyrinth for the umpteenth time. A shifting maze that rearranged itself every time I thought I could see the exit.


    It was in my nature to be early. Being a few minutes late was a greater atrocity than being a dozen minutes early. Of course, I wasn¡¯t generally prone to preoccupying myself with what others might think of me, but I appreciated the importance of punctuality. Of establishing one¡¯s intention. However, on this particular occasion I was late by ten whole minutes. This was intentional. Those who knew me might think I did so as a means of making a statement. I was not. I merely lusted for the admittedly petty satisfaction of wasting Irene¡¯s time, making her doubt whether I was standing her up or not. It wouldn¡¯t even be close to warranting the label of being a payback¡ªnot even a drop in the bucket of how much of my own time and stress had been wasted on Irene and her associates¡ªbut it would be worth it all the same. In life, one ought to take the occasional simple pleasure when the opportunity arises.


    And so as I approached the antiquated fountain, I had imagined the impatient expression on Irene¡¯s face. The annoyance in the corner of her mouth. The irritation on her eyebrows. It was night, so Irene wouldn¡¯t be wearing sunglasses unless she found gratification in pitch darkness. This meant I would have the rare occasion of being able to enjoy every detail of petulance on her features.


    ¡°Why are you so tardy?¡± she would ask in an uncharacteristic testy tone.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I would apologise in an indifferent manner that wouldn¡¯t betray my conspiratorial delight, ¡°I got carried away with something.¡±


    I imagined Irene¡¯s features souring not only at my cool, but also at the ¡°something¡±. The very notion that I knew something she had no way of knowing. Because she was nosy. The fact that it would be a bluff was totally irrelevant.


    ¡°God damn it,¡± I cursed under my breath. After doing two complete revolutions at the decrepit fountain trying to scan for any signs of life, I plopped at its edges in disappointment. It was uncomfortable. The uneven surface was felt through my jeans. If Irene wanted to humiliate me, then this had to be the optimal scenario; a sulking man sitting at an unimpressive water fountain under a windy night with not a single living thing around. I couldn¡¯t overstate how exceptionally unimpressive this water fountain was. One could immediately deduce by the uselessness of this fountain that its purpose lies in ostentation. To be glamorous. To impress. But¡ªmuch like the philosophy building behind it¡ªit lacked the renovation it sorely needed. Its design was outdated to the point of embarrassment. This was a manifestation of buyer¡¯s regret; the investors tried to thrust the university into philosophy stardom over half a century ago, and realised afterwards that money didn¡¯t motivate philosophy researchers in the same way it did for business administration lecturers. With a groan, I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through news headlines. Husband kills wife and two¡ªno. United States rejects Treaty of Disarmament of Nuclear Weapons citing their necessity in world stability. Climate targets too optimistic, warns international climate body. Calls for investigation after report finds $43bn health misspend.


    I hadn¡¯t planned to go through nearly every article on the front page, but by the time I did, it was nearly half an hour later. And Irene was still nowhere to be seen. I was more than a little peeved. Had everything gone according to plan, it was she who would have found herself bored and sulking for a dozen minutes. Instead, I had incurred nearly triple the experience. Opening the contacts on my phone, I pondered for a good two minutes whether I should call her. Perhaps it was pride, but I decided against it in favour of sulking in the dark.


    By the time it was nine o¡¯clock, I was positively simmering. The wind had turned colder, but my red hot indignance kept me warm. The audacity! I seethed. I¡¯m going to give her a piece of my mind. As I reached for my phone, I noticed that my fingers were shivering. I decided to go home and voice my frustrations when Irene couldn¡¯t hear me trembling like a sick child. Getting up, the muscles in my legs whined with stiff lethargy. I had to be careful not to lose my balance and fall backwards into the fountain. No one would be around to witness such a failure, but the metaphorical tree would most certainly make a wet, freezing sound. Unfortunately, the water fountain was much deeper in the campus than my office, so the walk back home was longer than usual. It was, however, a slightly interesting walk. I had never wandered this much of the campus at this time of the night. The campus was dead quiet. The only noises were the sounds of trees rustling in the wind and the periodic vehicle on the main road in the distance. The university grounds took on a surreal quality, as if it was in a twilight outside of time. A shadow of time when strange and inexplicable things could happen.


    As I approached the familiar mathematics building, there was a feeling of unease. Like someone watching me. This sensation compelled me to turn around. And I saw it. A shadow in the distance. It was standing. A man, perhaps. He stood in the middle of the campus avenue, perfectly in between the lamps on the sides of the wide walkway such that all of his features were obscured by the darkness. I had just walked from that direction so he must have been walking, yet I heard no footsteps. A deep dread washed over me.


    ¡°H-hello?¡± I croaked out tentatively. My voice cracked. The figure didn¡¯t answer back. For what had felt like minutes, I stared at him, and I imagined he stared back at me.


    Until he began moving. What had terrified me wasn¡¯t that act in itself, but rather in just how slow he walked. It was more accurate to describe his motions as shuffling. Almost gliding. It was silent.


    ¡°Stop right there,¡± I called out. He made no indication that he had heard me, and his slow motions continued. In that instance, I felt a fatalistic horror. As if his movements were an inevitability. That I was powerless, subjugated to an outcome that had been determined far earlier than I was aware of. It took a moment, but my mind and body returned to me. My natural instincts stubbornly rebelled against that very idea and my legs kicked into action. I wasn¡¯t a runner. It had probably been years since I had properly ran, but the adrenaline in my veins compensated. I felt the chill of the night rushing against my face and sweat dripping down my neck uncomfortably. When I had reached the edge of the university, with trepidation I chanced a glance backwards. There was no one there. But I didn¡¯t bother to wait. I ran across the empty road. When I reached the other side, I checked again. He was there. And he was coming out of the campus. Running. There was more light near the road, and I could see that he wore full black from head to toe. His face seemed to be covered in some sort of a mask.


    My heart pounded almost painfully. If it weren¡¯t for the adrenaline, I would have passed out. I resumed my frantic sprint towards home. I was undoubtedly the fastest I had ever been on foot in my life, yet I felt painfully slow. The seconds in which my apartment building had been in sight felt like minutes in which I was at an arm¡¯s reach from the danger that lurked. I turned into the doorway and ran up the stairs. My body was trembling with exhaustion but I didn¡¯t feel it. The only thing I could feel was a tangible, existential threat.


    With heavy footsteps I reached my door. My hands were shaking so badly that I had dropped my keys and struggled to fit it into the door. After some agonising seconds, I managed to get into my apartment and lock the door immediately. I hunched over and coughed violently as I struggled to fill my lungs with air. I forced myself to be as quiet as possible as I looked outside the peephole. The automatic lights in the hallway hadn¡¯t triggered since they had turned themselves off, but I kept trying to find shapes in the dark, certain that he was on the other side of the door.


    After some time, I decided to back away. It wasn¡¯t that I thought I was safe, but rather that I needed water. I was on the verge of collapse. My vision tunnelled and my body trembled. As I turned around the corner to enter my kitchen, I felt gloved hands on my mouth with an overpowering grip. In a split second, I was being held by someone I couldn¡¯t see. Completely immobilised. As I panicked futilely, I felt a subtle prick on the side of my neck. In the seconds that followed, my world dimmed to pitch black.

 Chapter 6

    The smell of sterility. That was the first sensation I was greeted with. A hospital? My groggy mind assumed. What happened? I hated hospitals. Whatever joyful memories I might have, none had been derived from a hospital. The only thing they seemed to ever offer me was pain. And so I avoided them like the plague. I would look both ways when crossing a road not because I didn¡¯t want to get hit by a car and die. But because I didn¡¯t want to get hit by a car and wake up in a hospital. The blanket on top of me felt stiffer than I¡¯d like. Yet another quirk of hospitals. When my bleary eyes opened, the room looked like it smelled. Clean and white. Unnaturally so. A cuboid of indifference to any suffering that took place within it.


    My awareness returned before the memories did. For a couple of discombobulating minutes, my mind struggled with where I was. This feels like a hospital room, I pondered, yet it doesn¡¯t seem like one. There were no bulky machines that mathematically decomposed the signal of my existence. There were no windows in the room. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night. What kind of a hospital is this? And then the memories came flooding back. Of an empty, twilight campus. Of the shadow in the shape of a man. Of frantic running. The adrenaline followed, violently washing away the last of the grogginess. I jerked upwards from the bed in a sudden panic. The motion gave me vertigo, but I couldn¡¯t afford to wait for it to retreat. My life was in danger.


    This is no hospital, I realised with dread. They¡¯ve got me. With a swift motion I threw the blanket off of me. These were not my clothes. White trousers and a matching long sleeve. They felt more like pyjamas than anything else. Stretching the waistband, I saw that I was wearing grey underwear. I shuddered in disgust. These fuckers dressed me! It was a violation. Being taken advantage of when I was unconscious. With great difficulty, I tried not to think of what else they might have done. My legs gave in when I tried to stand. They were nothing but sore jellies from my previous episode of physical exertion. If it weren¡¯t for my instincts guiding my fall, my head might have resembled a cracked watermelon on the hard ground. It was nonetheless agonising, and I spent a minute on the floor in white hot pain. When the sore waves subsided, I looked up from my knee.


    The room gave the uncanny impression of being the default state of a small bedroom. It was a perfect square of length no greater than two and a half metres. The floor was made of grey ceramic tiles. The walls were painted white. The ceiling had a flat cylindrical light source that was most likely controlled by what looked like a light switch near the door. It was uncomfortably bright. The bed I leaned against was minimal. The aluminium frame reflected the mind of a pragmatic designer whose only concern was cost. The mattress was thin and springy. In the true spirit of a prison bed, it was bound to the wall. The only other furniture in the room was a tiny bedside table that had a single drawer. I reached over to open the drawer. It was empty. I also noticed that the small table was firmly attached to the bed. Unmovable. There were two doors in the room. One door looked heavy. It was almost black. Its edges were metallic, but the surface might have been wooden. It was safe to assume that wood was reinforced by a metallic skeleton within. There was a small rectangle near the bottom of the door. I tried not to think about this door. It undoubtedly led to freedom, but I would break before it did. The other door looked less menacing. It had the same white hue as the walls. I slowly pushed myself up from the floor and walked to it. The door slid into the wall to reveal a confined bathroom. A toilet. A sink. A claustrophobic shower cubicle.


    Okay, enough loitering, I thought anxiously. It¡¯s time to try it. I walked to the dark, menacing door. It looked positively impenetrable. I swallowed. Reaching out, the contact of the cold metal of the handle with my sweaty palms made me shiver. With a shaky breath, I gripped the thick handle and turned. Or at least I tried to. It wouldn¡¯t bulge even a millimetre. I was offended. It shouldn¡¯t not turn. It must have been jammed. I exerted more pressure. My second hand joined in the effort. I bent over it to use the rest of my body in this tug of war like my life depended on it¡ªwhich it did. And yet, it was futile. The weight of my entire existence amounted to not a single acknowledgement from the apathetic handle. Not even the tiniest of nods. I broke.


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± I yelled. Perhaps at the handle. Or my captors. Or myself. I let go of it. The inside of my hand was a pure red, as if the handle had left a branding to taunt at my humiliating failure. I punched the door, concentrating my frustrations onto the surface of my knuckles. I screamed animalistically, but not at the physical pain. My other hand banged on the door. ¡°Let me go!¡± I shouted at the door, hopefully to an ear on the other side. ¡°Open this fucking thing!¡±


    My attempts at persuading my captors to free my personhood lasted for quite some time. As time went on, the frequency of cursing gradually decreased with my volume, until I was left muttering hopelessly to myself. The adrenaline and physical effects of my panic attack wore off. I felt my body tire out and took refuge on the floor. I couldn¡®t help but feel that this was largely my fault. Maybe I should have hit the gym. Then I would¡¯ve broken the handle and not the other way around. Maybe I should have been more careful last night¡ªor whenever that was. It was impossible to identify all of the variables that had led me to this cage, but there must have been something that I could have done differently.


    When my mind had finally calmed and accepted the situation for what it was, there was something glaringly odd. Everything was too clean. None of the white surfaces had even a smudge. The bathroom, albeit compact, was much cleaner than mine at home. It just didn¡¯t compute in my mind. While I was certainly glad that I wasn¡¯t locked in a room with bloodstains on the walls and a toilet that invoked lethal disgust, why was this place so spotless? It was inconceivable to think that my captors cleaned this room for me and purged it of dust to flaunt their hospitality. This was obsessive levels of sterile that would have been unattainable for even a five-star hotel. Not that any of it dispelled fears that I was awaiting to be butchered. I remembered watching a documentary in my teens about a serial killer who happened to have obsessive-compulsive disorder. I tried not to dwell on this.


    Just like the way that someone at the bar might appear increasingly attractive after each drink, the sad unluxurious bed looked more appealing after every minute. My body was at a low that I hadn¡¯t felt in years. Possibly ever. I abjectly crawled back onto the bed and, with great effort, retrieved the blanket from the floor and covered myself with it. It could be worse, was my last thought before I fell immediately into a deep sleep. It was, unfortunately, not deep enough to be dreamless. While my body rested, my mind did not. I saw images of a human figure chasing me as I frantically ran from street to street. Peter was watching from a distance. I ran to him, begging for him to help me. He laughed and pushed me towards the shadow before vanishing. I saw Hope. I explained in a gibberish mess that I was in danger. Hope said we all were, before walking away at an impossible pace that I couldn¡¯t catch up to. I saw Irene. I asked hopelessly if she would help me. She said I was asking the wrong person. There were some other familiar faces. They couldn¡¯t save me. I resigned myself to walking towards the figure.


    ¡°It¡¯s meal time,¡± he said in an unfamiliar voice. He sounded as if he was right next to me.


    ¡°What?¡± I asked in bemusement.


    ¡°Food will arrive shortly¡­¡±


    My eyes opened. To my despair, it was the same room I had gone to sleep in. What wouldn¡¯t I do to wake up in my own bed, I thought drowsily. The light seemed less assaulting than it had before, thankfully.


    ¡°... Keep away from the door. If you do not comply, you will not receive sustenance.¡± The voice was of a man. It sounded authoritative. My fight or flight instincts completely shook off my tiredness. I looked around the room. No one else was here. There must be a speaker somewhere, but before I could search for it, there were noises coming from the other side of the door. Muted footsteps. A clink. The sound of metal on metal. The tempo of the beat was at a rate that had to be automated. I tried my best to muster up whatever composure I had left. A final click was heard before the rectangle slid open. The rough metallic noise rattled me. A small tray of assortments was brought through by a gloved hand.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I asked tentatively. If I was any less afraid, I would have been embarrassed by the way that my voice wavered. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    After the tray had been placed on the floor, the hand returned through the hole. It slid closed immediately. That gave rise to an indignance from which I drew a minutia of courage. ¡°Why am I here?¡± I said loudly, almost certain that they could hear from the other side. They didn¡¯t dignify me with a response. I had a sudden urge to pick up the plastic tray and throw it at the door. That impulse was quickly subdued by an even greater craving for food. It was impossible to tell the time, but I was sure I hadn¡¯t eaten anything in at least a day. Approaching the tray, I saw that on it had a sandwich, two sausages, a small apple and a carton of water. In spite of myself, a part of me was delighted. The food looked appetising and I was starving. A rebellious part of me felt insulted that they would give me good food, as if they thought it would be that easy for my captors to buy my submission. Moreover, I had no idea what was really in this stuff. They could be drugging me with god knows what. With a shrug, I brought the tray to the bedside table and began eating the sandwich while sitting on the bed. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to eat whatever they gave me, even if it was spiked with a humanity-ending bioweapon. At least the sandwich was tasty. It had ham and tomatoes. And there was even a serviette.


    After I had finished the sandwich and sausages, I saved the apple for later. I didn¡¯t know what the time was, much less how often they would even feed me. It only took a moment for me to decide to take a shower. I could smell the aftermath of all the running and panic attacks. It wasn¡¯t good. My skin felt sticky. Walking into the bathroom, the light switched on automatically. It was the same ceiling light design as the main room¡ªcylindrical with black edges¡ªbut smaller in diameter. The mirror was embedded into the wall. It revealed the face of a dishevelled man with bags under his eyes and a pitiful expression.


    This all seemed oddly advanced for a prison cell. In the prison industry, the name of the game was how to provide the bare minimum for human survival while meeting ambiguously worded regulations that an expensive lawyer could trivialise. And these people weren¡¯t even that. Where I would have expected¡ªif at all¡ªa barely functional shower with cold, murky water, I instead found a comfortable albeit small shower unit that sprayed pleasant streams of warm water that looked positively potable. There was even a ventilation unit that activated with the lights that took care of the steam. I took my time in the shower. Partially because time didn¡¯t exist for me since I couldn¡¯t measure it. But also because it was genuinely the only thing that approximated a meditation I desperately needed both physically and mentally. Not that I did any form of actual meditation in my previous free-range life. Sitting still while idly performing introspection was just not something I could do¡ªI had to be doing or thinking at any given moment, whether that was doing maths, reading the news, or scrolling through trending developments in some shitty social media website. After drying myself with the inconveniently small towel, I was physically relaxed for the first time in what felt like a week. I had nearly exited the bathroom naked, but I realised that they must be watching me somehow, so I didn¡¯t. There had to be a camera somewhere, but just like with the speaker, I had no idea where it was.


    Leaving the bathroom, my sight had set on the light switch near the door. Upon closer inspection, it looked more advanced than I had anticipated. There was no switch, but a dial that looked like it moved vertically. My hypothesis was that lifting it would make the light brighter, and bringing it down would dim it. I tried to test this hypothesis by moving it. It wouldn¡¯t budge. Rather, upon contact, the immediate space below the vertical slit that the dial inhabited produced a bright white word against its black surface. Locked. So it appeared that this was indeed the light switch, but I was locked out of accessing it. What kind of a bourgie light switch is this? I thought wryly. Where the hell am I? Some rich psycho¡¯s pleasure dungeon? That would explain a lot, but I hoped it wasn¡¯t the case. I shuddered.


    I turned back to the rest of the room, appraised it once again, before resigning to lying on the bed. There was nothing to do. The absence of stimuli was strange. Unnatural. Terrifying. I had always understood intellectually that boredom was a legitimate form of torture, but experiencing it had reminded me that abstractions were merely cheap substitutions for the real thing. I felt, for the lack of a more adequate word, fine. But I could feel an anxiety slowly swelling inside me. Nothingness was a ghastly terror that would eventually drive me insane. I knew I was more susceptible to this than most people. My mind was a restless one. Sleep never came at will. A vast nothingness would guarantee that my mind would inevitably attack itself. Like my body turning against itself in trying to purge a terminal affliction. Perhaps this was their plan. To reduce me to a stimulus starved beggar who would do anything they demanded as long as I could do something. I could only hope freedom would find me before madness.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    It was impossible to know how long I had mused for, before a voice jolted me out of my thoughts.


    ¡°Mister Young,¡± he said. It was the same authoritative voice from before. Like a prison officer. There was an accent. It sounded American. But not too American. ¡°I will ask you some questions. You will answer them succinctly and truthfully.¡±


    ¡°Doctor Young,¡± I corrected. ¡°And why don¡¯t you start by telling me why I¡¯m here?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that is not how it works,¡± he said. ¡°Please state your name in full.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I persisted.


    ¡°If you do not cooperate, then we will make you cooperate.¡± Despite the casual tone in which he said it, the threat lingered palpably.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I uttered in what I had hoped was defiant. ¡°Alex Young.¡±


    If the man was pleased, I couldn¡¯t hear it. ¡°Please state your age.¡±


    Where¡¯s his voice coming from? I wondered. I tilted my head slightly. ¡°Thirty-two.¡±


    ¡°Please recite the alphabet in reverse order.¡±


    ¡°Are you fucking kidding me?¡± I asked incredulously.


    ¡°Please recite the alphabet in reverse order,¡± he repeated almost perfectly.


    I sighed, before proceeding to do so. The exercise wasn¡¯t particularly difficult for me. Forward and backwards were fundamentally the same. The quantity of information captured in one ordering was the same as the other. As I recited the letters, I realised I knew where the voice came from. The cylindrical light. It doubles as a speaker and a microphone. And, if my intuition was correct, it also tripled as a surveillance camera. The black rim around it was an eye. I was certain of this. It probably didn¡¯t have any blindspots. A panopticon.


    ¡°How long do you believe you have been in the room you are currently in?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I answered.


    ¡°Give your best estimate.¡±


    What¡¯s the point of this? I pondered. It seemed like a little more than a taunt. ¡°More than a day. No more than three. Two days, maybe.¡±


    ¡°And what do you believe the current time of the day is?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an impossible question,¡± I said exasperatedly. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Two PM?¡±


    There was a pause, before, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Can you answer some of my questions now?¡± I asked the empty room. There was no response. And just like that, the interrogation was over. Well, that was awfully pointless, I seethed.


    I passed my time lying on the uncomfortable bed. I avoided the bathroom as much as I could. The ceiling light in there had the same black rim, meaning that someone was most likely watching me when I used any of the facilities. Rationally, I shouldn¡¯t care. There was nothing I could do about it. But the thought nonetheless made me uncomfortable. There was a possibility I could be still rescued. Somebody had to have noticed that I was missing. After all, Hope lived right next to me. Maybe she had even heard the struggle. Or even before that when I rushed into my apartment. There was the off chance that she wasn¡¯t home at the time, but surely she would eventually notice my absence. If not her, then Irene. It was strange that she had stood me up, but when she would inevitably try to arrange a second meeting, she would surely regard her failed calls with suspicion. Regardless, someone would alert the authorities. It might take a while, but it would happen. Then, the authorities would investigate my disappearance, apply cutting-edge forensics and find wherever this place was and rescue me. Or at least that was what I would believe if I were a simpleton. The authorities were always slow. My life was only a tiny footnote in their list of priorities. They were much more concerned with being able to secure budget, or filing enough reports to justify a marginal promotion, than committing resources to finding one missing person in an ever increasing sea of missing persons. If my name ever lands on the desk of some officer or investigator, it would most likely be accompanied with my mangled corpse chopped up in a hundred pieces, recovered from a little known lake by some kid and their father on their kayaking trip.


    Perhaps I could pretend I was having a heart attack to trick my captors into coming into this room, then overpower them. I chuckled. Not in a million years, I thought wryly. These people can probably snap me like a twig.


    ¡°It¡¯s meal time,¡± came the familiar voice, interrupting my thought. Huh? Has it really been that long? I pondered in confusion. ¡°Place your tray near the door and stay back. If you do not comply, you will not receive sustenance.¡±


    I got up from the bed and placed the tray on the empty floor next to the door. It had nothing but my used serviette, an empty water carton and the core of the apple I ate not too long ago. Only a few seconds after I had retreated to my bed, I heard footsteps from the other side, followed by mechanical sounds and the opening of the rectangular gap. Gloved hands swapped the empty tray with a new one, which had the exact same meal. I only watched as the gap slid closed. It was clear that I wasn¡¯t in a position that compelled my captors to answer any of my questions. I wasn¡¯t particularly hungry, but I ate anyway. If I delayed eating this meal, I¡¯d need to delay the next one, and so forth. Equilibrium was important.


    I couldn¡¯t ignore the fact that my kidnapping occurred on the evening that I was supposed to meet Irene. That seemed too large of a coincidence. After all, Irene was a mystery within a mystery. She was unforthcoming. Almost as though she was deathly allergic to giving me even a scrap of information. It was entirely possible that Irene was involved in my abduction. She and her shadowy associates would fit the anonymity that was preferred by criminals. But why would she do that? I was working on the mathematical problems that were provided to me, which was what she wanted. And the image of a bunch of physicists who were proficient kidnappers was too comedic to be feasible. There was another possibility. Irene had been meeting me to give me information. Classified information. The kind of information that was valuable and possibly destructive in the wrong hands. That must have been why the research was so sensitive in the first place; there were bad actors looking to steal the research, along with whatever other information that Irene had. This meant that I wasn¡¯t necessarily the target. It was Irene. She who carried valuable, physical files. I was merely the associate caught in the crossfire. For all I knew, Irene could be locked in another room, suffering far worse than I was. Worry wasn¡¯t an emotion I expected in the basket of things I felt regarding Irene. But here I was. Sitting on a springy bed. Chewing on a mouthful of sausage. Feeling genuine worry for a woman who had up until now only vexed me. It wasn¡¯t just my life that was in jeopardy now. This was an important fact. The stakes were much higher than I had initially thought.


    I didn¡¯t notice it at first, but the lighting in the room had changed. Initially I thought I had merely become more tired, but as time went on, it became unmistakeable. It wasn¡¯t just that the light had dimmed. The hue had also shifted slightly. Where some time¡ªpossibly hours¡ªago the light had been bright white, the light in the room was now marginally dimmer and had a slight orange tinge to it. It was subtle and became more pronounced over time. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt a good kind of excitement. For I recognised it. The returning of my oldest, most reliable friend. Time, I realised with an almost overwhelming sense of elation. I can tell time! It didn¡¯t have the precision of a proper clock, but just being able to distinguish night from day and keep track of my stay was infinitely valuable. It was like finding an oasis in a scorching desert. An anchor for my sanity.


    Some time later, another meal had arrived with the exact same rituals. First the authoritative voice. Then the sounds of footsteps and metal. Finally, the substitution. The meal was exactly the same as the previous two. With my newfound understanding of the dynamic lighting, I treated this meal as dinner. Which implied that the previous meals were breakfast and lunch. I would go to sleep sometime after this meal. Some semblance of my familiar life returned. A minutia, but it felt like a small, precious victory. This is a weakness, I realised. They can mess with me psychologically by simply changing up the meal schedules. Even a randomly generated schedule would mess me up in ways unimaginable. This made me paranoid. Has it really been a full day? I wondered with a bubbling anxiety. Or has it only been a few hours since my first meal?


    ¡°Oh god,¡± I muttered in a panicked voice. ¡°This is fucked.¡±


    The small victory was immediately dashed. What nominal certainty I had gained was casted to the unknowable void. There was truly nothing I could rely on in the tiny, confined universe of this room. I could have been living three-hour days, or fifty-hour days, and I wouldn¡¯t be able to tell the difference. Time was not only malleable. It was a weapon wielded jealously by my captors. A constricting bind around my neck. And time wasn¡¯t the only distance that was immeasurable to me. I couldn¡¯t tell how close I was from tumbling down from the edges of my sanity. One misstep and I could lose my sense of self.


    I wasn¡¯t sure how much time had passed. The fact that the hue was still dim and warm wasn¡¯t at all a reliable clue. The voice had returned.


    ¡°Mister Young.¡±


    ¡°Doctor Young,¡± I corrected spitefully.


    ¡°I will ask you some questions. You will answer them succinctly and truthfully.¡± His tone never changed. I wasn¡¯t sure if I was talking to a real person on the other side.


    ¡°I will allow it,¡± I said mockingly, ¡°on the condition that you release me afterwards.¡±


    ¡°Do you believe in God?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I answered immediately. He didn¡¯t acknowledge my previous question. But he didn¡¯t reject it either. That gave me a tiny tug of hope in my chest.


    ¡°What is the name of the woman who lives on the same floor as you?¡±


    My heart sank. I couldn¡¯t allow Hope to fall victim to whatever this is. The thought of her being kidnapped made me feel ill. ¡°I don¡¯t know who you¡¯re talking about,¡± I said, mustering as much faux nonchalance as I could. The sudden dryness of my throat didn¡¯t help. I suppressed the urge to reach for the water carton from the previous meal.


    ¡°What is the name of the woman who lives on the same floor as you?¡±


    That same damn question. They wanted me to answer it. It occurred to me that they didn¡¯t actually want Hope¡¯s name. Chances were, they already had it. This was a test. What they were testing for, I couldn¡¯t imagine. Are they threatening me with her?


    ¡°Hope,¡± I answered. ¡°I think you¡¯re referring to Hope. I don¡¯t know her. She works at the university as well, but we don¡¯t work together. We don¡¯t even talk.¡±


    A silence, before, ¡°In your estimate, how long will humanity survive?¡±


    ¡°Not long,¡± I said wryly. ¡°Any day now.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t a question I had put any thought in. It was irrelevant. My answers didn¡¯t matter. I had no idea what they were getting out of these weird interrogations, but my genuine answers were certainly not it. That last question in particular was silly. Why would my captors care about my opinions on a matter that didn¡¯t matter. The only kind of people who would ask these worthless questions to someone they had kidnapped were delusional cultists. I remembered reading up on morbid historical cults in the US. I really hoped that I wasn¡¯t in the thralls of one. Worshipping some ridiculous deity while being abused in every way possible by mad followers was not how I imagined I would go.


    Footsteps. My thoughts halted. My heartbeat quickened. It wasn¡¯t a meal. It couldn¡¯t be. The familiar rituals had not been followed. Could it be that my request to leave had been acknowledged? That would be such a ridiculous outcome that a part of me felt like it might just happen. After all, I had been kidnapped against all odds in the first place. The rectangle on the door slid open and closed in quick succession. In between those events, an envelope fell through. I was too perplexed to be disappointed.


    ¡°You are to have the envelope on you at all times,¡± the voice commanded. ¡°If you lose the envelope, you will die.¡±


    I will die? I thought frantically. He said it in the same firm tone as if he was notifying me that it was meal time. This was the first time I had been threatened so explicitly in this whole messed up ordeal. At this point, it didn¡¯t just feel terrifying, but also out of place. As if being threatened by your favourite teacher. How would I not keep the envelope on me? I was confined to this tiny space after all. I wonder what¡¯s inside of it that¡¯s so important.


    ¡°If you open the envelope, you will die.¡±

 Chapter 7

    As the anonymous progression of time doubtfully marched, the surety of my reality and sanity retreated. The meals came intermittently. Or at least they felt that way. Perhaps they arrived at regular intervals that my mind processed nonlinearly. Sometimes I wondered how many meals I had eaten. But that was an impossible question; in order to provide a quantity I would need to establish an underlying window of time, which was as feasible as trying to scoop water using a bowl with a hole at the bottom. The fact that no meals distinguished from another didn¡¯t help. In this elusive environment, sleep lost its restful quality. Did I sleep for ten hours, I wondered after every wakening, or was it ten minutes? Every momentary lapse in consciousness seemed too short when nothing around me changed. And so every sleep felt too short to be rejuvenating, despite my back aching from spending most of my time lying on the bed. Even my dreams took place in the confines of this room, reflecting the sad fact that my entire world had shrunk to this tiny box. There was shame in the way my subconscious accepted this reality much sooner than my waking mind did. Even the consolation of pleasant dreams wasn¡¯t affordable; they were always of shadowy men coming for me in this room where there was nowhere to hide, or of the disappointed expressions of people I had once known.


    My only respite was the occasional interrogations by the voice. I loathed this fact. I should rail and rebel against my captors trying to extract whatever it was that they wanted from my mind. To protest valiantly with starvation rather than cooperating with the very thugs who forcibly stripped me naked of my autonomy and ejected me from my life. Instead, the voice was the only stimulus in this vacuous torment. And so like a sun-starved plant I couldn¡¯t help but rely on what little I could get. I began to address the voice as Bob. Of course, when I had asked about their name, the voice didn¡¯t dignify me with an answer, so I took the lack of protest as acknowledgement. It was petty amusement, but not unlike a drop of cool water into a parched throat.


    ¡°The latest research you were conducting. What is it about?¡± The voice asked.


    I had wondered whether my kidnapping was in some way related to the manuscripts I had been agonising over in the weeks leading up to that night. It felt likely, even though I couldn¡¯t prove this. After all, they hadn¡¯t mentioned it, and even if that were the case, kidnapping me was a terrible way to secure a productive relationship. Once again, it seemed most reasonable that whoever my captors were, they wanted to know what Irene¡¯s associates were up to. The contents in the mathematical document. That Irene and I were collateral damage in some underground warfare between groups of people with a deadly fixation in mathematics. Despite the absurdity, it was the best I could come up with. Maybe I should have treated Irene nicer, I thought. I guess she really did have a good reason to be discreet. However, this question per se was no evidence for this theory. It could be just another random and pointless question they asked to keep me on my toes. Some time ago, they had asked me whether I was a virgin.


    ¡°Honestly? I have no idea, Bob,¡± I said. My shrug was undoubtedly seen by the surveillance operator. ¡°And you know I only ever tell you the truth. I wouldn¡¯t lie to you, Bob. You know that. I genuinely have zero clue what this research is about. I¡¯m not even sure if I can even call it that. Research is when you try to solve the problem. I didn¡¯t even get that far. I was still trying to read it. Emphasis on ¡®trying¡¯. Anyway. I don¡¯t know. Something about a nondeterministic dynamical system. I think. It was a wild goose chase.¡± I chuckled. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m happier here than to be out there doing that ¡®research¡¯. Thanks, Bob.¡±


    I developed a need to hear my own voice. This need conflicted with my paranoia. It wasn¡¯t even paranoia¡ªthey were listening. And I didn¡¯t want to accidentally say something that incriminated me in the eyes of my captors. So the only opportunity I had to listen to myself was when Bob spoke.


    The only other thing that was significant in the room was the envelope. I had no idea what was in it. I couldn¡¯t even hold it up against the light to peek inside of it. Because I would die. Bob said so. And in this little universe, Bob was God. The only time I had interacted with the envelope was when I carried it from the floor to the bedside table. It felt light, as if there was nothing in there. That had only tempted my curiosity even further. I stared at it as I ate from the bedside table. I would often catch myself staring at it unconsciously. It had a gravitational field around it. And yet, like a bomb, I was terrified of even accidentally touching it. From time to time I would try to guess what was inside that would warrant the threat that was given to me. Some kind of leverage, but for someone who wasn¡¯t me? Perhaps they were interrogating Irene. And Irene, being Irene, had an impenetrable wit about her that the captors were having trouble with. So they were blackmailing her by threatening to reveal extremely sensitive information to me unless she cooperated. That seemed far-fetched, but it was the only explanation I had. Either way, this all felt like a sadistic game where one false move would disqualify our lives.


    I didn¡¯t know how much time had passed in this manner. There had been several cycles in which the light dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed and so forth. But those were no guarantee of days. This limbo I had been placed in was eventually broken. It had been abrupt.


    I had been in the shower when it happened. The streams of water didn¡¯t flinch. But the lights flickered for an instant, before turning off. Without the artificial light, it was pitch black. I fumbled to turn off the shower. As I left the bathroom, a jolting realisation occurred to me. It made my heart race in a way that it hadn¡¯t in a while. The door. It was electronic. It certainly didn¡¯t look that way with its sturdy look and the handle that previously proved to be immovable. But every time food was delivered, it certainly wasn¡¯t human hands that produced the fast, mechanical rhythms. And so I approached the door, caressed it until my fingers found the handle and pushed with bated breath.


    It moved! My mind raced. I felt lightheaded. As I pulled, the heavy door opened. A gust of cool air rushed into me. I listened for a moment. No movements. I pulled a little more to allow for enough room to poke my head out. The corridor was dim, but not pitch black. Maybe there was a power failure and the corridor lights were running on some sort of a low capacity backup generator. I had no idea. I didn¡¯t care. I can run for it, I thought. But should I? I couldn¡¯t guarantee that my attempt would be successful. Perhaps I would get caught and find myself back here. Or worse. But there was at least the possibility that I could escape. If I stayed like a good little dog waiting for his owner, I would be completely at the mercy of these thugs. I would be giving up my self-determinism on a platter. I had to make a fast decision¡ªI didn¡¯t know how much time I had left before the power came back on. I might not get another chance like this again. And so my mind had been made up. I¡¯m going to fucking leave.


    But as I took my first step out of the room, there was something in my room calling me back. It was on my bedside table, next to the tray with nothing but an apple core. The envelope. The one that apparently my life was tied to. If I were to defy them, I might as well not care about the letter either. But something stopped me. Perhaps it was the fact that Bob had explicitly told me that I would die if I lost the envelope, and didn¡¯t say that I would die if I attempted to escape. But something in my mind couldn¡¯t let it go. So I walked back into the room, retrieved the letter and promptly left the confined space again, as if I would be stuck in there if I lingered for too long. Back in the corridor, I was struck with the realisation that my world had expanded. This terrified me. In the small room, I couldn¡¯t be hidden, but neither could anything else hide from me. Out here, I didn¡¯t know what was around each and every corner. I picked a direction and walked. I concentrated to make every step I took as silent as possible, yet it was never enough. Each muted thump banged against my eardrums. My senses were on high alert.


    I jumped when the lights came back on. Having adjusted to the low-light environment, my eyes were temporarily blinded. In that moment I panicked. The power had returned, meaning that my captors would now be aware that I wasn¡¯t in my room. I had to act quickly. There wasn¡¯t much time left. When I recovered, I turned my gaze to the lights. They were cylindrical, but didn¡¯t have the black coating around them, which meant they weren¡¯t eyes. That was fortunate. In this new lighting, the corridor revealed itself. Or corridors. There were many, and I was near the intersection between two of them. There was a sanitary smell. This was not at all some abandoned building I had imagined. The corridors were wider than any I had ever seen, but it was in its length that I found myself awed by. It must have been at least eighty metres across in each direction, with countless doors and several corners on each side. The ceiling also seemed taller than it needed to be. There was something odd about the design of the corridor. Something strange. Surreal. I couldn¡¯t tell whether it felt more like a residential space, a hospital or a bunker. The surfaces of the corridor were white. Sanitary. Like the room I had been in, the corridor was spotless. It was the antithesis of decrepit. It didn¡¯t make sense.


    After walking some paces away, I turned to the door next to me. It was several rooms from where I had been kept. I couldn¡¯t explain why, but there was a curiosity. The door, like every other door, looked different from the room I had been confined in. The colour was brighter. Light grey. There was no rectangular opening either. It looked like a normal door. I felt a strong desire to open it. On the other side could be Irene. Or it could be my captor. Putting my ear to the door, I heard no indications of movement. I decided to risk it. As silently as possible, I pushed down on the handle and slowly opened the door. There was no-one in the room. It was small. About the same size as the one I had been kept in. The room had the same bed and bedside table, but there was a slight but significant difference; the bed wasn¡¯t fixed to the wall, and the table wasn¡¯t fixed to the bed. To my disappointment, it didn¡¯t have any windows. The ceiling light lacked the same surveillance rim. It seemed that only my room was the designated prisoner room around here. On the bed were my clothes. I had those on when they took me. I rushed to check my jean pocket. It¡¯s here! I thought. A sense of hope bubbled in my chest. I unlocked my phone. And it still has battery! The bubble of hope I had felt popped prematurely as the words ¡°No reception¡± responded to my dial for the emergency number. I cursed in frustration. Perhaps the thickness of the walls, lack of windows, largeness of the building I was in, or a combination of all of those factors, had made reception elusive. No matter. I would find it eventually. It was impossible to not get reception in the world we lived in. I just needed to either exit the building or find an opening somewhere.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    After defiantly changing back into my own clothes and pocketing my phone, I continued down the direction that had the nearest end. I opened a few more rooms, but they were the same as the room I had come out of. The rooms on the other side of the corridor had sheets of metal bolted to the wall. I suspected that those sheets of metal covered the windows. This made sense. If I was doing illegal things, I wouldn¡¯t want some curious bystander accidentally becoming a witness either. Eventually, I reached one end of the corridor. There were a couple of elevators. Next to them was yet another room. This one seemed different. The distance between its door and its neighbours was greater than every other I had seen on the way here. Upon opening the door, my suspicions were correct; this room was much larger than the others. And for a good reason. It had a large kitchen with multiple tables. A corner in the room looked like a first aid station, with rolls of gauze bandage fixed to a desk, a cabinet of jars and medical tools, and a tin box of what I assumed to contain a defibrillator. There was a large refrigerator in the kitchen. Opening it, everything that was required to make the exact same meal I had been receiving was there. How long has it been since my last meal? My mind raced. They could be here any minute. At the risk of whiplash I turned to face the door, anticipating a shadowy figure staring back at me.


    The relief of seeing nothing there was immense. However, something had caught my attention. One of the tables at the other end of the room was occupied by belongings. On approach, I began to make out clothes. Grey. A sleeved top and trousers. A dark, thick vest. It looked utilitarian, decorated with pockets of various shapes and sizes. And then I saw it. A handgun. It was small. Concealable within the vest. Self-defence didn¡¯t cross my mind at all until my eyes had landed on this weapon. It chastised me. How foolish I was for not even considering the possibility that I might need to fight to survive. I picked up the gun. It felt light. My suspicions were confirmed when¡ªwith fumbling fingers¡ªI ejected the magazine and found it to be empty. There wasn¡¯t any ammunition on the table. My eyes lingered on the vest, regarding it with accusation. It only took a few empty pockets before I found several rounds. They felt heavy in my palm as I began filling the magazine.


    I wasn¡¯t a gun nut by any means. After all, I grew up in England. But I knew how to load a gun. As well as the surprising threshold of strength needed to be applied to the trigger. As a fourteen-year-old I wasn¡¯t particularly interested in guns, but I was curious about them. Wanted to know how the real thing compared to their depiction in movies. For his part, Damien didn¡¯t think too hard about bringing his younger brother to a shooting range. That was how he was. He didn¡¯t see complications that the rest of our family did. Or perhaps he willfully refused. When his friends thought it would be funny to let me go first at the shooting range. He shrugged in the lazy way he always did. I remember being surprised by the resistance on the trigger, even with both of my index fingers pulling. And suddenly, the threshold had been crossed like slipping from a knife¡¯s edge. The loud blast jolted me, even through the earmuffs. With shaky, sweaty palms I carefully placed the gun on the table as if it was a bomb. The instructor asked if I wanted to fire the rest of the magazine. I had muttered thanks, before retreating away. Damien¡¯s friends had amusement on their faces. The kind of expression I had expected Damien to wear. But he didn¡¯t. I wasn¡¯t sure what was behind his faraway look.


    Not only did I leave the room with the gun, but also with the vest. I called the elevator. As I waited, I looked back towards the corridor. There was something unsettling about it. An in-betweenness. As if it was in limbo. It seemed that most of the rooms were empty. There were no decorations or details that gave away the purpose the architects had intended. It felt almost like an alien¡¯s attempt at sculpting a human space.


    My thoughts were interrupted by a soft tone played by the elevator. Eighth floor? I thought as I read the digit on the electronic display. That had been the least of my surprise. As I walked into the elevator, I noticed there were fifteen buttons with digits. Fifteen floors. But the digits made no sense. The top number was seventeen. The bottom digit was three. I didn¡¯t understand the implications. Did that mean that this elevator couldn¡¯t take me to the ground floor? Or for whatever reason, the ground floor was labelled with a three? Moreover, the buttons were arranged vertically, which was different to the two-column arrangement that was standard for most buildings with many floors. And the uneven space that had been reserved to the right of the buttons implied that there should be labels. Every third level starting from three was highlighted with a light blue. I had no idea what this meant. As I raised my finger to press the bottommost level, I stopped myself.


    Taking the elevator is a bad idea, I realised. There¡¯s nowhere I can hide if someone¡¯s there. And so I promptly exited the elevator and made my way to the adjacent door leading to the stairs. When I made it to the seventh level, there was a feeling that compelled me to stop. There was something surreal about it all. Simply put, it just didn¡¯t feel like a real building. It was missing some element to it. A purpose that I could understand. Or perhaps the building had a purpose unlike other buildings I had encountered in my life.


    Carefully opening the door, I left the stairs and found myself in darkness. A moment later, the lights came on by themselves. Where the previous level had many small rooms, this level had larger corridors and rooms¡ªno, facilities. They looked like blank canvases, lacking any sense of distinction. There was something straightforward about them. Minimal. Pure geometry. Lines that were etched onto this three dimensional space. Given that the lights responded to movement, I was convinced that there was no one else here. Peering into the nearest facility, the space looked empty and vast. A transitory limbo that awaited the imposition of purpose. The adjacent room was not as empty; it had dozens of tables and seats arranged in rows. I imagined this could be a cafeteria. Or a meeting place. I had never seen a building like this before. Perhaps the only thing that could match it in its sheer size and spaciousness was a floor from a large shopping complex. But even that didn¡¯t seem right. The ceiling here was too tall. There wasn¡¯t any sense of the flamboyance that a shopping mall would have, such as shiny surfaces and glass. This space looked purely functional. A dismissal of aestheticism. Yet, despite its vast emptiness, it was immaculately clean. Impossibly so. As if a team of cleaners was hired to scrub this place day in, day out.


    I returned to the staircase. I needed to keep moving if I wanted a chance to escape. The flight of stairs down to the sixth level was longer than the previous. It triggered a moment where I questioned whether my memories of the previous flight of stairs were wrong. I peered through the window. This level was different. Even the colour of the door and the walls in the staircase had morphed from pure white to a light blue. This was a significant floor. Against my better judgement, I entered it. Once again, the lights flickered on with a moment''s delay. And then I was struck by awe.


    A city. There was no other way to describe it. The staircase exited to a street. Streetlights were lined along the sides. There were patches of soil in parallel to the street, which I imagined would be for trees or bushes. The buildings that lined the street were uniformly shaped. Like everything else in this complex, they were vacant. Blank slates. There were windows and double doors. Peering into one, the inside was as expected; empty and spacious. One could set up a business here. Maybe a cafe. Or a jewellery store.


    In this vast space, I tried my phone once again. Still no signal. I pocketed it and continued walking. As I passed what I presumed were storefronts, I began to wonder what the purpose of this place was. To build something like this, in a complex with seventeen levels, was unimaginably expensive. A level of capital would have been required that would make the eyes of the richest individuals water. Capital only flowed in one way; more money. It was inconceivable as to how a mock chunk of a city would be a profit generating machine catching the eyes of investors. But the rational understanding of this place was only an afterthought, because the visceral feelings it invoked in me were overwhelming. It was one thing to understand the abstract representations of a nonexistent place within a blueprint, and another to be inside the said blueprint. This place felt ephemeral. A necessary transient state between inexistence and completeness, and that I had fallen through the cracks of reality into somewhere that wasn¡¯t for anyone¡¯s eyes. That time itself had forsaken this place, and then it had forsaken myself with it. What made a place a place was a sense of entitlement. If I walked into a shopping district, I would be entitled to goods and services and a ritualistic dance that my prospective patronage inherently deserved. If I walked into a residential street, I would be entitled to the knowledge that other people lived here and in an emergency, I could enlist their empathetic assistance. This empty faux district, however, owed me nothing. Not an acknowledgement. Not even an understanding. So it was, in all the relevant aspects, not a place. And yet there was the skeleton of one. The fuzzy potentiality between binaries. A shadow that resembled the familiar. It seeded a dread within me. I didn¡¯t want to become it.


    An intersection. At one end, the buildings that paralleled the walkway gave way to a square that had several benches and an empty but polished fountain. I wagered that it was the centre of this district. When I turned my gaze to the other end, I saw it. Hope. Emancipation. Sunlight. It bled through an opening. My heart raced as my legs took me towards it. I could barely make out the outside, aside from the grey of the pavement. It looked like there was a building on the other side.


    I wasn¡¯t sure what my plan was after leaving the complex. If this wasn¡¯t the middle of nowhere, then perhaps I could find a bystander to whom I could explain the situation. It would be unbelievable for them, certainly. I too would probably doubt the sanity of someone who told me that they were kidnapped and held for no apparent reason in some strange abandoned building. But they couldn¡¯t object to calling the police. But what if I was in the middle of nowhere? Then I would need to find myself a vehicle and just drive. It had been a long time since I had driven, but my life depended on it. My inexperience didn¡¯t matter. I just needed to get far away.


    I was perhaps half a dozen metres from the exit when I saw a shadow slithering on the ground. The shadow doesn¡¯t look right, I thought, before the panic struck. It was too late for me to hide. I reached for my gun.

 Chapter 8

    ¡°Drop your weapon.¡±


    The man¡¯s face was concealed behind a balaclava mask under some kind of a helmet. The design seemed too elaborate to be standard riot gear. His voice, an unfamiliar baritone, was amplified through it. I could barely make out his brown eyes. He was tall, wearing a heavy vest with dark grey fabric underneath. His hands were in black leather gloves that held a handgun. It looked heavier than the one I was holding, but I couldn¡¯t tell whether that was just an optical illusion from my adrenaline drunk mind.


    I was terrified. It was a standoff. And an unevenly matched one. His stance communicated that he was trained. Disciplined. Someone who did this as a living and wouldn¡¯t hesitate to apply unremorseful force. I was a mathematician. A puny sardine in the way of an inescapable current. But I could hurt him. Perhaps even lethally. After all, he was wearing a vest not too dissimilar from mine that I doubted would protect him from a supersonic slug in some places. I am a threat, I tried to convince himself. I have bargaining power.


    ¡°You first,¡± I said. Even I was surprised my voice didn¡¯t waver.


    ¡°That ain¡¯t how this works,¡± he said. It was only then that I noticed his accent. It was a little east London. A little something else. ¡°Your only option is to do as I say and put your gun down.¡±


    The barrel of my weapon was trained on his chest. At least some of the time. It moved as my hands shook. I was conscious of the less than one millimetre distance between my index finger and the trigger. The seconds stretched infinitely. My mind raced as I ran through the possible things I could say. I didn¡¯t want to directly threaten him. Provoking the beast could be deadly. But I also didn¡¯t want to seem harmless. ¡°We don¡¯t need to do this,¡± I said. ¡°I just want to leave. I need to leave.¡±


    ¡°No. You¡¯re not leaving,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re going to slowly drop your gun and put your hands where I can see ¡®em.¡±


    The man stood perfectly still. No nerves. Pure confidence. A brick wall of fatalism. He was an argument. And I didn¡¯t want to be convinced.


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡± I asked. ¡°If it¡¯s my cooperation you want, the least you could do is show some good will and not point a gun at my face.¡±


    ¡°Funny you should say that. Put your gun down and then we can talk.¡±


    ¡°Fuck that,¡± I spat. ¡°I¡¯ve been subjected to whatever this is for way too long. A little courtesy is the least you owe me.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the man said calmly. ¡°You have no leverage here. You have no option but to put your gun down.¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you. All I want is to leave. I really don¡¯t think that¡¯s too much to ask for.¡±


    ¡°What do you think will happen if you went through me?¡± the man asked. ¡°I can tell you right now that whatever you think will happen after you leave that door behind me, you¡¯ll be disappointed.¡±


    A drop of sweat fell from my forehead down my neck. ¡°Of course you¡¯d say that.¡±


    ¡°Of course I would,¡± he parrotted. ¡°And of course I¡¯ll also tell you that you really can¡¯t leave.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡± I yelled. My voice reverberated hollowly throughout the empty complex.


    ¡°It¡¯s just the way it is. Your only hope of leaving is by dropping your gun and doing exactly as I say.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lying. You kidnapped me in the first place!¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if I¡¯m lying or not,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re powerless here.¡±


    There was a bubbling panic, but it was overtaken by a flash of anger. For the first time since acquiring this gun, I felt the cool of the metallic trigger. As my finger pressed on it, it pressed back against my malleable flesh. My heart thumped against my chest like a jackhammer. It felt like I was no longer in control of myself. That I was trapped watching someone else about to cross a physical and metaphorical threshold. This was a kind of fear that I had never felt before. True powerlessness.


    And just like that, my finger slowly retreating from the trigger. I pointed the gun to the ground and flicked the safety on before slowly placing it onto the floor. As I returned back up, I felt shame. A castration. I didn¡¯t know whether that was from surrendering the only power I had, or whether it was a delayed response ever since I had woken up in that tiny room. I held my hands near the sides of my head. I could barely look at the other man.


    ¡°Good,¡± he said. I thought I could hear the muffled amusement in his voice. ¡°Now kick the gun over.¡±


    I did so as asked. Or tried. I hadn¡¯t played football since early high school, and so the weapon had gone off at an embarrassing angle. The man didn¡¯t complain. He slowly walked to my gun while keeping his weapon and eyes on me. He bent a knee down to pick it up and pocketed the gun in his vest before returning to his previous position between me and the exit. He stood still. And in those agonising seconds, I wondered if he was going to shoot me. Maybe he decided I was too bothersome, or perhaps Bob had told him I wasn¡¯t useful. I flinched under the gaze of his eyes and the barrel.


    I saw the shadows before they appeared behind the large frame of the man. Two figures approached from the direction of the building opposite to this one. I squinted to try to make out their outlines. In the dozens of seconds that their arrival took, the details became clearer. A balding man wearing thin glasses. He was round about the waist, but it wasn¡¯t obvious at first due to the strange attire he wore; creamy draped robes made me wonder whether he came straight from a bath. Next to him was a slimmer but taller woman who wore a dark grey, long sleeve jacket and a pair of matching trousers. Her brunette hair was tied back. When they stopped, they were standing next to the guard half a dozen metres away.


    ¡°Ah, Alex!¡± the shorter man greeted loudly. ¡°So we finally meet.¡±


    His greeting felt facetious. I didn¡¯t know what to make of the grin on his face. Is he mocking me? I thought. ¡°Can I finally leave?¡± I asked.


    The boisterous laugh this man had let out grated my patience. ¡°Oh but you¡¯ve only just got here!¡± His accent was distinctly Scottish.


    I didn¡¯t like the way he addressed me. He wasn¡¯t entitled to familiarity. ¡°Who are you and what is all this?¡± I asked severely.


    His smile never left him, as though I was silly for not recognising a friend. ¡°My name¡¯s Lennox. Lennox Muir. But you can call me Lenny.¡±


    I am not going to call this man Lenny, I thought defiantly.


    ¡°As for everything else,¡± Lennox continued, ¡°you can start by reading that envelope you¡¯ve got in your vest.¡± He gestured at his own chest.


    Envelope? What¡ªI suddenly remembered the white rectangle that was tucked near my heart. My awkward motions reflected my perplexity as I hesitantly reached into my vest and retrieved the now creased envelope. I looked at Lennox with an unsure expression and received an encouraging nod. ¡°I was told I would die if I opened this,¡± I said, with a trailing intonation that made it sound like a question.


    ¡°And I¡¯m telling you, you won¡¯t,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I printed that letter you¡¯re holding. And I had also told Greg to tell you that.¡± He chuckled heartily. ¡°Not that it was serious. I just didn¡¯t want to spoil everything for you.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know what to make of how he was making light of the whole situation. I was glad that he didn¡¯t seem threatening, but I also felt an indignance for his frivolity. Telling Bob¡ªGreg¡ªto threaten me was downright sadistic. After all, there was a gun pointed at me a moment ago. I was acutely aware of the fact that the tall man in gear was still holding his gun, even if it was aimed at the ground.


    I slipped my finger underneath the uppermost edge of the envelope and messily opened it. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper. At first I didn¡¯t know what I was looking at. The sentences seemed to elude my comprehension. When I got to the end of the page, I felt faint. This doesn¡¯t make sense, I thought. My eyes returned to the beginning of the page and read it again. And again. Until I looked up at the amused gaze on Lennox¡¯s face.


    ¡°What is this?¡± I asked. The edges of my vision shrank. ¡°Some kind of a joke?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Lennox replied. ¡°Its very existence should assure you that it¡¯s definitely not a hoax.¡±


    ¡°Then what is this?¡± I asked impatiently.


    ¡°It¡¯s exactly what it is.¡±


    I looked down at the paper. Diagrams. Maps. Scripts. They came together like a blaring orchestra to produce an eerie symphony. A synopsis. Of me. Of everything that had happened since I had stepped foot outside of the confined room up to the moment I opened the envelope. The exact doors I opened. The rooms I peeked into. The second guessing that had led me to retrace my steps and turn down a different path. The words that had left my mouth. It was concise. Confident. And yet the only person who could have produced this accurate of an account of my experience was myself. And even I wouldn¡¯t be able to do so, unless I had been writing as I walked. Yet, I had received the envelope containing this paper so long ago, preceding any of the prophecies it asserted. It had been with me the whole time. Untamperable. But this is impossible. No one could know exactly what I was going to do. Because I didn¡¯t. Even the many doors I had opened had effectively acted as a random draw. Chaotic. Unpredictable. And yet, predicted by a small diagram within a paper of prophecies.


    ¡°How?¡± I asked impatiently. I could hear a distinct inflection in my voice. It was denial. ¡°How?¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Well,¡± Lennox began, ¡°maths. Data in, predictions out. I think you know it as machine learning.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know what forecasting is,¡± I said incredulously. ¡°Statistical modelling. Machine learning. All that. But they¡¯re not this¡ª¡± I waved the sheet of paper in my hand, ¡°¡ªaccurate! Even the most cutting edge models are never perfect for simple classification problems, much less for predicting every single random thing I¡¯ve done. That¡¯s bullshit.¡±


    ¡°You assume we¡¯re working under the same limitations as your world,¡± Lennox said. ¡°No. Our progress is at an accelerated pace. Focus on machine learning had only started in the latter half of the twentieth century, yes? Well, we had several decades of a head start. We don¡¯t even call our methods ¡®machine learning¡¯, because that term didn¡¯t exist when our research began. Our scientists boast that they don¡¯t rely on the primitive approaches that academia seems to have missed the forest for the trees for.¡± He chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m sure you of all people can understand how academia is. Anyway, I can¡¯t tell you much more than that. I¡¯m not a scientist.¡±


    ¡°My world?¡± I parroted in bemusement. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°Well. We are Receiverists,¡± Lennox said nonchalantly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.


    ¡®Receiverists¡¯? My mind grinded to a halt. I¡¯ve been kidnapped by the Receiverist research group this whole time?


    ¡°I believe,¡± Lennox continued, ¡°you¡¯ve already met Irene.¡± He nodded to the woman next to him.


    For the first time since they walked in, my attention moved away from Lennox and to the taller woman beside him. Truthfully, I had completely forgotten she was there. But now that I was regarding her properly for the first time, I saw the resemblance that had initially escaped me. Her height. Medium skin. Clean ponytail hair. This was the first time I had seen her without sunglasses. Her eyes were grey. She was wearing the same boots that she had the couple of times I had seen her previously. Looking at her now, I finally realised why the boots had always looked so incongruous on her. They were military. They didn¡¯t fit the dress that she had worn before. But whereas the dress had never quite fit her, the boots did. The expression on her face was blank. Unreadable. Not even amusement in the fact that I hadn¡¯t recognised her. She was looking at me, but didn¡¯t seem to acknowledge me. I felt betrayed. I was embarrassed by the genuine worry I had felt for this woman when I was locked up.


    My gaze returned to Lennox. ¡°So you¡¯re telling me I was kidnapped by a physics research group?¡±


    ¡°We did what was necessary,¡± Lennox said apologetically. ¡°I hope that in time you will come to understand. As for the second premise, no. The research group that has solicited your expertise is only a small group in our community. Your¡­ extraction, shall we call it, was an effort conducted on the behalf of our wider society.¡±


    ¡°So all you want is my help with your research project?¡±


    Lennox nodded.


    ¡°Then why did you people abduct me?¡± I had hoped that I sounded louder, angrier, like an accusation. Instead my tone would have been consistent with addressing an awkward miscommunication.


    ¡°A couple of reasons,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Firstly, we¡¯re in an undisclosed location. We couldn¡¯t transport you here while you were conscious, and there was no way to convince you of that willingly. Our models concluded that with over ninety-five percent confidence.¡±


    I found that hard to believe.


    ¡°And secondly,¡± he continued, ¡°it was for our protection. We take our privacy very seriously, Alex. We can¡¯t have you try anything rash that might hurt us. And you need to know that you won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°So you showed your power by detaining me?¡± I asked incredulously. ¡°That¡¯s psychotic.¡±


    ¡°No, Alex. You need to know that you really won¡¯t do anything to hurt us. Because our models tell us so. The rather regrettable exercise was to prove to you their accuracy, which you now know. You¡¯re holding irrefutable evidence of our predictive prowess. If there¡¯s even a one percent chance that you could be troublesome, we wouldn¡¯t have let you in. But you¡¯re here. And that means you will behave.¡±


    A rebellious anger bubbled inside me. I wanted to call the man pejorative names. But something stopped me. It was easy to swallow the urge down. And that in itself felt familiar. Uncomfortably so. No, I denied with rising anxiety. This doesn¡¯t prove what he¡¯s saying. And I didn¡¯t believe him. It was just all too impossible. The paper I held in my hand had perplexed me. Shook me to my core, even. But distilled to its fundamental components, the envelope trick was not unlike that of being shown something preposterous by a street magician. There was always another explanation. To accept Lennox¡¯s words at face value would be to capitulate to his manipulation. Having kidnapped me in the first place certainly didn¡¯t inspire credibility. But I didn¡¯t know how far I should push them on this line of inquiry. Right now they were trying to convince me to cooperate. I didn¡¯t want to substitute being convinced with being forced.


    ¡°Do I have a choice in any of this?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Of course you do,¡± Lennox said. ¡°This is all about choice. Despite the unpleasant process in getting you here, we don¡¯t want to coerce you into anything. If you don¡¯t want to collaborate with our research, then that¡¯s fine. We¡¯ll take you back home. But what we do here is important, and the only way to truly allow you to make an informed decision is for you to be right here. In our city.¡±


    There were two things that bothered me about Lennox¡¯s proposition. ¡°Hold on. That doesn¡¯t make any sense,¡± I responded. The tone of my voice was the same one I would use to point out a contradiction in an assignment when a haughty student demanded a regrading. ¡°If you truly have a model that accurately predicts my actions, then you¡¯d know what choice I will make anyway. If what you¡¯re saying is true, then I don¡¯t have a choice.¡±


    Irene seemed bored, but Lennox grinned. I couldn¡¯t tell whether it was in affirmation of my reasoning or condescension against it. Regardless, his eyes communicated that he had all the knowledge. And knowledge was power. ¡°Well, you¡¯re right in some ways but not so right in others,¡± he said with a lightness of tone that was akin to a philosopher didactically quarrelling with a student. ¡°We do indeed have an analysis of your likelihood to cooperate with us. It doesn¡¯t consider the specific task at hand that we would like your help on¡ªthat¡¯s too complex for the model to ingest¡ªbut I think it¡¯s a good enough indicator. And no, I won¡¯t give you the numbers.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Not that I remember them. Because honestly, this really is about your choice. Even if you naturally lean towards a particular decision, you still have the right to exercise the other. It¡¯s still your choice in the end. The numbers are irrelevant.¡±


    ¡°Okay then,¡± I said warily. I didn¡¯t know whether I agreed, but I wanted to inquire about my second curiosity. ¡°You mentioned a city. Which city?¡±


    Lennox has said ¡°our city¡±. Something about hearing the word city had brought me a subtle sense of security. It meant I wasn¡¯t taken to some deserted, forgotten town in the middle of nowhere that was too secluded from the rest of society for me to find help. A city is a large collection of individuals living closely, densely together somewhere in some country. Cities are loose. The boundaries between clusters of cultures are fuzzy. A chaotic transfusion between individuals and their incompatible beliefs. If I was in a city, then so was hope. I could be saved.


    There was a flicker of amusement in Irene¡¯s eyes at my question, but it was Lennox who responded with a toothy smile and a non-answer. ¡°Try not to freak out.¡± He moved to the side and extended his arm towards the exit. The gap between his and Irene¡¯s bodies provided, for the first time since they had arrived, an opening. I regarded it suspiciously, but there was no choice but to walk through the exit that I had sought. The guard didn¡¯t have his gun trained on me. He looked relaxed, but he held a stance that warned me not to try anything funny.


    With a deep breath, I walked slowly towards the exit. Lennox only gave an encouraging nod as I walked past him. Irene only observed me blankly. Approaching the wide door, the outside world began to flood in at a reluctant rate. I could make out the building on the other side of the street. Except it wasn¡¯t exactly a street, because streets didn¡¯t have hip-high walls that bounded the path between buildings. A bridge? I wondered in confusion. The sunlight seeping from the outside made me raise my hand to shield my eyes. It was the smell that alerted me that something was off. A city was made up of its plethora of distinct aromas. Fast food and cheap fragrance, and occasionally the tinge of grass and pollen. Always accompanied with the constant undertone of smog, exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. All of which were absent as I inched closer to the exit. Instead, there was only the pungent smell of sterilisation. Of sanitary regulation. It was wrong. The association my neurons had with this smell wasn¡¯t of hospitals, but the confined room I had been locked in. It didn¡¯t feel like leaving the complex at all, but rather merely entering an extension of it. A panic rose within me. It drove me to briskly close in the distance and force my eyes open to see where I was.


    My irises shrunk as my vision was overwhelmed from having not seen daylight in what had felt like weeks. When I had recovered, I wasn¡¯t sure what to make of what was in front of me. Nothing seemed right. It looked like the incomplete, surreal setting that my mind would conjure in my dreams. The kind I would only realise was totally wrong after I woke up. The building in front of me was a grey monolith, towering over me. It wasn¡¯t until I had looked from side to side that I had realised this was a forest, if a forest was populated by trees that were large grey monoliths that were spread in a perfect grid. I realised I wasn¡¯t just in a bridge, but a tunnel. Aside from the ceramic that was beneath my feet and constituted the hip-high walls, the bridge was covered in a transparent screen that extended far above my head. The forest of monoliths was interconnected by a dizzyingly thick web of enclosed bridges. These buildings were indistinguishable, except by numbers. On the facade facing me, about a dozen metres above, were the numbers twelve and ten in a bulky font made up of panels of light. The building I had come out of looked exactly the same, except it had thirteen and ten on the facade facing me.


    I wasn¡¯t on the ground. This fact brought me a nauseating wave of vertigo. It was difficult to judge, but I was over twenty metres above a white and yellow surface. What had tipped me over the edge was the realisation that there was no horizon. Looking into the distance, through the vast, monolithic forest, I saw the same colours. In a panic I looked above, and they were there too. But in front of them was a large grid of tubes that were so bright that I had to look away. There was no sun. There was no sky. There was no atmosphere. This place was perfectly enclosed. I had left a confined space only to find myself in another. And this one didn¡¯t have a door that I could hope against.


    I didn¡¯t realise I was hyperventilating until I heard Irene¡¯s voice. ¡°He¡¯s freaking out,¡± Irene said as she took a step towards me.


    ¡°Stay back,¡± I yelled maniacally. ¡°Stay the fuck away from me!¡±


    I took several paces away from the group and towards the other building. Irene held her hands out placatingly.


    ¡°I need to leave,¡± I muttered. I felt saliva pooling in my mouth. The nausea was overwhelming. I couldn¡¯t hold onto a single thought. I only felt it. The pure white panic that blanketed over everything else. Despite the width of the bridge and the sizable headroom under the transparent ceiling, I felt an overpowering claustrophobia that I hadn¡¯t in that tiny room. ¡°I need to leave.¡±


    As I tried to run, the dam broke. My knees gave out and in a flash, I was vomiting onto the clean ceramic. The tightness around my head didn¡¯t subside. A second wave of putrid contents poured out of my mouth. In my subdued state, I didn¡¯t even register the footsteps walking towards me.


    ¡°Yeah. Someone¡¯s going to need to clean this up,¡± Lennox muttered in disgust. He sighed, before, ¡°Sedate him.¡±


    Almost immediately, I felt strong arms holding the limbs above my waist in place. A prick in my neck followed. And then darkness.


    I saw Damien. I was sitting in the back while he was in the front, driving the ramshackle, second-hand car that mother had always yelled at him about. It had a yellow tint, but I couldn¡¯t remember if that was real. Outside of the car was a blurred amalgamation of everything. We passed by my university campus. The dirty food court our family used to frequent every Sunday. The barely maintained high school we went to. Our old house. There was no horizon in the distance. We kept driving but it wasn¡¯t the car that moved, but the images that passed by the windows like a soft stream. Damien looked back at me. He had that faraway look in his eyes. I asked him where we were going. I couldn¡¯t hear my voice. He didn¡¯t answer. He smiled ruefully at me as I saw the approaching truck behind him.

 Chapter 9

    That sanitary smell again. My awareness was caught in the ebb and flow of my twilight consciousness, but one thing was certain; I wanted to get away from it. The scent of sterility represented something that I resented. Feared. I knew I wasn¡¯t safe before the abstract concept of safety had even returned. As my bleary eyes opened, I stared at the mesmerising shapes on the wall. They were little more than smudges of grey, white and yellow. Any thoughts I had would have been purged into inexistence by the time the images focused.


    It was a window. But not like any I had seen. There was a thickness to the glass. I could tell even from the awkward horizontal position I was in. From my angle, I could see a couple of identical grey buildings. This doesn¡¯t look like my apartment, I thought. And then the memories echoed. As if the force of their impact was tangible, I shot up from the bed. A mistake. The repercussion of the swift movement came in the form of a pounding headache. Whether it was from the drugs that my captors had injected into me, or from the density of the thoughts that inundated the space between my ears, I couldn¡¯t tell.


    After a moment of recuperation, I threw the white blanket off of my body. White trousers and long sleeves. For the second time, they had dressed me while I was unconscious. The idea didn¡¯t bother me as much as it did the first time. After all, my clothes had been blemished with the ejected contents of my stomach. For once, I was grateful. Waking up in vomit would have been significantly less pleasant. It was then that I noticed the softness of the bed I was sitting on. This one had frames and I couldn¡¯t feel the springs of the mattress. This seemingly innocuous detail was important, because like a fractal it repeated itself in everything else. This room was larger than the one I had been kept in previously. The door looked less oppressive and didn¡¯t seem like it was designed to lock me in. There was a window. A study desk with a chair. There was a panel near the door that even had the time. A little past four in the afternoon. So they¡¯re treating me better this time, huh? I thought wryly. But will they let me leave?


    Remembering my experience from waking up last time around, I slowly got up from the bed, making sure my hand was holding onto something at any given time. I was terrified of getting a proper look of the world that lay outside the window. What I had seen from the bridge had shook me to the core. It was as if the universe closed in on itself, and it was no longer infinite. It had slapped me with the weight of my own privilege. I had taken for granted the horizon. The open air. The certainty of the sky above my head wherever I was. The breeze on my face. The splatter of rain on my palms. They were all things I thought I was entitled to. Even when I was locked up in that room, I believed that on the other side of one of the surfaces of the cuboid were those experiences waiting for me. When those notions shattered, a sense of dread that I never knew was possible bore down on me like the crushing pressure of an ocean so deep that even light couldn¡¯t reach me. It was primal. Even thinking about it felt like prodding at a dormant anxiety. And yet, I had to see it. There was the pragmatic reason; I needed to outlast my insanity if I were to eventually leave this place, assuming that was possible¡ªa pragmatic belief in and of itself. But there was also a curiosity in me. This place shouldn¡¯t exist. It didn¡¯t make sense.


    Making my way to the window, the outside world began revealing itself. The structures were not only tall, but wide. They demanded my awe. From this window, I saw many, but it was impossible to tell exactly how many due to their obstruction. And this was just one view. No city¡ªif this place could even be called that¡ªI knew of looked like this. The closest thing that came to mind were the images of Soviet cities. Of tall, interconnected apartment blocks sprawled across snowy Russian landscapes with the organisation of a spreadsheet. The similarities were there; the sameness of buildings, their straightforwardness. But that was as far as the analogy went. If Soviet apartment blocks were brutalist, then these structures were brutalism distilled to a concentrated dose beyond lethality. They looked so devoid of humanity that it was easier to imagine these structures as the remnants of some alien species. One that had completely missed the evolutionary need for individualism. Where real apartments were slimmer and had plenty of room in between, these structures passionately disagreed. There was a tiny appreciation at the back of my mind that had suggested there was something attractive, perhaps even beautiful. I wasn¡¯t sure what it was, and whether it reflected poorly on my state of sanity. I could see windows in the distance. Even the occasional floor that had thick glass for walls. And the bridges of course. There was movement. People. They were seemingly going about their business, but I couldn¡¯t see what they were doing. The horizon, unfortunately, still eluded me. A white and yellow shell that made up the ground, walls and sky. Is this place underground, I wondered, or on the surface somewhere, but enclosed by something?


    The desk had drawers. I opened them one by one. Tissues. Sleeping masks. Unused notebooks. Pens. Three-star amenities, I dismissed mockingly. The idea of me staying long enough to go through them was preposterous. Offensive. The man named Lennox said I would have a choice. If he was serious to any capacity, then I was going to choose to leave. The wardrobe had several outfits. A grey long sleeve and trousers. The fabric was firmer than what I wore. They had pockets and a white stripe above the heart. They think I¡¯d willingly wear their uniform? I thought in defiance. I had the urge to spit on it. I didn¡¯t. Next to the uniform was a lighter coloured shirt and trousers. Beside that was a soft blue bathrobe. In the corner of the wardrobe was a folded set of clothes. Those were the ones I would change into. Because those were what I had worn the night they took me. Thankfully, they were washed. My phone, however, was nowhere to be found.


    There was only one thing the previous room had that this room lacked. The bathroom, which I needed. I opened the door. A small hallway with two other doors. Going through them, one was indeed the bathroom, and the other was another room identical to the one I just left. At the end of the hallway was a simple lounge that doubled as a kitchen. A part of me realised that I wouldn¡¯t be able to afford an apartment like this. On the dining table was a plate of food. A Sandwich. Sausages. An apple. I couldn¡¯t tell whether this was their idea of a joke or if it was all they had. Next to the plate was a tablet. It was small enough to fit the palm of my hand. A sheet of paper on the table had handwritten notes:


    Call me - Irene


    Irene. I had severely underestimated her before. I couldn¡¯t trust her. Unfortunately, I was on their turf now. I had to play by their rules until I could figure out a way to leave. And Irene had to be a part of that. The tablet felt light in my hand. There was a layer to it, which revealed a keyword when I pulled. Pressing a small button on the bottom, the screen lit up. The device was intuitive to use. I typed in Irene¡¯s name and it dialled. I placed the device to my ear. I heard two ascending tones.


    ¡°So you¡¯re finally awake,¡± came Irene¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. Speaking to her non-confrontationally felt like self-flagellation. ¡°You told me to call you.¡±


    ¡°That I did. Now can you move the handheld away from your ear?¡± Irene asked in a subtle amusement. ¡°Nice of you to expose your earhole to me, but I don¡¯t want it. And not that it¡¯s any of my business, but you might want to clean it.¡±


    I moved the handheld in front me and saw the shadow of a smirk on Irene¡¯s expression. I tried to strangle the feeling of embarrassment with exasperation. ¡°Satisfied?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Only mildly. Anyway, go eat some food and shower,¡± Irene said indifferently. ¡°Be ready to leave your apartment in twenty minutes. I¡¯ll come get you.¡±


    ¡°Why? Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°Answers,¡± Irene said. ¡°I did promise them. And they¡¯re with Lenny.¡±


    The call ended with two descending tones. Lenny? I wondered. Oh. Lennox. It might have been petty of me, but in defiance of Irene I decided to shower first. The bathroom lights switched on automatically as I entered. Looking up, I saw that the familiar cylindrical light had no black rim around it, meaning I didn¡¯t have to worry about my privacy. To my immense relief, this bathroom had a toothbrush, toothpaste and shampoo. Brushing my teeth was a ritual I was uncomfortable with surrendering. And not that I cared about my appearance, but I hated the prickly sensation of my greasy hair. All of the products were pure white and unbranded. The toothpaste tube had ¡°Toothpaste¡± in a serif typeface printed on it. The shampoo bottle was the same but with ¡°Shampoo¡± instead.


    I left the bathroom in my own clothes. White collared shirt and blue jeans. The symbol of freedom and liberty. I opened the kitchen cabinets one by one until I found a glass, and filled it up with tap water. It was odourless and looked potable, so I chugged it down without abandon. The food that sat patiently for me at the table was cold, but I dove into it with a shrug. As I ate, I appraised the space around me. Thrice as much as what I¡¯m paying for my place, I thought. At least.


    When the tones played, I jumped. It came from the interfaces that were in every room. The door? I wondered. When I reached it, I looked through the peephole.


    ¡°Irene,¡± I said as I opened the door. Irene wore the same dark jacket she had before.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± If Irene was slighted by my greeting or the lack thereof, she didn¡¯t show it. I doubted she was. She did, however, flick her gaze up and down. I felt self conscious, but that was merely the price of being an ardent defender of my inalienable liberty.


    ¡°Do I need to bring anything?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not really,¡± she said as she began walking. I followed behind her. ¡°But try to keep your handheld on you at all times.¡±


    As the door to the apartment closed, I suddenly panicked. ¡°Wait. Do I get a key to the door or anything?¡±


    ¡°You think this is a hotel?¡± Irene asked flatly. She didn¡¯t turn back to look at me.


    ¡°I guess not.¡±


    ¡°No. But you do have a key. Just place your handheld near the interface next to the door and it¡¯ll unlock.¡± Was she amused? I certainly wasn¡¯t.


    There were many doors and corridors. It was similar to what I had previously traversed, at least structurally. But it was different. There were numbers on the doors. Some doors had decorations on them. A few even had welcome mats in front. The walls were beige. Down the hall, I saw someone appear from a corner and entered one of the doors. This place was lived in. It was breathing. Approaching the elevator, Irene pressed a button and waited. The silence felt awkward.


    ¡°So,¡± I began, ¡°is kidnapping a normal day-to-day job for you?¡±


    Irene looked at me boredly. ¡°When the occasion arises,¡± she said casually.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I said uncertainly. ¡°So what is it that you actually do?¡±


    Her sigh was so subtle that I could barely make it out over the perpetual ambient hum of the ventilation. ¡°There¡¯s really no point explaining it to you before your chat with Lenny.¡±


    The elevator arrived with the fanfare of a soft tone. It proved to be only a temporary respite, as the awkwardness returned ever stronger when the doors slid closed, confining us to an unwanted proximity. Irene didn¡¯t seem bothered. She turned to me with her arms folded across her chest. I felt self conscious.


    ¡°So,¡± she started, ¡°you¡¯re about to get some answers.¡±


    ¡°So you say,¡± I said.


    ¡°But if you had known that this was the process to getting them, would you still have asked?¡± With Irene¡¯s expression and tone, she might as well have dispassionately asked about the weather. I wondered if this was her version of small talk. This place didn¡¯t have weather, right?


    ¡°Well. That depends on the answers,¡± I said casually. It was a pointless question.


    There was a ghostly smirk on her face. ¡°I¡¯m surprised,¡± Irene said. ¡°And here I was, so sure you¡¯d say no and call me terrible names.¡±


    ¡°I can appreciate the idea that some things justify extreme measures,¡± I said. ¡°But I¡¯ll be the judge of that. And you never know. Maybe I¡¯ll call you terrible names later.¡± I thought for a moment. ¡°Or maybe you do know. All that about knowing everything about me and all.¡±


    ¡°We know a lot. But not everything.¡± Irene shrugged.


    We had ascended half a dozen floors above before the elevator opened to a sea of noise. Footsteps from every direction. Conversations that echoed through the open space. Perhaps it was because I had barely seen anyone for a long time, but the bustling of people took me aback.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Irene said from a few paces ahead of me. As we walked, I saw dozens of people who walked with purpose. Like they needed to be somewhere and the floor was purely a transitory state that they wanted to spend as little time in as possible. There were people who didn¡¯t and were content to stroll, sometimes in conversation with a friend. Among them was a group of children who were only approaching adolescence. Their skin colours varied, but they were much more defined by the shades of grey in the clothes that they wore. There were a few in white or beige, but the lack of any saturation or details on what they wore felt strange. It made the crowds feel monolithic. The last time I had been in such an environment was high school. There were several who regarded me curiously as they passed. The distinct clothes I wore made me feel incongruous. I was the outsider.


    The floor was like a city block. The ceiling was higher than the previous floor. There were buildings segmented by streets and walkways. I had seen the bones before, but this was the fleshed version. There were trees and bushes. Streetlights and benches. We walked past a large establishment with dozens of people eating in. Another seemed to be a barber. There was even a bar; The Message. The floor of the larger streets were almost white. There were a couple of people whizzing past in scooters. Perplexingly, I saw a riderless scooter in the distance that moved by itself. The technology in itself wasn¡¯t impressive, but the idea that it was in use had surprised me. Surely they were easy to steal if they were driving by themselves. Unless they were a part of the infrastructure, in which case no one could own one without being a thief. But if so, then surely a lot of these scooters would be needed. After all, how many of these city-block-esque floors existed in this so-called city? One of these monolithic structures could fit many. And there were a lot of them. A multiplicative estimate was so large that it didn¡¯t seem realistic. Then again, the very existence of this place sank the credibility of my notions of what was possible.


    We walked out of an exit from one of the sides of the floor and onto a bridge. Looking out from the glass, the view invoked a sublime feeling. It was humbling. People were reduced to the size of ants as I watched them walk along bridges in the distance. The bridges were like veins, the people were like cells flowing from one to the other. It struck me that this place had so many of these structures for a reason. There must be a lot of people. It was dizzying to think about.


    ¡°Why is everything sealed?¡± I asked. ¡°Is the air outside not breathable?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s toxic,¡± Irene answered as she glanced back at me. ¡°No open atmosphere.¡±


    A thought struck me. ¡°Were you born here?¡±


    ¡°I grew up here.¡±


    The floor of the building we entered looked structurally similar to the previous, but it wasn¡¯t exactly the same. While there were still eateries and other services, the square of this floor was much larger. At the centre was a large statue of a man and woman looking up above, reaching out for something. Or perhaps accepting something. Perhaps God. The grand aesthetics of this floor was a stark contrast to the distilled utilitarianism of everything else about this place. We waited for an elevator. When it arrived, we entered and Irene placed her handheld next to the panel. A high pitched tone played, before Irene pressed sixteen on the panel. The only number higher was seventeen. We stood in silence as the elevator took us up. It was less awkward than before. I wondered what changed. Irene turned. Her eyes met my darker ones.


    ¡°The sooner you accept this, the better,¡± she said. ¡°We didn¡¯t bring you here to harm you. And while we may take necessary precautions to ensure our safety as well as yours, we aren¡¯t cruel. We¡¯re different.¡±


    A response came to mind, and I was about to voice it when the opening of the elevator interjected. Irene began walking before I could say anything. This floor appeared to be an office. There were open areas with desks of people wearing light grey. Above their chests were blue stripes of varying quantities. Whereas the people in the previous floors had looked at me with passing curiosity, these office workers seemed to either regard me with boredom or amusement. They weren¡¯t curious. They knew something about me. Perhaps just another kidnapee they see every once in a while. We left the open floor and entered an area with many closed doors. The walls were sparsely decorated with frosted glass that gave away the fact that they were offices. On the doors were small screens that displayed names.


    We stopped by a door that said ¡°Lennox Muir¡±. Irene placed her handheld near the interface on the wall next to the door. A second later it opened.


    ¡°Ah, Alex!¡± Lennox greeted enthusiastically as he turned away from his monitor. ¡°Come in.¡± As I entered, he nodded to Irene and she left. The door closed behind her. ¡°Make yourself comfortable,¡± he said as he gestured towards the guest area in his office.


    Luxurious didn¡¯t quite seem like the right descriptor, but it certainly applied to the spaciousness. The desk that Lennox rose from was so large that it wouldn¡¯t have fit into my measly office in Miller University. The area he had gestured me towards had two couches arranged around a coffee table. Each was large enough to comfortably substitute for a bed. I took refuge on the one that faced the door. Lennox sat on the other.


    ¡°Do you like coffee?¡± he asked as he pulled out his handheld.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I answered. At the encouragement in Lennox¡¯s eyebrows, I added, ¡°A flat white, no sugar.¡±


    ¡°Done,¡± he said, after a moment of tapping at his handheld. His gaze returned to me with a wide smile. ¡°Well. I didn¡¯t manage to say it before you puked your guts out, but welcome to Sanctuary.¡±


    ¡°Sanctuary,¡± I tasted the name on my tongue. It sounded pretentious. ¡°Is that the name of your nation or community, or this city?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the name of our marvellous city.¡±


    It would be like calling Las Vegas Gambling Den, or San Francisco Vastly Overpriced. That was, assuming that the name was a fitting descriptor for this city. As far as I was aware, a better name would have been Prison.


    ¡°I want to get down to business,¡± Lennox said. ¡°But I¡¯m sure you have lots of questions. Now¡¯s your chance to ask them.¡± He gestured with his open palms, as if he had nothing to hide. That seemed contradictory to the very nature of this place.


    I took a moment to think about where to start. ¡°Who are you people?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already told you. We are Receiverists,¡± Lennox said. ¡°But I understand that¡¯s not a helpful answer. We are a secluded society from the rest of the world. Both socially and geographically. Our existence is perfectly concealed.¡± There was hint of pride in his voice about that last part.


    ¡°A nation?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Sure. You can think of us in those terms familiar to you, if you like,¡± Lennox said with a shrug. It was a long winded way of producing an arrogant ¡°no¡±. ¡°But we think concepts like nation, country and state are too limiting. They have connotations that are inherently counter to our project. For one, the naming of our city was not a mistake. We really do plan on becoming humanity¡¯s sanctuary for survival in the future. And this simple idea can¡¯t exist for a nation. Because nations compete. They go to war. They only consider unilateral progress within petty and arbitrary borders. This myopia doesn¡¯t exist for Receiverists. We pursue progress from a holistic perspective. From the necessary scope of humanity as a whole.¡±


    He believes what he¡¯s saying, I noted. It was in the rise and fall of his tone. His eyes had the religious glint that I had seen only in pastors. That was dangerous. True believers didn¡¯t take offence. They experienced sacrilege. But I had to press him, because fraudulent conversions were perhaps even worse than not believing in the first place. ¡°If your ambition is to become the saviour of humanity, then why are you so hidden?¡± I asked. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be trying to make a dent in the long list of problems that plague every country?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a fair point. If that was feasible, we¡¯d certainly try,¡± Lennox said with a shrug. ¡°But the more likely outcome is our destruction. Nations don¡¯t tolerate perceived competitors, much less threats. The very idea of a society acting in the benefit of another would be perceived as an assault on sovereignty. Even if they accepted our help, they would be petulant, greedy children. It¡¯s not hard to imagine the scenario where a country would consider our indiscriminate assistance of their adversary as conspiratorial. We would very quickly make enemies whose military intelligence would draft first strike scenarios and strategies for infiltration and destabilisation. It would be the end of our project as we know it.¡±


    The door opened. A young olive skinned man in a black apron entered with a tray of two cups. ¡°Here you are sir,¡± he said.


    ¡°Ah, thank you Ahmet,¡± Lennox said warmly.


    The man nodded with a smile before placing a cup on my side of the table. He left without another word.


    ¡°You must have missed this, eh?¡± Lennox said before taking a small sip. ¡°So anyway. That was the first issue. The second is that it would be pointless.¡±


    ¡°Pointless?¡±


    Lennox nodded. ¡°We know for a fact that the world, as you know it, will end. Someday, sooner or later, some catastrophic event will wipe out modern society. Even if we could help, it would only be delaying the inevitable. Becoming involved with the world above would mean that when the Event happens, we would be taken down with it.¡±


    ¡°How are you so sure that everything¡¯s coming to an end?¡± I asked. I was on the edge of the couch.


    ¡°I can tell you that all of the hundreds of thousands of simulations our scientists have run all resulted in total calamity, but come now. You don¡¯t need all that tech to tell you the obvious. Especially for a clever person like youself, Alex.¡± Lennox took a sip of his coffee before continuing. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve seen all the signs. The numerous ticking time bombs that could tear society apart. You already know this. I¡¯m not really telling you anything new, am I?¡±


    I lifted the cup to my lips and blew before I took a cautious sip. The aroma was delicious, but the taste was bitter. Lennox was right. I did miss this.


    ¡°That¡¯s kind of pessimistic, isn¡¯t it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s pragmatic,¡± he corrected. ¡°And I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll find that Receiverists are many things, but being pessimistic is not one of them. We are hope.¡±


    This is a grand narrative, I thought. And grand narratives are never what they seem. ¡°So you¡¯re expecting a society ending event. This city is called Sanctuary. And you¡¯re called Receiverists. Does that mean you¡¯ll receive refugees¡ªor what¡¯s left of humanity¡ªhere, when it happens?¡±


    Lennox nodded as he took a sip of his coffee.


    ¡°Where is here, exactly?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Somewhere underground,¡± Lennox answered, before smiling knowingly. ¡°I can¡¯t tell you exactly where, of course. If I did, we couldn¡¯t let you leave.¡±


    Despite feeling a stir of hope from that last sentence, the hairs at the back of my neck stuck up. ¡°So I can leave?¡±


    ¡°Oh of course,¡± Lennox chuckled, as if the obviosity was overwhelming. ¡°I keep telling you but you don¡¯t seem to believe me. Yes, you can choose to leave if you wish. But we ask only that you stay for a week.¡±


    ¡°A week?¡±


    ¡°Yes. By the end of the week, we want you to decide whether you¡¯d like to stay a little longer to help with the research you¡¯ve already been exposed to, or whether you¡¯d like to go home.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± I asked incredulously.


    ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Lennox said.


    I scratched my head. ¡°What is it about the research that¡¯s so important? It¡¯s just maths. And gibberish maths at that.¡±


    ¡°You of all people should know the importance of maths,¡± Lennox chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s the driving force behind the technology that allows this city to exist in a place that no city should. Maths is the energy powering the predictive algorithms we so heavily rely on. And maths is what will save us. Save humanity.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a bit dramatic.¡±


    ¡°No. Not at all. I can¡¯t tell you very much, partially because I¡¯m no scientist, but I¡¯ve been told that our research group is working on a model of particle physics that will ensure humanity¡¯s continued survival.¡±


    I don¡¯t believe it, I thought firmly. And yet, something ever so slightly stirred inside me.


    ¡°And all of that work hinges on the maths problems that they have sent you,¡± Lennox continued. ¡°So in very literal terms, you hold the key to saving us all. But of course, we can¡¯t force you into it. So all we ask is for you to spend a little time in Sanctuary and see the context¡ª the importance¡ªbehind your research.¡±


    So that¡¯s the deal, I thought. If he wasn¡¯t lying, then all I needed to do was spend a week here and give him the disappointing news that I wasn¡¯t interested. And then I could be back in my own apartment, as if none of this had ever happened. But that¡¯s assuming that he wasn¡¯t lying. I had no proof that he wasn¡¯t, and I doubted that such a proof could ever be produced. All I had was this man¡¯s word, which was utterly worthless when the power imbalance was this great. He had all of it. I was on his turf. There were no friends here¡ªeveryone was a potential threat. Quite literally, I had nothing. As I took a long sip from my coffee, I saw Lennox¡¯s eyes trying to read me. Or perhaps he had.


    ¡°So this is what I¡¯m thinking,¡± I said. Lennox gestured with his eyebrows for me to continue. ¡°I¡¯m totally powerless here. I¡¯m completely at the whims of you and your associates. You¡¯re telling me all this, but I¡¯m in no position to question you. You might as well keep me here forever if you so choose to. I want to believe that you¡¯ll keep your word, but I would be lying if I told you I did.¡±


    Lennox thought for a moment. ¡°No, you¡¯re right.¡± I was caught off guard when he abruptly stood up from the couch and walked back around his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a black object. My eyes went wide. ¡°If you don¡¯t do as I say, then you¡¯re gonna eat a fucking bullet.¡±


    For a terrifying, nerve-racking moment, everything stood still. I was sitting on his admittedly comfortable couch, holding my coffee with a clammy palm, looking down the barrel of the handgun that Lennox was holding several metres away from behind his desk. And then he broke out into a harsh laughter.


    ¡°Oh god, you should see the look you have on your face right now!¡± Lennox wheezed out in between obnoxious cackling. ¡°I¡¯m just pulling your leg, mate. No, I''m not going to threaten you at gunpoint. That would be counterproductive.¡±


    Lennox returned to the couch. He placed the gun on the table and slid it over to me. I recognised it. It was the same one I had found during my escape attempt. He gestured towards it with a nod.


    ¡°It¡¯s loaded,¡± he said. ¡°And it¡¯s yours. Keep it as a gesture of our goodwill, that I¡¯m giving you something that can kill me. And maybe a few others if you¡¯re a good shot.¡±


    I reached for the gun with shaky fingers. As I did, Lennox tapped onto his handheld. A moment later, the door opened. Irene was on the other side.


    ¡°I think that¡¯s enough for today,¡± Lennox said as he stood up. ¡°I¡¯m sure you have a lot to think about, and I definitely have some more work waiting for me.¡±


    As I reached the door, Lennox added, ¡°And because I¡¯m feeling generous, you can consider today your official first day here.¡±


    Following Irene back to the apartment, I noticed that the bright lights at the ceiling of this cave, the ones that substituted for a sun, began dimming. The weight of the gun felt heavy. As I walked in silence, I couldn¡¯t help but think, What does the gesture of giving me this gun mean, if he already knows that I won¡¯t end up using it?

 Chapter 10

    Being trapped in a vast, indifferent place was not a foreign experience. After all, children don¡¯t choose the parents they were born to, and so they are left to the whims of their parents¡¯ desire to live at a particular place. Or their incapability to escape it. My parents didn¡¯t have a particular affinity for London, but they didn¡¯t have any disaffinities for the city either. They were indifferent. As one might be to the fact that there were twenty-four hours in a day. The reason for their stasis was obvious, but as a young boy who was still losing teeth, I loathed the city. Not because I had some inherent dislike of the sprawling suburbanness of outer London, but because of what the city had felt like to me as a child; constraining. Like a layer of viscosity up to my knees. I didn¡¯t have the means to get around. I didn¡¯t have any money to buy the things on display behind glass facades. I didn¡¯t have a working knowledge of the concrete hive of which I inhabited, nor knew how and why it existed. For each friend I had, there was an abyss of mammals who looked like me, but was no more relevant to me than the distant stars in the rare cloudless nights. It seemed that twenty years later, I had, in essence, returned to that city. Nevermind the lack of a sun and atmosphere.


    I had slept well enough to not dream. Or perhaps I had but merely forgotten. Since returning to this apartment the previous so-called late afternoon, I hadn¡¯t left. I had sat at the chair in front of my desk and stared out the window at the alien sight. For the first dozens of minutes, I tried to extract as much information out of the view as possible. The bridges had traffic every now and then. The traffic abided by familiar wave-like patterns. Sometimes, there were people in the windows of the other buildings, but they could be doing anything and I wouldn¡¯t be able to tell. My mind tried to conjure hypotheses about how the city worked, but in the end it didn¡¯t matter. This was just another London. And I was no less constrained than a young boy. And so my gaze became unfocused. Absent. As if trying and failing to find the horizon that I so dearly missed. At some point I laid on the bed to muse about nothing and everything. And I must have dozed off for an hour or so. Sitting at that chair and taking that view again, it appeared that the city was no less lively at night than it was during the day. The bright, wide lighting system that beamed from the ceiling was a discomforting sight to behold. It was as if the sun¡¯s intensity had reduced to a fraction, but the Earth had flown right up to it. Light was only meant to come from distinct sources, not from everywhere at once. It gave the disorientating sense that all the monolithic structures existed in an office space. I had a kinship with the shadows here. They were as constrained as I was.


    By the time the interface on the wall of my room suggested it was early afternoon, I had realised that I needed to leave the faux safety of this apartment. It was a life or death matter. I had thoroughly rummaged through the refrigerator, every cupboard, cabinet and drawer twice. There was no food. I could perhaps call Irene, but this felt like it would be a humiliating admission of defeat. I needed to act on my own. To exercise what little autonomy that I still had. The city wasn¡¯t appealing to me at all. It was strange and unfamiliar and dangerous¡ªif my kidnapping was anything to go by. But I did not intend to go down starving. I didn¡¯t want to draw attention to myself so I settled for the grey long sleeve and trousers in the wardrobe. The one with the single white stripe above the heart. And I brought the gun.


    The corridor was empty. I didn¡¯t know how things worked around here, but if it was anything like the surface, then it would currently be the middle of a work day. I did my best to retrace the route that Irene had taken me on yesterday, but I was certain I had deviated. There were simply too many corridors and turns. Nevertheless I found an elevator. When it had arrived, I was alarmed to find a couple of other passengers inside. A man and woman, wearing similar grey attire that clothed my own body.


    I suppose it makes sense, I thought. It is an elevator after all. And I¡¯m definitely not the only person here. After an awkward moment, I walked in and pressed the same level that Irene had taken me through yesterday. Several floors above. As the elevator began ascending, I saw their amused eyes on me.


    ¡°So. New?¡± the man said. He was barely suppressing a grin on his face.


    ¡°I guess?¡± I responded uncertainly.


    ¡°Must be like heaven here, eh?¡± he said.


    The woman must have seen the confusion on my face. ¡°Too early to tell, then,¡± she said slyly. The elevator door opened. I took the opportunity and left. Conversing with these people¡ªcultists?¡ªwasn¡¯t something I wanted. The less the better. Or maybe I¡¯m going about it the wrong way, I realised. Maybe I should pretend to be more friendly. Get on their good side so they¡¯re less inclined to brutalise me.


    The setting was familiar, but the angle was different. This was the same floor that Irene had taken me through yesterday, the one that looked like a city block. There were dozens of people walking through the street. I felt like an imposter who risked cruel punishment if discovered. My legs began taking me in a random direction. There was a food court somewhere. In front of me, the boundaries of the street gave way to a square. There were people sitting on the benches, talking animatedly about something. There were young children playing by the fountain. There were a few people in solitude. One teenage boy sat at a bench reading something. It caught me off guard just how normal this scene looked. It took effort to remind myself that it couldn¡¯t be.


    Several minutes later, I managed to rediscover the food court I had peeked into the previous day. Entering through the sliding doors, I saw dozens of people scattered across the many rows of tables, each with a tray of food in front. They took up less than half of the capacity. Most ate with someone else or a group. Only a few were by themselves. Despite the spaciousness of the interior, there were only two food vendors. One on either side of the area, but each was large enough to take up almost the entire length of the wall. There was a large screen above each vendor. One displayed Salazar¡¯s Salvation In Sanctuary. The other had Northern Chinese Hand-Made Noodles. Naturally, I gravitated towards the one with the less terrifying name.


    I took a few steps towards the noodle shop before stopping. Shit, I don¡¯t have any money, I realised. Once again, this was a problem that in theory, I could solve by calling Irene. She would probably tell me to wait where I was in her patented flat tone and before giving me food vouchers. Or perhaps she would tell me that I didn¡¯t have the privilege of being able to participate in the consumerism of Sanctuary and taunt me with the familiar ham sandwich and sausages feed. But that was out of the question. I wasn¡¯t interested in depending on Irene, to donate another weapon into her arsenal. No. I would beg from other people if I needed to. Surely someone in this city would have an ounce of empathy for the poor mathematician who had been kidnapped and forced to remain in this overengineered prison. And so I marched onwards.


    ¡°Hello,¡± I greeted the bored looking young man behind the counter. At first I didn¡¯t think he looked Chinese, and I was slightly put off by this. But studying his face up close, I realised that he was. But he also had features that I recognised in Eastern Europeans.


    ¡°What¡¯d you like?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Uh. Before we get to that, I must tell you that I have no money,¡± I admitted sheepishly.


    The young man looked at me like I had just spoken nonsense. ¡°Sorry?¡±


    ¡°I have no money,¡± I repeated. ¡°I wasn¡¯t given any by my¡ª¡± captors? I can¡¯t say that. Who¡¯s to say that everyone here isn¡¯t in on it?¡ª¡°by the people who brought me here.¡±


    The young man¡¯s gaze flicked to my heart. I instinctively followed. A single white stripe. When I met his light brown eyes again, there was a fascination in them. Like one might have when looking at a flock of pink flamingos in an enclosure.


    ¡°Ah okay. Well, we don¡¯t use any money here. Just pick whatever you want.¡± It had only occurred to me that his accent was a mixture of English and American.


    ¡°Oh, so everything is free?¡± I asked in disbelief.


    ¡°Free?¡± he looked confused for a second, before seemingly reaching some kind of understanding. ¡°Yes, free.¡± The tone in which he pronounced the word made it clear that it wasn¡¯t a part of his vocabulary, at least not in this context. The way that a student of a foreign language might produce a permutation of words that are grammatically and semantically correct, but still feel off to a native speaker.


    ¡°Huh. Then can I have the¡ª¡± I squinted my eyes at the screen behind the young man¡ª¡°biang biang noodles?¡± I had positively butchered the pronunciation.


    ¡°Sure,¡± he said. ¡°Scan your handheld here, please.¡± The young man gestured towards a small interface on the counter. A tone played when I placed my handheld near it.


    ¡°Your handheld will tell you when it¡¯s ready.¡±


    I muttered thanks and took a seat at an empty table nearby. The kitchen behind the counter was open. A few kitchen hands were at work, including one that was stretching impossibly long ropes of noodles. The young man joined them. He said something to the group and they laughed. A couple of the other staff turned their heads towards me. I looked away in embarrassment. I was the naive tourist who committed an innocent faux pas that I couldn¡¯t possibly have known about. I didn¡¯t even ask to be here! The young man returned to the counter to take orders from a few other customers who had entered after I did. Some customers returned their trays back to the restaurant as they left.


    It wasn¡¯t long before my handheld played a sound and lit up. My tray awaited me at the counter. It smelled heavenly. I gave yet another thanks as I picked up the tray and took it closer to the centre of the seating space. I didn¡¯t want to feel the eyes of the young man and his coworkers on my back. The table I settled at didn¡¯t have any patrons in any adjacent table. Noticing that I hadn¡¯t been provided with any beverages, I looked around and saw drink dispensers along another wall. I briskly walked over¡ªas if walking leisurely would risk losing the food I had gotten for free¡ªand filled a glass with water. There were other beverages, among them included orange juice and pear soda, but I didn¡¯t feel particularly bold at the moment. When I returned, to my great dismay someone else had decided to settle at a table adjacent to mine. A girl. She couldn¡¯t have been older than fifteen. The tray in front of her had a single taco and a salad of impressive variety. I paid no further thought as I dug into my own meal. Like a savage animal, once I began devouring I couldn¡¯t stop. I hadn¡¯t eaten in more than eighteen hours, but I had been taste starved for far longer. The lack of variation in the meals I had been served by my captors had reduced my taste buds into believing that the world was monochromatic. The innumerable spices and ingredients in this bowl of thick noodles had reminded me that there was joy in nourishment. That it could be more beautiful, more moving than a song or painting.


    ¡°My mum would scold me for eating like that,¡± came a youthful, melodic voice. I turned my gaze towards the girl. Her voice was deeper than I had expected. She wore a frown, but there was a hint of curiosity behind it. I looked down at my bowl of noodles. It was more than three-quarters finished. But the tray¡ªand to a lesser extent the table¡ªlooked like a crime scene.


    ¡°Mine too,¡± I said as I wiped my mouth with a napkin. For an infinitesimal gap between the seconds, my mind wondered what other aspects of my life my mother would disapprove of, before sending the thought into the place that discarded thoughts went. ¡°I guess I was just hungry. And these noodles are the best thing I¡¯ve had for a long time.¡± I wasn¡¯t exactly sure why I felt the need to justify myself.


    The girl nodded vacantly. ¡°So. What¡¯s the surface world like?¡± she asked. Ah, so that¡¯s what she wanted to actually talk about, I realised.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°How did you know I¡¯m from the surface world?¡± I asked. The phrase ¡°surface world¡± felt strange to my tongue. It wasn¡¯t long ago that that was just the world.


    ¡°You stick out like a sore thumb,¡± she said with a prideful smirk as she folded her arms on the table. ¡°You¡¯re constantly looking around like you¡¯ve never been here before. You¡¯re always looking behind you like you¡¯re being followed or something. See¡ª¡± She points at my face¡ª¡°you¡¯re doing it now!¡±


    I didn¡¯t even realise I was turning around to see if anyone was in earshot until she mentioned it. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± I admitted.


    ¡°And,¡± the girl said with a finger in the air, as if she was delivering an irrefutable deduction against me, ¡°you have the white stripe.¡±


    I looked down at it yet again.


    ¡°You don¡¯t even know what it means, do you?¡± she asked rhetorically. I was beginning to get the impression that she liked pointing things out to her peers. And perhaps even to her teachers too.


    I stared at her. She wanted me to admit my ignorance. I didn¡¯t want to give her the satisfaction. And she was going to explain it anyway.


    The girl sighed after a moment of silence. ¡°It¡¯s the transient insignia,¡± she explained. ¡°That you¡¯re new, but you might only be here for a short time.¡±


    I leaned in. ¡°And what happens after?¡± I asked earnestly. ¡°Do I get to leave?¡±


    The girl shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s not up to me,¡± she said. ¡°Maybe you can leave. Maybe you¡¯ll get shot.¡±


    My face paled. ¡°Are you serious?¡±


    The girl grinned mischievously. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not funny.¡±


    She stuffed a forkful of salad into her mouth, chewed for a few seconds, before, ¡°Maybe not. But it¡¯s not like it matters. Whatever happens, happens.¡±


    I felt frustrated with this girl. I sighed and sipped from my glass. ¡°What about your insignia?¡± I pointed at the single aqua blue stripe above her heart. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    The girl looked at me disapprovingly and slowly shook her head. ¡°Nope. You need to answer my question first,¡± she said firmly. ¡°I¡¯ve been very patient.¡±


    ¡°What question?¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°The surface world?¡±


    ¡°Oh, right.¡± I leaned back into the chair. ¡°It¡¯s a lot more open, that¡¯s for sure. The sky. Sun. Grass. Wind. Rain. Beaches. Birds. All that stuff. It¡¯s much nicer than this place.¡±


    The girl looked offended. ¡°That sounds awful.¡±


    I was taken aback. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Oh I¡¯m sure you know,¡± she said. ¡°All the pollutants in the air. Best case scenario you get asthma. Worst case scenario you get some kind of cancer. I hope you have asthma and not cancer.¡±


    I raised an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m sure on a statistical level you have a point. But have you ever been on the surface before?¡±


    The girl shook her head.


    ¡°Then maybe you won¡¯t ever understand. You can read all the facts and measurements about being on the surface, but the appeal of being out in the open is beyond a list of numbers. I bet you¡¯d feel something you¡¯ve never known before if you stood on the surface even for a second.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m gonna have to pass on the skin cancer,¡± she said. ¡°I just don¡¯t see it. Down here, the air is filtered. There aren¡¯t any bugs. The temperature is perfect. You don¡¯t have to worry about the weather.¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°To each their own.¡±


    ¡°Anyway. I¡¯m a student,¡± the girl said. ¡°That¡¯s what this colour means.¡± She pointed at her aqua blue insignia.


    ¡°What do you study at school here?¡± I asked boredly. I wasn¡¯t too interested, but this girl was the first person I could have a conversation with without wondering whether they were going to kill me or not.


    ¡°We have schools for all sorts of things. I¡¯m studying energy engineering myself,¡± she said proudly.


    ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°Fourteen. Why?¡± the girl asked suspiciously.


    ¡°No reason. If I¡¯m being honest, apart from how you look, nothing about you is like a fourteen-year-old out there.¡±


    ¡°What were you doing when you were fourteen?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Growing up too fast,¡± I answered.


    ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°So why do you want to be an energy engineer?¡± I asked.


    The girl must have heard something in my voice or seen something in my expression. ¡°Well. It¡¯s interesting and important. Humanity¡¯s not gonna survive in the long run unless we improve our sustainable energy solutions.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s commendable.¡±


    ¡°And the algorithm said it was one of the things I¡¯d be good at.¡±


    The conversation paused for a few moments as we mutually remembered that our food was only getting colder. As I chewed on yet another long, oily noodle, I reflected on the familiar education system that I knew. The kids in my high school who seemed to disappear. Those who didn¡¯t do well, who wore shoes that were held together by cheap glue. There were even high achievers who were desperate for scholarships. I didn¡¯t know whether I was lucky for landing one, or unlucky for needing one in the first place. I never found out what happened to the ones who were unlucky in both aspects.


    ¡°So,¡± the girl interrupted my introspection. ¡°What do you think of this city?¡±


    I thought for a moment. ¡°Creepy.¡±


    ¡°Creepy?¡± The girl looked positively scandalised.


    ¡°It¡¯s the perfect descriptor,¡± I said. ¡°There¡¯s no sky. Looking outside always makes me realise how oppressive the buildings look. And there¡¯re so many of them. It all makes me feel creeped out. And your society too. Some of it feels dystopian. Other parts sound too good to be true. And that¡¯s before even accounting for my experience with some¡­ Receiverists over the past few weeks. So yes. Creepy.¡±


    The girl looked thoughtful for a moment. ¡°Interesting.¡±


    ¡°Interesting?¡±


    ¡°Is that why you carry a gun?¡± she asked innocuously.


    For a moment I was confused. Until I remembered the cold weight pressing against my lower back. There was a slight embarrassment at the fact that a schoolgirl had just nonchalantly asked why I had a gun on me, in the same way that one might ask why someone was bringing fish feed to a swimming pool. She wasn¡¯t even supposed to know that I was carrying.


    ¡°It¡¯s to make me feel safe,¡± I said.


    The girl looked perplexed. ¡°But shouldn¡¯t you not feel the need for it?¡±


    Nothing about what she just said made sense to me. ¡°What¡ª¡±


    ¡°I guess it makes sense,¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°You¡¯re not from here. You probably think differently.¡±


    ¡°Sure¡­?¡±


    I was going to ask her what she meant by that, when she checked her handheld and abruptly stood up.


    ¡°Crap, I lost track of time,¡± she said as she picked up her tray.


    As she began walking away, I called out, ¡°Hey, I¡¯m Alex by the way. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    She turned around briefly. ¡°Charlie.¡±


    After finishing my meal, I brought the tray along with the napkin and empty glass back to the noodle shop. I stepped outside of the food court, back onto the street outside. Now what? I wondered. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. And it wasn¡¯t even three according to my handheld. With a shrug, I decided to stroll around this floor. It seemed like a public area. Like I wouldn¡¯t get into trouble for exploring this space. I walked past a clothes store that had a mannequin wearing a grey top and trousers, and another wearing a beige dress. I recall seeing a couple of women wearing dresses on the way to the food court. Peering into the store, there were variations of colours on the garments, but they were desaturated and patternless. There were also stores for electronics, mattresses and furniture.


    Two realisations had struck me, and they both had to do with things that weren¡¯t there. The first was the absence of ostentation. None of the stores were colourful. They didn¡¯t advertise. No branding or slogans or the year-round bargains. It was so bland that they couldn¡¯t have been in the same category as stores that I was familiar with. Secondly, there were no banks. Nor ATMs. Foreign exchanges. Accountants. Law firms. No fashion stores consecutively lined up against each other. It was the absence of anything that announced contemporary society. This place felt naked without them. It was like seeing your favourite pop star without makeup¡ªnone of the larger than life extravagance, only the shockingly unimpressive and normal human beneath it all.


    General Grocer. I walked towards it. Besides my curiosity about what a grocery in this city looked like, I needed supplies if I was to survive this week. Entering through the sliding doors, it didn¡¯t seem like there were many customers at this hour. I grabbed a basket and began walking down the aisles. The packages were barely branded. They all had ¡°General Grocer¡± in black font stamped on top of white packaging. The terseness was evidence that it had more to do with identifying the origin of these items than establishing customer loyalty. It was surreal to see the section for every item to contain only a single, bland brand. What if I didn¡¯t like this brand of butter? I wondered. Having stuffed my basket full of white packages and a handful of vegetables and fruits, I walked to the counter. The machine I approached instructed me to scan my handheld, before scanning my items. At the end, it thanked me and confidently proclaimed that it looked forward to seeing me next time. Rather threatening, I thought. I didn¡¯t see any grocery bags anywhere, so I quickly hunted for reusable bags in one of the aisles and scanned it as well. I also realised that having a gun in my waistband wasn¡¯t effective concealment. After all, if I couldn¡¯t fool Charlie then I couldn¡¯t fool anyone who I needed to fool. I look around, before hurriedly transferring the gun to the bottom of the bag then burying it with the other items.


    As I left the grocer, I realised an important fact. I was ignorant. I had plausible deniability if I was caught somewhere I shouldn¡¯t be. I was even holding a bag of groceries filled to the brim. I was the picture of someone who didn¡¯t know where they were and what they should be doing. Because that was exactly how I felt. And with this perfect cover¡ªas long as they didn¡¯t search through my bag and suspected that I had mens rea¡ªI could search for an exit to the city. But where would I even start? I wondered. The bottom level? No. The surface is up. So I should try to get as high as possible.


    After a few minutes of walking, I found an elevator. It wasn¡¯t an elevator I had taken before. When it had arrived, I got in and pressed the highest level¡ªseventeen. Nothing happened. No visual indicator to acknowledge that it had been pressed. It occurred to me that the top levels were, for whatever reason, special. The top two and bottom three levels were highlighted in grey. Yesterday, Irene had to scan her handheld before going up to the sixteenth floor. I placed my handheld to the panel. A soft tone played. I tried once again to press seventeen. No response. I tried sixteen. No response either. Then fifteen. That one was highlighted in light blue¡ªjust like every third floor from three. The button lit up and a moment later, the doors closed. When the elevator doors opened, I saw yet another city block. Perhaps that was what the light blue floors meant. This place seemed similar to the previous floor I had been on. One clear difference was that it had a lot more bars and pubs. Are those clubs? I wondered as the screen above the venue proclaimed live music. There was even a sizable theatre. At the centre of this floor was an empty stage.


    I looked out from the bridge. This place was tall enough to give me vertigo. I was never one for heights. Looking above, indeed this building had connectors to the ceiling above. But that wasn¡¯t unique. Every single building did. And these tubes, while certainly large enough for an elevator, in no way guaranteed that they were feasible exits. For all I knew, they could be delivery systems for energy, water, air, or anything, really. And even if one turned out to be the exit, I would need to solve the problem of getting to the top level. Confronted with the vastness of the view in front of me, I felt discouraged. I was merely a clueless speck of dust in this metropolis.


    I got lost a few times, but eventually I found my way back to the apartment. When I entered, I was surprised to find Irene sitting at the dining table. I didn¡¯t know what to say, so I entered the kitchen area to sort through the groceries. She wordlessly watched as I did so. I approached her only after the only thing that was left in the bag was the gun.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯re enjoying your exploration of Sanctuary,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve been watching me?¡± I asked as I took a seat at the other end of the table.


    ¡°Well,¡± Irene started with a shrug, ¡°only a little. You¡¯re my responsibility while you¡¯re here. I wouldn¡¯t want anything bad to happen to you. That would reflect poorly on me.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Well that¡¯s nice of you,¡± I said sarcastically.


    ¡°Of course. And so I¡¯ll tell you charitably that you looked stupid carrying that gun around all day,¡± Irene said. There was a tinge of embarrassment as I unconsciously gazed towards the bag. ¡°And also, it¡¯s pointless trying to search for an exit. Calling it a needle in a haystack exercise would be a gross understatement.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I think I¡¯ve realised that.¡±

 Chapter 11

    It was difficult to decouple brand and quality. That was why the groceries from General Grocer had surprised me. The dull packaging made me think that the contents would be as well. Like the unappealing MREs that I had seen pictures of, but somehow worse because it wasn¡¯t pre-made into a meal. Instead, as I tasted the omelette that I had spent unnecessarily long preparing¡ªwhat else was I supposed to do with my time?¡ªthe fullness of the flavour surprised me. The ham pieces I sprinkled across added a smoky aroma to it. The porridge I made tasted even better than what I was used to making back on the surface. On the surface. There was something about adopting that phrase that felt not only odd, but like a capitulation. The acceptance of the culture of these people who, if all had gone well, I wouldn¡¯t have ever met. I shook off the melancholy that came with the realisation. Despite the unexpectedly decent breakfast, I couldn¡¯t help but feel annoyed¡ªeven indignant¡ªat the lack of mediocrity. Yes, I had taken the effort to make it, but I had done so with Receiverist products. They had no right to be decent. I would have derived far greater satisfaction at the thought that my captors lived in mediocrity.


    Irene and I had only conversed briefly yesterday. But before she had left, she told me to expect her the next morning. That I might benefit from a ¡°guided tour¡± rather than wandering around like a ¡°poor puppy¡±. She seemed to have a penchant for getting under my skin, but I didn¡¯t respond to her provocations.


    Restlessness was a core component of my day-to-day life. I had no illusions about my workaholism. But what kind of an academic wasn¡¯t? What researcher doesn¡¯t spend the vast majority of their consciousness and unconsciousness thinking about their work? What academic truly had weekends? I wasn¡¯t sure whether research turned people restless, or restless people just naturally gravitated towards its inescapable event horizon that stretched our lives into impossible shapes. But ever since my mid-teens, I had always been that kind of person. Even when I wasn¡¯t doing or thinking about research, I was always reading something. Often the news. Here, however, I couldn¡¯t do that. I had no work. Perhaps taking a break from it all was a good thing, if it weren¡¯t for the fact that I had nothing else either. No television. No computer. The handheld approximated a phone, but it was clearly designed under a different philosophy. It wasn¡¯t a source of entertainment. And I couldn¡¯t openly query information from it, albeit I suspected it was a constraint unique to me. This was why I had taken over twenty minutes to cook what should have been a five-minute breakfast. This was why I had laid in the bath for so long that my fingertips turned into pink prunes. And so when Irene had arrived at my doorstep, there was a sense of relief in spite of myself.


    ¡°Irene.¡± I nodded after opening my door.


    ¡°Alex,¡± Irene said. I could have sworn there was an undercurrent of mockery in her tone. ¡°Ready to go?¡±


    ¡°Home? Absolutely,¡± I said as I closed the door behind me.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d call Sanctuary home so quickly,¡± Irene said as she walked slightly ahead of me, leading the way. ¡°Soon you¡¯ll be calling yourself a Receiverist.¡±


    For a split second there was a jab of panic at the implication that I would remain at Sanctuary for the rest of my life. Deciding that she must be cruelly making fun of me again, I refrained from entertaining her. And even if there was an ounce of foreboding in her words, I figured the best policy was to remain ambiguous. To pointedly not acknowledge that such a verbal proposition had ever taken place.


    ¡°Never,¡± I said.


    Irene hummed ambiguously. After reaching the elevator, she pressed the button and waited.


    ¡°So,¡± I started after a few seconds of silence, ¡°where are you taking me?¡±


    ¡°A couple of places,¡± Irene answered flatly. ¡°Places that you wouldn¡¯t have wandered into on your own.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to tell me where, exactly?¡±


    ¡°What would be the point of that?¡± Irene asked rhetorically. The elevator doors opened and she walked inside. Irene pressed the third level and the door closed. I had correctly predicted that the elevator doors would open at level three to reveal a street.


    The city-esque layout felt almost familiar now. The architectural aesthetics and functionality of the buildings that paralleled the streets was undeniably forming a deeper impression on me. A character itself. I was gradually becoming more attuned to it. Small details that had seemed unquestioningly normal were now actively interrogated by my critical faculties. For instance, breakfast hour had already passed. The food court I had passed by was almost empty, save for a few lonesome customers. Yet¡ª


    ¡°Why are all the restaurants filled to the brim?¡± I asked.


    Irene looked back at me, bemusement etched onto her eyebrows. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked.


    ¡°The restaurants,¡± I said. ¡°Every single one that we passed, there wasn¡¯t any vacant table. It¡¯s nearly ten. Surely it¡¯s not breakfast hour.¡±


    Irene looked towards the direction of a restaurant that I nodded towards. It was called A Night In Bangladesh. A Night, implying that it wasn¡¯t appropriate for ten in the morning.


    ¡°Oh. It¡¯s our ticketing system,¡± Irene said. ¡°Restaurants are classified as luxury services, not essential services. So while we more or less have unlimited access to food courts and groceries, that doesn¡¯t apply to restaurants. You need to book ahead of time.¡±


    I already had the sense that food and groceries were totally free here, but hearing it said out loud was still astounding. ¡°Huh. Okay. But why do people book reservations at this hour?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Everyone wants a gourmet meal in the evening, so you¡¯d need to book it weeks or months ahead of time. But before noon? It¡¯s much easier. So you take what you can get.¡±


    A couple of people riding scooters passed by us on the bridge. I looked out of the windows and into the dense forest of monoliths.


    ¡°So everything is free in this city?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Essentially, yes,¡± Irene answered.


    I didn¡¯t get it. ¡°Then what incentive is there for people to work?¡±


    ¡°To contribute to something meaningful,¡± Irene said. ¡°The Receiverist project.¡±


    ¡°A sense of altruism?¡± I said incredulously. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense. People consider themselves before anyone else.¡±


    ¡°We think differently here,¡± Irene said. ¡°Everyone understands how their efforts play a role in our society. Our algorithms help with that. They make recommendations on where we can be most effective and fulfilled.¡±


    ¡°How do you know your algorithms are that good?¡± I asked. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s all placebo?¡±


    ¡°Even if that¡¯s the case, does it really matter?¡±


    I thought for a moment. ¡°I suppose not.¡± If a system works, there wasn¡¯t much point in questioning it. Even if it was all smoke and mirrors. In that sense, it wasn¡¯t too different from the idea of a god. If the thought of god watching over someone can make them a better person, then that was all that mattered. The question of existence was neither here nor there. Not that God ever did me any favours, I thought wryly.


    ¡°Selfishness is also less of a thing without scarcity,¡± Irene continued. ¡°People here don¡¯t need to step over each other to get what they need. So they don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Also,¡± Irene started, but there was a moment of hesitation. As if she wasn¡¯t sure if she should continue, but decided to since it was too late. ¡°The determinism principle.¡±


    That piqued my interest. ¡°The determinism principle?¡±


    ¡°Receiverists are determinists,¡± Irene spoke, but in a quieter voice. She seemingly didn¡¯t want to be overheard.


    ¡°Determinists? Like fate?¡±


    ¡°Something like that,¡± Irene said.


    She didn¡¯t want to elaborate further, but I pressed on. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense. If anything, the belief that everything is predetermined would absolve a selfish person of guilt about doing terrible things.¡±


    Irene sighed. ¡°It¡¯s an optimistic determinism. That we¡¯ll ultimately contribute to something greater. And therefore we have no choice but to do so.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯d need to know that for a fact, in the first place,¡± I challenged.


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen the power of our predictive algorithms,¡± Irene said.


    Again with the algorithms, I thought in exasperation. I supposed it made sense. If the algorithms were truly accurate beyond a doubt, and they proved time and time again to successfully predict my actions, then perhaps I would be a determinist too. And if they then told me that I was destined to play my part in human prosperity, then maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªI¡¯d be an optimist too. I could see how most people could be convinced by this line of reasoning and end up as optimistic determinists. But not me. I was a mathematician. A probabilist. My own understanding of probability theory¡ªof which all predictive models were based on¡ªand its inherent inability to fully account for everything, prevented me from embracing determinism. Even if Lennox had given me a cruel firsthand account of the accuracy of their models, they were still just numbers and maths. Mere approximations of the chaos of the universe. But there was something in the way that Irene explained the determinism principle, something in her voice, that made me feel like she was leaving something out. That there was a reason why she hesitated. I wondered if she herself believed all that.


    After walking through a couple of buildings, Irene took me into an elevator. She placed her handheld near the interface, received a tone, before pressing the first level. Unlike the other floors, the first three¡ªzeroth, first and second¡ªwere highlighted with a grey. The use of Irene¡¯s handheld confirmed my suspicions that their access was restricted. That made me feel uneasy.


    ¡°Why are the first three levels greyed out?¡± I asked.


    ¡°We call them the sub-base levels,¡± Irene said. ¡°They form the foundations of Sanctuary. Anything from energy production to manufacturing takes place down there.¡±


    The door opened. I found myself in the lobby of a large complex. There was no one at the reception. The large plaque situated above displayed ¡°Crop Facility 5-7¡±. Irene typed away into her handheld as we stood near the reception desk.


    ¡°So,¡± I began, trying to fill the silence, ¡°a farm, huh?¡±


    Irene looked at me briefly, before looking back down at her handheld. The silence was even more uncomfortable after that. Some moments later, a man entered from a set of doors behind the reception. He wore grey overalls and a sheepish smile on his dark, slightly flushed face.


    ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late,¡± the man said. ¡°I was at the other end of the farm when I got your message.¡±


    ¡°Jos¨¦, this is Alex. Our temporary helper,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°Nice to meet you Alex,¡± the man named Jos¨¦ said. ¡°I¡¯m one of the agricultural engineers around here.¡± He extended his hand. I looked at it for a second before I took it.


    ¡°Likewise,¡± I said awkwardly.


    ¡°So you came from the surface?¡± Jos¨¦ asked. ¡°Wow. Must really be something to be surrounded by so much green, huh?¡±


    ¡°Uh.¡± I didn¡¯t quite know how to respond. ¡°Well it depends. I guess when you¡¯re away from the city, you might get a lot of¡­ grass.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Jos¨¦¡¯s eyes were wide as he mouthed a silent ¡°wow¡±. Irene gently cleared her throat.


    ¡°Irene asked me to take you through our crops. This way, please,¡± Jos¨¦ said. He gestured to the doors he came from before leading the way.


    My jaw dropped as I entered the room. It seemed absurd that Jos¨¦ had asked me about what it was like to be surrounded by green, when its presence in this room was dense and inescapable. This place could barely be called a room. The small walkway between the dizzyingly many rows of foliage teased the immense span of the floor, and the ceiling above me was much further than I had expected. The green extended in all three dimensions. Layers upon layers of crops stacked on top of one another, with warm lights fitted beneath each layer. There was a low humming noise. Finding the source of the sound, I initially thought it was a bee flying in between the green blades. But it wasn¡¯t that it was small, merely that it was farther than I had initially thought. A drone glided at a steady speed along a row several stacks above me.


    ¡°This is all wheat,¡± Jos¨¦ said. But I had already known. The nutty aroma that voraciously engulfed my olfactory sense had given it away. ¡°We¡¯re one of the five farms in Sanctuary that produce wheat. The second oldest, sure, but this old guard never fails to punch above her weight every yield. That, I can promise.¡±


    ¡°This is¡­ really something else,¡± I admitted. ¡°This, and the other four farms, produce enough wheat for this whole city?¡±


    ¡°More than enough,¡± Jos¨¦ said proudly as he led us through the narrow walkway. ¡°A lot more. So much so that there are talks to repurpose the crops in two of the farms to something else. At the current rate of progress, the yield reduction from losing the two crops would be recuperated in only a few years.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by progress?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Oh, agricultural advancements, of course,¡± Jose said. ¡°Operations research into optimal farming, developments in automation, genetic modification and all that. It¡¯s how we accomplished maturity acceleration to increase harvests.¡±


    ¡°That seems as impressive as it is overkill,¡± I remarked.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t just for the sake of Sanctuary is it, Jos¨¦?¡± Irene asked rhetorically.


    Jos¨¦ beamed. He stuttered a little as he said, ¡°No, definitely not. All this¡ª¡± he gestured broadly with his hands¡ª¡°may seem too much for one city, but it¡¯s just a drop in the bucket required to feed the world one day. So we need to keep pushing. There¡¯s a lot more work to be done. I¡¯m happy to be a part of that.¡±


    ¡°The world? That¡¯s one hell of an ambition.¡±


    ¡°You may call it an ambition, but we can¡¯t afford to think about it like that,¡± Jos¨¦ said. ¡°It¡¯s necessary. A bare minimum we need to meet when it happens.¡±


    ¡°It? What¡¯s it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°The Event,¡± Irene said. ¡°Calamity. The end of society as you know it.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s when you guys will swoop right in and take the world in your welcoming arms, right?¡± I asked wryly.


    ¡°Exactly, my friend,¡± Jos¨¦ answered with an exuberant smile, not at all detecting the cynicism in my voice. For a brief moment, I wondered what it was like to have his perspective. I felt a prick of envy. ¡°We need to be ready. And so I¡¯ll do my duty.¡±


    ¡°What is your duty?¡± I asked. ¡°In here, I mean. What do you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey, look over at that side of the farm,¡± Jos¨¦ pointed towards a perpendicular path from the one we were on. There was a clear difference not only in the colour¡ªa richer shade of green¡ªbut also in the shape. It wasn¡¯t blades of grass anymore, but leaves.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Soybeans. One of the foundational crops. And the only other crop in this farm. We make more of that than wheat.¡±


    ¡°More than wheat? Really?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I mean, there¡¯s a lot you can do with soy. All of the vegan meat here is soy-based. And soy also makes real meat¡ªReceiverists!¡± He chuckled at his own joke.


    ¡°Did you really think that was real ham and sausage we¡¯ve been feeding you the whole time?¡± Irene asked. Her voice was flat, but there was an amused twinkle in her eye.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t tell the difference,¡± I said.


    ¡°Exactly. Ninety-nine percent of the tastiness of meat comes from knowing that it¡¯s meat,¡± Jos¨¦ explained. ¡°They still serve that stuff in some of the restaurants, but not as many since I was a kid.¡±


    I raised an eyebrow. ¡°So you were born here?¡±


    ¡°Mhm,¡± Jos¨¦ hummed. ¡°Born a Receiverist. Anyway I think I sidetracked your question earlier. Sorry. What was it? Oh right, what I do. Well, most of the time I manage and schedule drones. Aside from doing the manual work, they also constantly gather data from the crops and track thousands of metrics. I monitor that too.¡±


    ¡°So no farmer actually does any manual work here?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It depends on what you mean by manual,¡± Jos¨¦ said. ¡°The drones and machines will sometimes break down. And when they do, it¡¯s on me to get them up and running. Assuming they break down during my shift that is. But anyway, that¡¯s only the farming aspect of my job.¡±


    I raised an eyebrow. ¡°What¡¯s the other aspect?¡±


    ¡°Research. I work on the genetic engineering of crops. I have a bunch of ongoing projects. Some about robustification. Some about yield maximisation. Some about both.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help but be impressed by this younger man in front of me. The tour continued with Jos¨¦ taking us through what he had called the ¡°machine room¡±, where drones idled. On the way out, he said he hoped to see me around. I found it difficult to tell him that I hoped that wouldn¡¯t be the case, so I merely thanked him.


    ¡°This is one hell of a society,¡± I said as I followed behind Irene.


    With her hands in pockets, she turned her head to meet my eye and said, ¡°In a good way, I hope.¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    Irene slowed down and I found myself beside her. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked.


    ¡°People here don¡¯t seem to work as a means to something else. They work as an end in itself. Sure, Jos¨¦ may say that he works to prepare humanity for the future, but he¡¯ll never see that. It¡¯s a false distinction. The endless hamster wheel of work is his purpose.¡±


    ¡°You make it sound like we¡¯re getting exploited,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°I mean, aren¡¯t you?¡± I asked. ¡°Having a sense of purpose in something so intangible as ¡®preparing for some calamity in the future¡¯ is the ultimate opium of the people. A blissful sense of contentment as you unquestioningly do the work that the algorithm¡ª¡± I quoted with my fingers¡ª¡°tells you to. Because it¡¯s good for humankind.¡±


    ¡°As opposed to the surface world?¡± Irene challenged in her patented dispassionate tone, as if pointing out the blatantly obvious. ¡°Where half the people think they¡¯re working to ¡®make it¡¯, and the other half are working to put the bare minimum on the table? Where half the people are fervent believers of your system, while the other half are resigned cynics? Where everyone is exploited for a wage in a race to the bottom?¡±


    I thought for a moment. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± I said. ¡°But it¡¯s always better to know how things are from the outset than to be lied to.¡±


    ¡°It seems to me that the dishonesty is up there,¡± Irene said. ¡°The lie of social mobility. The lie that everything will somehow work itself out, without needing to change the way that things are being done. You¡¯ve seen our progress. It¡¯s tangible. And Receiverists happily contribute to it because they believe in something.¡± Irene struggled. ¡°Seems like a better deal to me.¡±


    They? I found it strange that Irene chose that pronoun. I dismissed the thought. ¡°And yet at the end of the day, life down here is all about productivity. Maybe even more than life up there.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not entirely true,¡± Irene said as we turned around a corner. There was an elevator. ¡°I think you¡¯d be surprised at how normal things are around here.¡±


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± Irene said as she pressed the button to call the elevator.


    ¡°And what is it that you actually do around here?¡± I asked. ¡°Your job, I mean.¡±


    Irene sighed. ¡°I¡¯m an officer. Special operations.¡±


    I looked at her inquisitively.


    ¡°I handle things that fall outside the jurisdiction of other operations branches. For me, most of the time that¡¯s things relating to the surface world. And you¡ª¡± Irene looked me in the eye¡ª¡°are one of those cases that fell onto my desk.¡±


    The elevator opened and we went inside. Irene pressed the button with the number three, before the doors closed. I thought for a moment.


    ¡°Is that what you get out of this¡­ my case?¡± I asked. ¡°That you¡¯re preparing for humanity¡¯s future?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± Irene said, punctuating with a pop.


    ¡°Then what?¡±


    ¡°A promotion,¡± she said simply.


    There was a moment of anticlimactic silence. It was absurd that I felt disappointed at her answer.


    The elevator doors opened to green. Except this time, it was vast. An openness that I had dearly missed. Like a long lost lover returning. The reunion was overwhelming. My heart thumped and rattled against the confines of my chest. My mind struggled to make sense of it. The elevator had spat us out into a different world. One that appeared endless. A horizon. A sun. Clouds. The ground was contoured. It no longer had the perfect flatness of artificiality. The aromatic smell assured me that the grass that blanketed the ground was real. There were bushes. Trees. A wandering path of pebbles connected the sparse elevators and exits extended to the horizon, punctuating the expanse. There was a body of water large enough to justify the quaint wooden bridge that extended across it. Its surface reflected the convincing sky above. I heard a chirp and turned to its direction. Several English oaks crowded around near the centre. Are those birds real? I wondered. The question seemed trivial, but the answer mattered to me. Rationally, I knew that the boundaries had to be there, yet the illusion was seductive.


    ¡°Impressed?¡± Irene asked with a smirk.


    ¡°This is certainly something,¡± I admitted.


    Unconsciously, I took the lead. We strolled towards a large body of water. Walking past a lonesome hazel, I saw several pigeons resting underneath it, sitting with their necks and legs somehow retracted into their small, oval bodies. When we reached the edge of the water, I squatted for a better view of the koi fishes of black and silver swimming leisurely beneath the surface.


    As I stood up, I noticed the other people in this garden. Some were in pairs, enjoying the simple pleasure of having a conversation on the grass. A person sat at a bench looking into their handheld. But what had caught my gaze was a picnic in the distance. A family of four. A boy and his younger brother. The older boy was trying to teach his younger sibling a game with his fingers. When the latter didn¡¯t follow, the elder slapped his hand. The woman slapped the elder in the same fashion and retorted. Her mouth moved but I could hear no words. The man only grinned in amusement at the whole affair.


    There was a wave of nausea. It came on so strongly and suddenly that the vertigo threatened to undo me. I looked around frantically. I briefly saw Irene¡¯s confused eyes on me, before noticing the bench several paces away. I staggered towards it before plopping myself onto the wooden surface with a thump. With my elbows on my knees, I rested my head in my hands with my eyes closed. It took a few moments before the disorientation faded into a low hum at the back of my head. When I opened my eyes, I saw amorphous shapes, before my eyes adjusted and the world washed through. And when it did, I saw Irene¡¯s inscrutable grey eyes on me. Is she worried? Is she studying me? And when did she sit down?


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I said preemptively.


    ¡°Hm,¡± Irene hummed. It could have meant anything, everything, and nothing at all.


    I looked away from her. In the silence that stretched, my gaze swept across the garden.


    ¡°It¡¯s impressive,¡± I said. ¡°But why bring me here?¡±


    ¡°To show you that there¡¯s more about being a Receiverist than having a grand plan,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°So you¡¯re trying to convince me that you¡¯re really just normal?¡± I asked.


    Irene chuckled. I looked at her in bemusement. ¡°Your scepticism never ceases to amuse me,¡± she said after a moment. ¡°Yes. I¡¯m trying to convince you of something. But when I present to you the evidence for it, your fixation isn¡¯t on the evidence or the conclusion, but on my delivery of that evidence towards that conclusion. It¡¯s really funny. You¡¯re funny.¡±


    ¡°I feel like you¡¯re making fun of me,¡± I said. There was an absence of accusation in my tone.


    ¡°Maybe I am,¡± Irene said with a shrug.


    ¡°Well I think my scepticism is fair,¡± I said. ¡°First, you people kidnap me. Then, you tell me I need to stay here for a week to decide if I want to leave or not, and you present to me this¡ª¡± I gestured wildly in every direction¡ª¡°world that seems too good to be true. So of course you¡¯re trying to convince me of something, and you have an incentive to do it even by misrepresenting reality.¡±


    ¡°So you do admit it,¡± Irene said. ¡°That this place seems ideal. That if it weren¡¯t for your scepticism, you¡¯d jump at an opportunity to live here.¡±


    I blinked. I wanted to deny it, but I knew it would be pointless. She would see right through my lie and it would be humiliating. ¡°Sure,¡± I said, with an effort to do so as casually as possible, as if it didn¡¯t contradict any of my positions. ¡°But that¡¯s neither here nor there.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re so prideful,¡± Irene said. ¡°So sure of your own ideas and notions about the world. So much so that you can¡¯t help but try to fit everything into your own framework. That unless it fits, it doesn¡¯t make sense. Even when sometimes the answer is staring you in the face. Even when giving up your framework would be beneficial to you, you still cling to it.¡±


    I turned my gaze away from her and looked up to the projections of clouds. ¡°I¡¯m a mathematician,¡± I said. ¡°Everything fits a pattern. Every system may have different configurations of constraints, but they¡¯re all governed by the same laws in the end.¡±


    ¡°And maybe that¡¯s why you¡¯re a terrible mathematician,¡± Irene said. My gaze snapped back to her. It didn¡¯t sound like she was taunting me, yet there was a twinkle of provocation in her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re too afraid to revisit your assumptions. Because everything has to follow from something you already think you understand. And so when the problem doesn¡¯t fit into your framework, you feel wrong. Maybe even physically.¡±


    I turned away. We fell into silence after that. At some point, Irene abruptly stood, regarded me for a moment, and walked away. I remained for much longer. I didn¡¯t want to leave. I knew that the moment I leave this place, I would feel more confined than ever before. Other people came and went, but I continued to sit and absorb the fantasy like an addict that couldn¡¯t get enough of the poison. The fake, sporadic breeze tugged at the edges of my hair. The surface of the pond occasionally bubbled with the mouth of a koi. Even the feeling of the wooden plank against my face spoke volumes to the primal part of me that my rationality couldn¡¯t reach. I closed my eyes and allowed my other senses to tell me where I was.


    My parents didn¡¯t like to cause a scene in public. And so the impossibility of the agitation unfolding in the only nature reserve I had seen in a long time was obvious. It started as a harmless bicker, a common skirmish in our household. But it was a spark that led to a sudden conflagration that couldn¡¯t be stopped. My brother at first panicked, before looking resigned to the inevitability. In the distance, on the other side of the large pond, is a wooden bench that seated a familiar woman with eyes that I knew matched the grey of her jacket. She watched as the flames ate away at my flesh.

 Chapter 12

    I didn¡¯t know what to expect as I walked into The Stolen Time. After I had finished the steak¡ªWas it really made out of soy?¡ªfrom the food court I had been defaulting to, it felt too early to return home. After all, there was absolutely nothing in my apartment¡ªI mean, it¡¯s not really my apartment¡ªwaiting for me. These last several nights, only my thoughts kept me company as I waited agonisingly until I was tired enough to sleep. And, if I was being honest, being alone with my thoughts was the last thing I needed. And so with unsure resolve I had ventured to the fifteenth level and spotted an innocuous looking bar after the first few I had walked past. And this one seemed to have the least amount of people.


    When I stepped in, it was the sound of my singular footstep that defined the initial impression. Wood. This was the first time in this city that I had come across a wooden floor. The lights were dimmed, giving a lethargic, intimate feel to the place. The walls were decorated with clocks of different eras. Antique grandfather clocks. The typical analogue disc clocks you¡¯d find in classrooms. Funky nixie tube clocks that emitted a warm glow. Simple digital clocks that radiated green. There was even a section of the wall peppered by watches. None of the clocks were synchronised. The music playing from the speakers was some kind of relaxing electronic beat with sleazy syncopation. I suspected that each beat perfectly synchronised with the passing of the seconds. Behind the bartender was a plaque that said ¡°IT¡¯S ALWAYS BEER O¡¯CLOCK SOMEWHERE¡±. As I approached the bar, the bartender nodded an acknowledgement at me as he served another customer. I took a seat at an empty stool among empty stools. There were a few others at the bar, and a little over a dozen customers seated at the tables.


    As my gaze wandered, I saw a part of a wall with a large map of the world and digital clocks fixed to different time zones. It occurred to me that I could work out the time zone, and potentially where this city was located in the world. I checked the largest clock in the room, the neon pink digital clock behind the bar. A little past seven thirty. I quickly scanned half the clocks on the world map before landing on one that displayed the same time. GMT plus one. It included Scandinavia, western and central Europe, and a very sizable chunk of Africa. Shit, I thought, that¡¯s still a lot of places that this city can be in. Still, it was the biggest clue I¡¯ve had about where I was. However, I also realised that this place didn¡¯t actually need to follow the same time as the surface above it. The absence of Sol¡¯s gaze meant Sanctuary was free to live its hours however it liked, in which case I was back to having absolutely no clue. But if it was that particular time zone, then I would be the closest I had ever been to England since I had left.


    ¡°Came straight from work?¡± came a smooth voice. His accent was an unusual mix between Yorkshire and American. I turned to him and noticed he wore a much more casual attire than mine. His trousers looked soft and black in this lighting and his thin t-shirt was positively white, which was brave given his occupation. It suddenly occurred to me that most people in the room didn¡¯t wear the thick grey long-sleeve and trousers that most people did when they looked like they were working.


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± I said hesitantly.


    The bartender looked perplexed for a moment, before he saw the white stripe just above my heart. ¡°Ah, a tourist,¡± he said with a theatrical chuckle. ¡°First round¡¯s on me, mate.¡±


    ¡°I thought everything¡¯s free around here?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± the bartender said with a wink. ¡°So. What¡¯d ya like?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the most expensive thing you¡¯ve got?¡±


    The bartender laughed. ¡°I thought you thought everything¡¯s free.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I meant in terms of procurement,¡± I clarified. ¡°What¡¯s the drink that¡¯s most difficult to acquire?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve a funny way of asking things,¡± the bartender said. ¡°An Ol¡¯ Timeless coming up.¡±


    I looked at him in amusement. ¡°Is everything in this bar about time?¡±


    The bartender looked at me in a funny way as he grabbed a bottle from the top shelf. ¡°Mate. Everything in Sanctuary¡¯s about time.¡±


    Reflecting on how this city worked and what the Receiverists worked towards, I supposed he was right. I watched him as he poured a shot from the bottle into a glass and scooped a few large cubes of ice. ¡°Is this your full-time job?¡±


    ¡°Bartending? Nah. I do it ¡®cause I enjoy it.¡± he said as he pulled a bottle from a fridge underneath the counter. ¡°And because of certain benefits. Like being able to enjoy luxuries a lot more often. Vacations. Stuff like that.¡±


    ¡°Vacations?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Visiting places,¡± he said as he placed the drink in front of me.


    ¡°Places? You mean like the surface?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    I looked at him in disbelief. ¡°Really? I was under the impression you¡¯re locked up down here.¡±


    ¡°Mate you ought to try that,¡± the bartender said with a nod towards the drink placed in front of me.


    It was pastel green with a mint leaf on top. I took a sip and immediately coughed. It wasn¡¯t just that the alcohol was strong¡ªit certainly was¡ªbut rather my nose felt like it was under siege by an olympic archer. The spicy discomfort dissipated a moment later, leaving behind no trace that it had ever been there. Aside from the burning warmth in my throat, there was a minty aftertaste.


    The bartender chortled. ¡°Ol¡¯ Timeless never lets me down.¡±


    ¡°God. There¡¯s no way anyone orders that sober,¡± I said.


    ¡°Exactly. This Ol¡¯ Timeless is popular after midnight, when folks get this drink to wake up from their drowsiness to continue getting sloshed,¡± the bartender said proudly. ¡°It¡¯s like magic. It extends the fun. Makes the night timeless, some might say.¡±


    ¡°Remind me to never get any more drink recommendations from you,¡± I said half-heartedly as I took another sip. ¡°Fuck,¡± I tried to keep my vocalisation down as much as possible. The woman sitting a few seats away at the bar giggled at me.


    ¡°Nope,¡± the bartender said. ¡°Anyway, what was your question again? Oh right. We¡¯re usually not allowed to visit the surface unless it¡¯s a part of your job, or if you have a vacation. A vacation usually comes every ten years after you start work, but fulfilling certain duties can get you more.¡±


    ¡°Where have you been so far?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ve only been to New Zealand. Oh mate. I don¡¯t think you can ever understand how I felt swimming in the lakes and climbing the mountains,¡± the bartender said excitedly. His eyes glistened. ¡°I was bloody terrified.¡±


    ¡°Terrified?¡± I asked. ¡°I thought you¡¯d have the time of your life. Felt the sublime, or something.¡±


    ¡°See that¡¯s what I mean,¡± he said. ¡°I felt all those other things. But most of the time I felt tiny. The openness of it all scared the shit out of me. It was overwhelming. I had no idea if the wind was going to suddenly break my limbs or not. I freaked out at all the bugs. The sky didn¡¯t feel right. It was the experience of a lifetime, but I¡¯m glad I¡¯m back here. It¡¯s probably all normal to you, but I just can¡¯t see it from your perspective.¡±


    The bartender nodded at another customer and walked over to take their order. As he did, I tried to picture myself in his shoes. To imagine living my whole life down here, and taking a step under the infinite horizon for the first time. Yeah, I thought, it would be pretty crazy.


    The bartender and I sparsely chatted for a little while after that, until the bar became progressively busier and he spotted familiar faces. Having finished the Ol¡¯ Timeless with commendable perseverance, I went for something more familiar. A gin and tonic. I wasn¡¯t sure whether it was because my taste buds were decimated by the previous drink, but the gin tasted like spring. I had no other words to describe it. The tonic was a little more sour than I was used to, but I supposed it was a local flair on the popular beverage. I was on my third drink, a simple lager to realign my taste palette, when I heard a chirpy voice in my direction.


    ¡°Hey.¡± I turned to see a woman who was by my estimate in her late twenties. She was the patron a few seats away from me who had giggled earlier. I broadly remember that she was with a shorter friend, but now she was alone. ¡°Mind if I sit here?¡±


    ¡°Go for it,¡± I said.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably rude of me, but I overheard some of your conversation earlier,¡± she admitted with an embarrassed smile.


    ¡°Overheard? Or eavesdropped?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Whichever you prefer,¡± she said coyly. ¡°So. You¡¯re not from around here, huh?¡±


    I shook my head.


    The woman tilted her head. ¡°You don¡¯t seem happy about that.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I said dramatically. That elicited a giggle from the woman. ¡°I was kidnapped.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s terrible. By who?¡±


    ¡°By you.¡±


    The woman looked scandalised. ¡°By me?¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± I laughed. ¡°Not you. By some Receiverists. Apparently they need my help with something. Their maths homework.¡±


    The woman looked at me with an amused look. ¡°Really?¡±


    I shrugged, which elicited a giggle from the woman. ¡°Must be one hell of a maths problem.¡±


    ¡°It really is,¡± I said. ¡°Pretty fucked up stuff. From a mathematical point of view, that is.¡±


    She thought for a moment. ¡°Surely it¡¯s important, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯ve been told,¡± I said, before taking a sip of my beer. ¡°Something about ¡®ensuring humanity¡¯s survival.¡¯¡± I punctuated the ridiculousness of that statement with my fingers.


    ¡°Well now,¡± the woman said as she raised her eyebrows. ¡°That does sound important.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Or so Lennox says.¡±


    The woman¡¯s expression suddenly changed. It was as if she sobered at the mention of the name. ¡°Lennox?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You know him?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not personally. But I¡¯ve seen his name around. A bit of a bigwig.¡±


    ¡°A bigwig? Do you know what he does?¡±


    The woman considered me for a moment, as if trying to gauge how much I was allowed to know. ¡°Not exactly,¡± she said. ¡°I know he¡¯s an executive from the Reception Division. But I don¡¯t know what he manages.¡±


    Executive? Reception Division? ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± I asked. ¡°Like a division about receiving people like me from the outside?¡±


    The woman shook her head. ¡°No. That¡¯d be one of the operation divisions. I¡¯m not sure. I¡¯m a mediator in the Social Division. The Reception Division is kinda like¡­ head.¡±


    ¡°Huh. What a strange name for something like that,¡± I wondered aloud.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± the woman smiled, ¡°if mister bigwig Lennox says you¡¯re important, then you really are. You must be working on super important stuff.¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. We¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Well. It seems like we owe you something.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You¡¯re a part of something so important,¡± the woman began with overacted theatrics, ¡°and yet you tell me that we¡¯ve kidnapped you. That¡¯s not fair.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    I raised my beer. ¡°You can say that again.¡± She raised her glass of some kind of clear liquid and we drank to the toast.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t I make it fair?¡± she asked in a suggestive tone. Her eyes held onto mine with a terrifying intensity.


    I was afraid to ask. ¡°What do you¡ª¡±


    The woman leaned in closely. Too closely. I felt fearful for my life. The back hairs of my neck stuck out. I couldn¡¯t tell whether she was wearing perfume or if she naturally smelled like that. I could feel her warm breath on the side of my face. I didn¡¯t know whether I imagined the impossibly soft contact of her lips on my earlobe.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we go to whichever one of our apartments that¡¯s closer,¡± she whispered, ¡°and¡ª¡±


    I backed away suddenly, so much so that I had nearly lost my balance on the stool. The woman looked at me in surprise.


    ¡°I, uh¡ª¡± I stammered. I had to say something. I had to leave. I racked my brain for a reasonable excuse. ¡°I need to go. I, um¡ªI just remembered that I have a meeting with Lennox tonight. Oh shoot, I might even be late for it.¡± Reaching into my high school drama education, I pulled out my handheld to check the time. It only occurred to me a second later that I was surrounded by clocks.


    ¡°O-oh,¡± the woman stuttered. ¡°Sure. I understand. He¡¯s an important man. You probably don¡¯t want to be late.¡±


    ¡°No, not at all,¡± I concurred. ¡°Anyway. Nice to meet you. Have a lovely night.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± the woman said awkwardly. ¡°You too.¡±


    I was about to turn to leave when I realised that there was still half left in my beer. I grabbed it and chugged it down. When I had finished, I realised the woman had been looking at me like I was some incoherent artwork. I had no idea why she would be. I waved goodbye to her and left at a brisk pace.


    Stepping out of the bar, I had expected to be struck by a faceful of chill breeze and maybe the bitter smell of cigarettes. Instead, it was the sterile smell that I had become accustomed to. Disappointed, I began walking towards the elevator a street away. I had the sudden urge to visit the nature reserve that Irene had taken me to a couple of days ago. I wondered what it must have looked like at night. A perfectly simulated moon with brightly lit stars reflected from the surface of the water. God, it must be so beautiful, I yearned. More so than it could be on the surface. Without the light pollution. Atmospheric pollution. People pollution. Groups of delinquents getting drunk. Wondering whether an ill-intentioned stranger was lurking in the shadows. The artificial reserve in this city wouldn¡¯t be like that. Sanctuary wasn¡¯t like that. It was too perfect. And that was why I had been avoiding the reserve ever since.


    Returning to my apartment, the lights came on by themselves. As I had known they would. When the lights in my room activated, I noticed something different. On the surface of the desk, there was a box. I knew immediately what the box contained. It wasn¡¯t Schrodinger¡¯s box anymore. All of its uncertainty had been purged. And I was proven right when I opened it. The mathematical documents. The ones I had received in front of my apartment door one morning a forever ago. It had felt so long. The abuse was still there. The document was still barely held together by a considerable amount of tape. It was as if it had never left. As if there was no doubt I would continue to decipher its hidden meaning like a moth drawn to an open flame.


    The documents were still waiting for me when I woke up. It was the first thought in my head. A part of me wondered whether it would grow legs during my sleep and walk into the void. It hadn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t know whether to regard the fact with disappointment or relief. A part of me rejoiced at the sight of the very thing that had brought me so much frustration before.


    As I dipped the piece of sourdough bread into the olive oil I had acquired on my second visit to the General Grocer, I heard two ascending tones play from my handheld. Upon reaching for it, the screen lit up.


    Lennox: Oh Al my old pal you¡¯re in for a treat!


    Lennox: Meet me at the Royal Reverie at 12:30


    I was certainly not his ¡°old pal¡± as he so liberally put it, and the idea of anyone calling me ¡°Al¡± grated my nerves. But turning down his invitation¡ªit was less of an invitation and more of a directive¡ªwould be a bad idea. Where the hell is this Royal Reverie anyway? I wondered. Just as the moistened bread entered my mouth, my handheld sounded yet again.


    Lennox: Oh my bad ha ha ha


    Lennox: East of the square of L12 13-10


    My morning after breakfast was spent at my desk, going over the mathematical documents. It felt like the first time, but also entirely different. A clean slate. My fingers turned the pages ever so gently, as if this was an archaeological artefact that had survived centuries of weather, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. I skimmed the symbols for the first time without the expectation of comprehension. Without the urgency of retaining a job. Without the need to meet the demands of my ego. I didn¡¯t know how to describe this surreal sensation aside from calling it poltergeist-esque. It was like walking the unconquerable earth after having died, and returning to it as a ghost. Accepting things for how they were without the presumption of dominion. Of course, the symbols didn¡¯t make any more sense to me than before, but it was like appreciating a papyrus of poetry in a long forgotten language. I now noticed the composition of the page. The peculiar shapes that the white spaces made. The frequency of the unique characters on the page. There was an indescribable beauty to it. The mise en sc¨¨ne of the script wasn¡¯t random. It told a story. A rich structure. So while I couldn¡¯t parse the mathematical details, I could tell the relative importance of the mathematical symbols on the page. The parts where the author¡ªor authors¡ªfelt insecure enough to spend more time formalising. The network implied by the densely populated references scattered across the manuscript; there was a traffic flow that could be mapped out. There was order here, even if one couldn¡¯t parse much of the technicalities yet. I hadn¡¯t noticed it before, perhaps too busy missing the forest for the dense trees of details. Perhaps this new perspective would be the key.


    Making my way to the floor that was mentioned in Lennox¡¯s message, I passed crowds of people. For this exact reason, I almost always opted for lunch at one or two, Sanctuary or otherwise. Groups of students could be seen in the couple of food courts I had passed or sitting in small cliques outside. Almost half of the people were in overalls. Lines formed outside of cafes, although the speed at which it moved was impressive. The facade of the Royal Reverie juxtaposed against the minimalist storefronts on either side of it. While I doubted its authenticity, the walls looked as though it was sandstone, the faded yellow hue that had a tease of green. The flatness of the surface was interrupted by curvatures that traced between tall windows. When I walked in, it struck me that the interior strangely contradicted the outside. The surfaces were much flatter and vast, with the default colour being a pearl white. The exterior had given the impression that the inside would be quaint and cosy, coloured by details that existed for no purpose aside from aesthetics. In actuality, it felt as if the constant Receiverist aesthetic that I had become accustomed to received a white paint job and a red chequered carpet. Even the chandeliers that dangled from the ceiling resembled three segments of a double helix, with watermelon-sized white bulbs at the ends of each segment. At least the tables and chairs were wooden.


    ¡°Hello sir,¡± the concierge asked. ¡°Do you have a reservation?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I said as I looked around. When I noticed the concierge looking at me in puzzlement, I quickly corrected, ¡°Oh I meant that I didn¡¯t book a reservation, but I¡¯m with a man named Lennox.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course,¡± the concierge said with a polite smile. ¡°Right this way.¡±


    I followed him to a table near the back. It could seat four people, but all it had was Lennox on one side and an empty chair on the other. It was only just now, since I had spent several days in the city, that I realised just how distinct his attire was. I didn¡¯t believe I had seen another person in this city who wore anything resembling those creamy draped robes.


    ¡°Alex!¡± Lennox greeted with a lift of his eyebrow. ¡°Great to see you again.¡±


    ¡°Lennox,¡± I nodded as I took the empty seat.


    Lennox nodded a smile at the concierge.


    ¡°The food will arrive shortly,¡± the concierge said. ¡°Any drinks to start you gentlemen off?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Lennox said. ¡°A glass of bubbly for me and¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have the same, thanks,¡± I said.


    The concierge nodded and walked away.


    ¡°Friend, how are you settling in?¡± Lennox asked.


    I thought for a moment. A part of me still wanted to push back and say that everything was shit because I still wasn¡¯t here of my own volition. ¡°Well, I think,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ hard not to be comfortable. Aside from the whole being trapped underground thing. And the whole lack of agency thing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good to hear,¡± Lennox said with a smile. ¡°And you do have agency. You have to choose to stay and do some maths or leave in a couple of days, anyway.¡±


    I shrugged. As I did, a waiter came by with a tray carrying two glasses of champagne. He placed a glass in front of us each. ¡°Enjoy,¡± he said before he left.


    As Lennox took a sip of his champagne, I said, ¡°So I heard you¡¯re pretty high up in this place.¡±


    Lennox chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s an interesting way to put it. I¡¯m not sure I agree. I¡¯m just a humble servant to humanity¡¯s future.¡±


    ¡°But someone I met described you as an executive of the head division,¡± I said. ¡°Or something like that. Surely that counts for something.¡±


    ¡°Ah, great to hear you¡¯re making friends!¡± Lennox said with a wide grin. ¡°I can see what they were trying to mean, and how you might have misinterpreted it. I¡¯m an executive of the Reception Division, which you can think of as society-wide planning and strategy for the other divisions. We¡¯re a wee bit like administrators. Logisticians to make sure the other divisions not only operate without blockage, but that their efforts are synchronised towards the Preparation Project. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I think you¡¯re still trying to see us through the lens of the surface world hierarchy, my friend.¡±


    ¡°The Preparation Project?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s all in the name,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I¡¯ve already told you we are preparing for the future. The continued expansion of this city? The Preparation Project. Our efforts towards tackling food insecurity? The Preparation Project. Bringing you in to try and convince you to help us with some research? The Preparation Project. Everything is the Preparation Project. And the Preparation Project is everything. We live and breathe it. It¡¯s all we do. It¡¯s what it means to be a Receiverist, really.¡±


    The waiter arrived and placed on our table an assortment of entrees. Slices of bread, dips, and several kinds of sliced meat. Immediately, Lennox began dipping a bread slice as he placed a piece of meat into his mouth. He made varying noises of satisfaction that I would rather have not heard if I had any say. Like a fractal, my lack of choice persisted in every magnification.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know it was so luxurious to be in the business of saving the world,¡± I remarked.


    ¡°Well,¡± Lennox began after he swallowed a mouthful of food, ¡°collective prosperity is what we¡¯re after. Not collective poverty.¡±


    I tentatively dipped a piece of bread and took a modest bite. It was surprisingly tangy. ¡°So how does the structure work here? I asked. ¡°Who has the final authority on policy?¡±


    ¡°We do. But I think that¡¯s an awfully reductive way to view us,¡± Lennox said. He sipped his champagne before continuing. ¡°We push out the official policies and strategies, but really, we¡¯re nothing but curators.¡±


    ¡°Curators?¡±


    ¡°Our algorithms are constantly solving optimisation problems. Many of those are problems we aren¡¯t even aware of. They spit out solutions, priorities, plans of varying timeframes, anything and everything. Hell, we even have algorithms that optimally prioritise between these solutions. We take these recommendations, run the numbers to validate them, and pick whatever works best.¡±


    My eyes went wide. ¡°That¡¯s insane,¡± I said incredulously.


    ¡°I know, right?¡± Lennox chuckled as he dropped another piece of meat into his mouth.


    ¡°Even ignoring the insanity of what you just described, isn¡¯t that risky?¡± I asked. ¡°You can¡¯t possibly take into account every variable. And policy without any human factor is¡­ repulsive.¡±


    Lennox didn¡¯t look offended. ¡°Sure, which is why we have entire divisions dedicated to not only making sure it works great, but also to know exactly what the limitations are. It¡¯s worked out just fine so far. And we do have human inputs to policy outside of purely algorithmic ones. At the end of the day, that¡¯s what our job is. We receive problems. We receive solutions. We prioritise between those axes. The same job as any on the surface, but we just have better sources for both.¡±


    ¡°But what about the people?¡± I asked. ¡°You might have demonstrated to me how accurate your algorithms are at predicting what people will do. But surely people will sometimes decide to not follow your policies and rules. People are just too random, too complicated to follow instructions perfectly all the time.¡±


    ¡°Sure. And there are two answers to that,¡± Lennox said. ¡°The first is what you said. We do have algorithms. They provide recommendations on where to assign people so they¡¯re least likely to make trouble.¡±


    ¡°But that would take ungodly amounts of data¡ªoh.¡± The realisation struck me like a truck. And it evoked genuine terror in me.


    Lennox smiled knowingly. ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°This entire city. Everyone¡¯s under constant surveillance,¡± I whispered.


    ¡°We have no concept of privacy here. It¡¯s so convenient. You can¡¯t even begin to fathom our endless, ever expanding universe of data. No one can.¡± Lennox shrugged as he sipped from his glass.


    ¡°And how was that sold to everyone?¡± I asked.


    Lennox made a broad gesture, as if alluding to the atmosphere itself. ¡°This. I mean, it¡¯s pretty good isn¡¯t it? You¡¯ve said it yourself.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the second answer?¡±


    ¡°Unification,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Every single Receiverist is bound by a single purpose.¡±


    ¡°To prepare for humanity¡¯s future,¡± I said.


    Lennox nodded with a smile. ¡°See? you¡¯re starting to get it.¡±


    ¡°No, I really don¡¯t,¡± I said. ¡°Because that¡¯s bullshit.¡±


    Without looking offended, Lennox gestured for me to go on before resting his chin on his fist.


    ¡°It¡¯s impossible for a large group of people to not only coexist, but to prosper so spectacularly with no other motivation but altruism,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s human nature to be selfish. To wish ill on other people. The only proof you need is a glimpse at the societies on the surface.¡±


    Lennox chuckled to himself. ¡°You remind me a lot of Mariam. Back then. Before she became one of us.¡± He took a sip from his glass before he continued. ¡°Receiverists believe there is no choice. There is only one possibility. We¡¯re all just playing the roles we need in order for the future to happen. Because it will happen.¡±


    There was a pause. I struggled to make sense of what the man in front of me said. It was a permutation of words that shouldn¡¯t compute. I unconsciously dipped the final piece of bread and brought it to my mouth. Lennox watched wordlessly. He waited until I finished the piece.


    ¡°Let me ask you a question,¡± he said. ¡°What would you do if you knew for certain that the world was going to end sometime in the future, unless you did something that was within your power to stop it?¡±


    This is a pointless question, I thought. ¡°I would do the thing.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Lennox said with a nod. ¡°I expected nothing less. Now let me ask you. Do you believe the world will end?¡±


    The answer I wanted to say was ¡°I don¡¯t know¡±, but that would have been a lie. I knew what my answer was. I could feel it. I had felt it for a long time now. There was an unmistakable, distinct point in time that had separated the shifting of my answer, and it had been unchanged ever since. And so I gave it to him.


    ¡°And you are a financial mathematician?¡± Lennox said.


    I was caught off guard by the question. ¡°Yes. I research financial maths.¡±


    ¡°Why did you choose this area of research?¡±


    ¡°Well. It¡¯s what gets published out there in the world,¡± I answered. ¡°It¡¯s what landed me a job. It¡¯s what allowed me to¡­ leave home.¡±


    ¡°And now I will ask you just one more,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Are you satisfied with your impact on the world?¡±


    Just as he asked this, the waiter returned with the mains. Steak pieces. Lennox didn¡¯t speak any more after that. He didn¡¯t even register my presence. He left me alone with my thoughts. Alone with nothing but the deafening echoes of his serrated question.

 Chapter 13

    Mariam Desta.


    Lennox had mentioned her during the lunch yesterday, but it was only when the affair was concluding that he had explicitly made the suggestion.


    ¡°Oh. And Alex?¡± Lennox had suddenly said as he got up. It was the first words spoken since we received our mains. ¡°You should meet Mariam. I¡¯ll put it into her schedule tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Mariam?¡± I had asked.


    ¡°You¡¯ll love her.¡±


    After I had my morning shower, I returned to find a message left for me in my handheld.


    Irene: Be there in 20


    As I cooked the scrambled eggs, I ruminated on the fact that¡ªassuming Lennox and everyone else hadn¡¯t been lying¡ªI would only have a day left in Sanctuary. My decision was to be issued to Lennox tomorrow. To leave this subterranean world and return home, or stay and help the Receiverists with their research. I hadn¡¯t particularly entertained the decision, because my perspective up until now had always been that it was no real choice at all. I wasn¡¯t here of my own volition, and so in order to right this wrong, I simply must leave when the first available opportunity presented itself. A reversion to some previous state, one in which the offer to visit this place could be posed to me in the way it should have been. Whether that question would ever materialise once I return to the surface was neither here nor there. It was the principle that mattered. A statement needed to be made, one that rightfully captured my indignation of having this situation thrusted upon me. And so my so-called decision that I needed to make tomorrow had been predetermined. Well before I had even stepped foot into this city. I would choose to leave.


    But was that really a decision? If the decision to the question of whether I wanted to stay here was already determined by my lack of choice on a previous matter, on a decision that was made for me by Receiverists, then was I truly expressing my own will? Could it be the case that my dogged need to make a statement on behalf of some abstract principle was actually a barrier to my agency? Perhaps there was an argument that the right way to go about the choice such that it would truly be a choice, would to make it without the baggage of the context in which the choice had been produced as in the first place. But if I momentarily forgot about the brutal way in which I had been taken into this city, what would I decide on? Was I afraid of the possibility that¡ª


    ¡°Shit!¡± I cursed as I frantically turned off the stove and brought the pan over to the sink. After running it with cold water, I scraped the bits of burnt egg into the waste drawer. Serves me right for being so abstracted while cooking, I thought grumpily. Lacking the time and patience to try again, I decided to just eat toast with nothing else but my invaluable company.


    The tones played just as I finished cleaning the dishes. ¡°Morning,¡± I said as I opened the door.


    Irene¡¯s eyebrows lifted in surprise. For a moment, I was confused. ¡°Morning,¡± she said. ¡°You ready to go?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said before stepping out onto the corridor. As the door closed, Irene took the lead and I followed.


    ¡°Only a day left, huh?¡± Irene remarked. She sounded like she could have been talking about the weather.


    The image of burnt eggs flashed before me. ¡°I suppose so.¡±


    ¡°Well. Do me a favour and don¡¯t talk about us when you get back,¡± Irene said flatly. ¡°Or I may need to pay you a little visit.¡±


    I ignored her joke¡ªat least I hoped it was. ¡°You seem to be pretty sure of what I¡¯m going to choose.¡±


    ¡°I thought we¡¯d already established that you¡¯re a pretty obstinate person,¡± Irene said as she pressed the button for the elevator. ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°I guess.¡±


    She turned to look at me for a moment, as if searching for something in my eyes. I wasn¡¯t sure what it was, but I tried to study her expression to see if she found it. By the time the elevator doors opened, I still couldn¡¯t tell.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem terribly worried by the fact that I¡¯m going to choose to leave,¡± I said after the elevator doors closed.


    ¡°Why would I be?¡± Irene asked. It seemed like an honest question.


    ¡°But doesn¡¯t your promotion ride on this?¡± I asked, gesturing at my body as I did so.


    Irene tilted her head, as if I had said something peculiar. ¡°No, not really. I think you¡¯re misunderstanding how this works.¡±


    ¡°I am?¡±


    ¡°The outcome doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Irene said as the elevator doors opened. ¡°The only thing that matters is that I¡¯ve done all I can to facilitate the possibility.¡±


    I followed her as she left the elevator. ¡°I¡¯m confused. How can the outcome not matter to your boss? Surely that¡¯s the only thing that matters in the end. I mean, I can try my best at making a shoe, but I don¡¯t know anything about shoemaking, so I¡¯d most likely fail. In what world would that land me a promotion as a shoemaker?¡±


    ¡°That analogy doesn¡¯t work, because you haven¡¯t gone to shoemaking school,¡± Irene said. ¡°Whereas I¡¯ve done everything I can to provide you the context, which you asked for, to convince you to help us with research. I can¡¯t force you to do it. You ultimately decide to stay or leave. That¡¯s up to you. Or the universe, really. It¡¯s beyond me. If you stay, then that¡¯s just the way that things are supposed to happen. If you go, same thing. This assignment will be considered a success either way.¡±


    I thought about this for a moment as we walked down the street, passing other preoccupied Receiverists. ¡°So you¡¯re not at all invested in whether I stay or not?¡±


    Irene was contemplative for a moment. ¡°I guess I can understand why you would think that. If there¡¯s anything I would regret about you leaving, it¡¯d probably be for you.¡±


    ¡°For me?¡±


    ¡°I hate to say it, but you¡¯re interesting,¡± Irene said. ¡°Mostly in the worst ways possible, so don¡¯t flatter yourself. But at first, you were just a name, a picture, pages of information, and a career stepping stone.¡±


    ¡°And now?¡± I was almost afraid of her answer.


    ¡°A complicated person,¡± Irene said with a smile. It seemed almost pitying. ¡°It¡¯s none of my business. Professionally or personally. But I think you¡¯re happier here.¡±


    We fell to silence as we walked. I had no response to that. I could deny it, but truthfully, it would only be petty. I didn¡¯t know the truth to Irene¡¯s assessment, because that would entail that I knew what happiness meant. I didn¡¯t. Perhaps I had it once, but its absence in so long had all but erased any traces of its very existence in my being. The way ashes dispersed from the top of a mountain. Was I happy? It was a question I didn¡¯t think I could answer, nor did it really occupy any space in my mind. Instead, all I could feel was my surprise from hearing Irene¡¯s words. And seeing her momentary expression. In that moment, I saw a glimpse of an Irene that I didn¡¯t know existed. Someone who was more than just her job. A person with their own complications and depth, who recognised aspects of me that I and the rest of the world preferred to ignore. And maybe even things I couldn¡¯t see myself.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I said after minutes of silence as we walked from building to building. The only acknowledgement from Irene was a fleeting look.


    The walk was longer than I expected, passing through no less than five buildings before we stopped in front of another elevator. Irene scanned her handheld before pressing level two. The elevator doors opened to what looked like an office floor, except not quite. As we walked down the labyrinthine corridors, we passed by large rooms of people gathered around screens on the wall that appeared to fulfil the role of blackboards. On the blackboards were diagrams, formulas, matrices, and other notes drawn up by hand. There was one blackboard that two people stared at in silence, with postures that suggested they had been doing so for hours. I get that, I thought. As we ventured deeper into the floor, we passed by both open and closed offices. We stopped at a door that had a screen displaying ¡°Mariam Desta¡±. Irene opened it with her handheld.


    ¡°Mariam,¡± Irene said as she nodded towards the dark skinned woman sitting behind the desk.


    Mariam looked up from her tablet, her curls bouncing as she did. The white streaks in her hair made me guess that she was in her early fifties. Her voice was low and raspy. ¡°The fabled Dr Young. Come in.¡±


    As I stepped onto the floor of her office, she nodded at Irene before gesturing me to the empty chair in front of her desk. The door closed, leaving the two of us separated by a silver surface that held various screens and tablets. My eyes were drawn to the single incongruity on the desk; a glass case holding up a stringed golden pendant that looked like the sun.


    ¡°A family heirloom,¡± Mariam said. ¡°It was the most treasured possession of my late grandmother. And it was the only thing that I had with me when I arrived in Sanctuary.¡±


    ¡°So you weren¡¯t born here?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± she answered. ¡°Like you, I was contacted by Receiverists many, many years ago. Long enough for me to sit in this symbolic chair in front of you. My name is Mariam Desta. I am the Head of the Science Division. This is probably nothing new to you, but I appreciate the formality.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m Alex Young. I haven¡¯t signed up to do anything.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s silly,¡± Mariam said.


    I was taken aback by her terseness, punctuated by the firm look in the dark eyes that locked onto mine. I suddenly felt the urge to defend myself. ¡°I disagree,¡± I said, mustering up as much resoluteness as I could. ¡°I was taken here forcibly. It¡¯s insulting to expect me to voluntarily choose to align myself with my captors.¡±


    ¡°Are you a man of science? A man of progress?¡± Mariam asked. ¡°Or a man of hubris?¡±


    ¡°Certainly the former, I hope,¡± I said. ¡°But surely you¡¯re not suggesting that technology is sufficient to convince me to stay?¡±


    ¡°Of course I am,¡± Mariam said. ¡°You¡¯ve been here nearly a week now. The rate of our technological progress is not merely evident, but overwhelming. We are not at the forefront of progress. We are progress itself. Doing research out there is pointless. This is simply the only place to be. That is, if you¡¯re even remotely serious about doing research that¡¯s meaningful.¡±


    ¡°I understand that I¡¯m in no position to dispute any of that,¡± I said. ¡°But that¡¯s not the only factor here. There¡¯s a lot of other aspects to this society that I haven¡¯t made up my mind about yet. And my introduction to it was a kidnapping. So forgive me if I seem hesitant, but I think I have the right.¡±


    ¡°Of course you do,¡± Mariam said. ¡°Everyone has the right to make terrible decisions.¡±Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Her audacity¡ª


    ¡°But frankly,¡± she continued, ¡°as a woman of science, the only thing I care about is the pursuit of knowledge and application. I¡¯m surprised that as a fellow victim to the academic world above, you¡¯re not on your knees begging for a permanent position right now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not that shameless,¡± I said indignantly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying that to rouse you,¡± Mariam said as she leaned towards me. ¡°I¡¯m saying that because it¡¯s what I would have done. It¡¯s what I did. Tell me, what are you going to do after you leave? Crawl back to the entrenched, incestuous circle jerk of academia? Where disillusioned researchers are all but forced to shamelessly publish meaningless papers? Where your entire career depends on satisfying a publishing culture that discourages the genuine pursuit of knowledge?¡±


    I didn¡¯t want to lie or bruise my own ego by suggesting that yes, indeed that was my plan. ¡°Well, I could always go to industry,¡± I said sheepishly.


    Mariam leaned back into her chair. ¡°Then I¡¯d tell you to stop wasting my time and get the fuck out of my office. I¡¯d see to it personally that your offer to stay is revoked.¡±


    There was a silence. I wanted her to think that I was considering her words as a real opportunity. But as the seconds passed, there was a confident smirk forming on Mariam¡¯s lips. I hate to say it, but I respect her, I thought.


    ¡°Can you tell me about the problem that you want me to solve?¡± I asked, breaking the moment. ¡°All I¡¯ve been told so far is that it has something to do with a physics model.¡±


    ¡°Yes. The mathematical problems we want you to solve are related to a new model of particle physics that we need,¡± Mariam said.


    ¡°You need?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Our current understanding of physics fails to account for certain results in our measurements,¡± she explained. ¡°Simply put, these observations contradict our current theory of physics and should therefore be impossible.¡±


    ¡°But reality cannot be changed while theory can, so it must be the theory that¡¯s wrong,¡± I said.


    Mariam nodded. ¡°Well said. And we believe a new theory of particle physics will have key applications towards the Preparation Project. We¡¯ve translated these observations into mathematical conditions, described by the document we¡¯ve sent you. Unfortunately, our brightest minds have so far failed to formalise a consistent model that satisfies those conditions.¡±


    ¡°And this is why you¡¯ve sought outside help.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mariam said. ¡°This is where you come in.¡±


    ¡°Why me?¡± I asked. ¡°Why did you choose me among the tens of thousands of other mathematicians out there?¡±


    ¡°I had no hand in that,¡± she said. ¡°It was a non-negotiable suggestion from the Reception Division.¡±


    ¡°Non-negotiable?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Unfortunately, that¡¯s how the Reception Division works most of the time,¡± Mariam lamented with a sigh.


    ¡°So their analyses or algorithms or whatever figured out that I¡¯m the only person who can solve this problem?¡± I asked.


    Mariam chuckled. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re the only person who can solve this problem. In fact, I don¡¯t actually care if you help us or not.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the vote of confidence,¡± I snarked.


    ¡°Try not to take it personally,¡± she said. ¡°The way it works is that the problem will inevitably be solved someday. By someone, somehow, at some point in time. Yes, that could be you. I suppose your admittedly creative work on stochastic models in finance ticks the boxes, since we already know that the required physics model must be probabilistic, and there¡¯s often an analogy between physics and finance. But if you can¡¯t or won¡¯t do the maths, then someone else will. And I¡¯m more than okay with this.¡±


    I had always known that for the sake of my career, I needed the research more than it needed me. But to hear it spoken out loud, when everything that had happened had almost fooled me into believing that I was destined for it, still had an impact. It made me aware just how insecure I was. If Lennox honoured his word and I was sent back home tomorrow, then I would be back at square one. No. It would not just be square zero, but square negative ten. From the perspective of the faculty, I had abandoned my duties as a lecturer and researcher and reappeared some time later with nothing to show for it. Of course, that seemed trivial when this entire experience had a life or death element to it. Hypothetically, if any Receiverist wanted me to disappear off the surface¡ªvolume of the Earth for whatever reason, then that could happen. I wasn¡¯t truly safe until this was over and I was back on the surface. That alone should be enough. But a part of me wanted more. Now that I had another dimension down here, it gave rise to possibilities. I could still return with a win. To pick myself back up. But Mariam¡¯s words reminded me that I could still return empty-handed.


    ¡°Is this how they recruited you?¡± I asked. ¡°They found you when you needed something, kidnapped you down here, and you decided to stay?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly.¡± She paused for a moment. Her eyes looked distant. ¡°It¡¯s quite startling, isn¡¯t it? The magnitude of the impact a single decision made over twenty years ago can have on your life.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a long time to be living underground,¡± I remarked. ¡°What about your friends and family?¡±


    ¡°Well, most Receiverists were born here,¡± Mariam said. ¡°But I didn¡¯t have any friends back then. Nor did I have any family. They all died.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said.


    Mariam waved off the sentiment. ¡°Don¡¯t be. It couldn¡¯t be helped. One might say it was always meant to be. There was a famine caused by the war. I was no older than ten. It was brutal.¡±


    I can¡¯t even imagine the horrors this woman had seen as a child, I thought solemnly. ¡°If I may, how did you go from there to here?¡±


    ¡°I will tell you, because I am proud of my roots,¡± Mariam said as she leaned further into her chair. ¡°My family sold our tools and trinkets at first. But soon, we realised they weren¡¯t enough. And so we gradually sold our valuables. Our heirlooms. Until there was nothing left. Nothing except this.¡± Mariam gestured towards the glass casing that housed the pendant in the shape of the sun. ¡° My mother refused to even discuss it. This is the only reminder I have of my heritage now. The only evidence that my family had ever existed, aside from myself.¡±


    ¡°By the time we reached the smugglers, it was just my mother and I,¡± Mariam said. ¡°We gave them a bracelet and a ring. My mother hid the pendant with me. We were one of the few survivors who survived the trip, but my mother died after reaching the embassy. She contracted a disease. I¡¯m sure it was from giving me what little food there was. The refugee camp was a nightmare, but a couple of years later I was resettled into Sweden with another refugee family. It wasn¡¯t that I didn¡¯t get along with them, but they weren¡¯t my real family, so I studied hard and landed a scholarship for science.¡±


    ¡°I went on to become a postdoc researcher in theoretical physics. But I was too driven. The papers I published made a lot of noise, but I refused to participate in the showy academic dance that I was expected to do. For that, I was punished with not having enough collaborators, which in turn meant not enough publication output, which led to difficulties with procuring research grants, and so forth. One day, at the teetering edge of my career, I was approached by a man who promised me a utopia. Where I can truly pursue science in itself at an accelerated rate. Where hunger doesn¡¯t exist. Where my work will go towards human prosperity. That utopia was Sanctuary.¡±


    ¡°And that man¡¯s name was Lennox,¡± I said.


    Mariam nodded. ¡°He prefers Lenny.¡±


    As I walked the streets of Sanctuary, it was a shock to me that I would even consider the decision as a real decision. That there was even a possibility that I might provide any answer that wasn¡¯t ¡°get me the fuck out of here¡± seemed impossible several days ago. I supposed I was playing into the hands of Lennox¡¯s machinations. He had known that this city would be persuasive. Perhaps he had even ran his oh so powerful algorithms and saw that the odds of swaying me was favourable. Maybe that was why he felt confident about taking me into this clandestine society¡ªno, why he had chosen me for this research task from the very start. The operation to put me here was months in the making. Maybe even years. I didn¡¯t know the distance of the Receiverists¡¯ foresight, but I was beginning to believe it was a horizon that no one under the real horizon could see.


    Perhaps this was the so-called determinism principle. That, if I thought about it for too long, I would start to believe my path was fixed. That, because someone somewhere had seen my predicted decisions, my role had gone from being the agent who made choices to a slave who merely fulfilled prophecies. And so the decision I needed to give wouldn¡¯t be a decision at all. I was destined to accept their offer to stay and assist with their research, and therefore I will. But this sense of determinism wasn¡¯t new in itself. After all, it wasn¡¯t all that long ago that I readily accepted the idea that my decision was fixed; I would doggedly choose to leave, as preordained by the fact that I had been robbed of the choice to come here in the first place.


    I arrived at the square of some building. As it often was the case, Irene had only led me to whichever destination I was scheduled to be at, then left me to find my own way back. I supposed this made sense. She only needed me to be on time. Timeliness was probably good for her performance review, whereas I didn¡¯t need to be back home at a fixed time, so she didn¡¯t bother. By my estimation, I was about halfway between Mariam¡¯s office and my apartment. My apartment, I caught myself thinking. Looking around, I saw a barista working at the window of a cafe. There were only two other people in line.


    ¡°What would you like?¡± the barista asked after she had finished serving the middle-aged woman in front of me.


    ¡°A flat white,¡± I said, before adding, ¡°with soy milk, thanks.¡± I didn¡¯t usually ask for soy milk in my coffee, but I suddenly remembered that they grew their own soybeans here. I was curious what it tasted like.


    The barista looked at me funny, before smirking. ¡°If you were from here, you¡¯d know soy milk is the default,¡± she said. ¡°Sugar?¡±


    ¡°No sugar.¡± In hindsight, I should have guessed. ¡°Oh, can I also have one of those bagels?¡± It was almost lunch hour, anyway.


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said. She tapped away at her tablet, before, ¡°Scan here.¡±


    I made my way over to a vacant bench in the square. My first sip of the flat white made me realise the soy milk here tasted better than what I remembered it was like on the surface. I watched as the waves of passersby walked through the square. People of all shapes, sizes and colours, all unified by their cloth and purpose. And yet, each with their own personhood. Some were clearly students. Others looked like they worked in manufacturing. A man and a woman looked like they had just come out of a gym. The crowds became a river of grey under my distant stare.


    Regardless of the choice I would make, I could tie it back to reasons that would make the choice seem like a predetermined inevitability. But it was nothing more than a fallacy. Two mutually exclusive outcomes couldn¡¯t both be predestined. It was pointless to speculate. In order to truly decide, I would need to detach the decision from both inescapable contexts; the predictive arsenal that Lennox has access to, and the fact that I was taken here involuntarily. Stripping away those, what was left?


    My career needed the research. My life needed the research. The looming walls were closing in and I was running out of solutions. I had believed that the work I had received from the Receiverist research group was a lifeline. And I still do, I realised. I needed a win, and perhaps I could still get it here. Otherwise, I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m going to do when I get back.


    As I finished the bagel, I wondered if it would be so bad to stay here. Not just for the immediate research, but more permanently. After all, Mariam had done it. And if I could prove my aptitude as a researcher by completing this work, then surely that would be justification enough. The material benefits were obvious; they were flaunted at me. But what about the society? Did I wish to become a Receiverist? Did I want to don the grey uniform and become a part of the monolithic mass living in a monolithic forest? To share the ideals of building a sanctuary for humanity? I admired what they were trying to do. Whether they could do it, I wasn¡¯t so sure. I appreciated the utility of their society. Harmonic. Selfless. Pragmatic. Yet, I couldn¡¯t help but wince at the way they achieved it. Unfettered surveillance. Predictions underpinning every aspect of life, so powerful that they gave Receiverists a sense of determinism. This was very much a ¡°the end justifies the means¡± kind of place. I wasn¡¯t sure how I felt about that.


    Sitting at my desk, I stared at the mathematical document in front of me. It was closed. Nothing but a thin stack of papers. They looked so trivial. And yet, they were everything. Or so I had been told. I had bashed my head against it before. And a part of me knew that I was willing to try it once more. To persist in the face of impossibility. For that was what research truly was. Are you satisfied with your impact on the world? That question had echoed through the crevices of my mind ever since. Every now and then I would wonder about what mark I would leave on this earth after I perish. Who didn¡¯t? But I had accepted that impact was a luxury. I chose the field of financial mathematics not because it would make the world a better place. In fact, I didn¡¯t think my research would have any material effect at all. Working in that field was merely a convenience. Perhaps a part of me was afraid of the idea that I might have any influence on the world. After all, it was already so fragile. I didn¡¯t want to be the pebble that shattered it. It took courage to take up the mantle of wanting to deliver a change for the good. It also took the ability to envision a better, brighter future. I had neither. But this opportunity presented itself. Beckoning, screaming at me towards contributing to something much greater, much more meaningful than anything I had ever done. But was I willing to leave my comforting familiarity to take the hilt of responsibility?


    In the end, none of that mattered. Irene had been right. What truly mattered were the feelings. The perspectives. That, despite the way I viewed the world, I felt the rejuvenating glimmer of hope at the way Receiverists worked faithfully and in synchrony towards something greater than themselves. Nothing could compare to this on the surface. Nothing up there could inspire me to become a better person. A person who was worthy of saving.


    I picked up my handheld.


    ¡°Alex?¡± Irene asked after the connection was established. She knew what this was about, but I found what I needed in her grey eyes. She didn¡¯t know what I was going to say.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to stay,¡± I said resolutely. A smile formed on Irene¡¯s lips.

 Chapter 14

    The Receiverist society was characterised¡ªif not defined¡ªby the invasion of predictive models and artificial intelligence into every aspect of life. A person¡¯s education path. Their career. Who to allow into the city. What to stock for noon at a particular cafe. Everywhere, every second of the day was quantified into incalculable amounts of data, and ingested into a sea of algorithms that found predictable patterns even God himself didn¡¯t know about. One couldn¡¯t help but wonder whether a sacred line had been crossed. That perhaps all this quantification robbed Receiverists of an essential aspect of being human; living under the oppressive veil of uncertainty. In very literal terms, it was uncertainty that made who we are. It was the oppressive sea of which its currents shaped our paths and moulded us. The way we responded to it, made mistakes because of it, learnt from it. The unknown purveyed every aspect of our lives and the sum of our reactions to it constituted who we were. And so what did it mean to be relieved of all of it? Were Receiverists free from uncertainty? Or were they oppressed by certainty? Was optimality itself a constricting rope, one that suffocated human expression? Perhaps there was more to life than striving for optimality. Maybe the experience of not finding your go-to food in the cafe you frequented was an enriching one that encouraged spontaneity. And yet, the convenience of having your every need, desire and purpose anticipated for was too seductive to ignore.


    There was, however, one final bastion that persisted and held off the invasion of analytics. And it was the reason for why I was in this city in the first place. Mathematics. The one thing in which everything was certain and fixed. Its abstractions were practical yet elegant. It was the very language of quantification that all algorithms took for granted. Yet, it stood firmly against automation. It seemed contradictory, but to me it was obvious. It was to any practitioner of the art. It wasn¡¯t that important and novel mathematical problems required novel solutions, but rather, that they required novel argumentation. New perspectives of seeing things. There was only one way that these perspectives can be gained, and that was through genuine spontaneous inspiration. It wasn¡¯t a matter of logic. No. Logic needed to be actively discarded in order to reach it, otherwise one ran the risk of believing the problem was impossible after having employed all logical approaches.


    There were, of course, other reasons for why mathematics was impossible for algorithms. For example, despite being a discipline about patterns, they were broken all the time. A solution might work for the first 906,180,358 cases of a problem, but would inexplicably be incorrect for the 906,180,359th case. Mathematics was a discipline so counterintuitive that one could use maths to prove that there would always exist valid problems that would be impossible to solve. But ultimately, the failure of artificial intelligence in tackling key maths problems had to do with two fundamental premises. Mathematics was an art, not science. Algorithms could only do well in the latter. Figuring out how to optimally stock a cafe to satisfy all the Receiverists on their break was a scientific problem that required scientific methods. Tackling unsolved problems in mathematics was an art that required one to discard everything they knew about how the discipline had worked successfully in the past, and make illogical and unscientific leaps of faith in creating something beautiful and elevating.


    And perhaps that was why there was a lack of art in Sanctuary. There were no paintings. No novels. No film. The music sounded like the average from a data set. The few statues I had seen seemed obligatory¡ªa reminder of some vision shared by all Receiversts, not expressions by the diversity of individuals. Just common denominators. Could it be that the people here had become so accustomed to certainty, that the uncertainty of art was inconvenient, if not threatening? Perhaps that was why they needed someone from the outside to help solve a problem that couldn¡¯t be done with algorithms.


    Of course, that didn¡¯t mean it would be easy.


    ¡°This is your office,¡± Irene said after opening the door. ¡°It unlocks to your handheld.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I said as I stepped inside.


    ¡°Much better than your previous office at Miller,¡± Irene remarked as she leaned against the white wall.


    That was certainly the case. It was at least twice as large. One wall had a large screen that I was sure to explore when I had time. There was a couch on the other side of the room. The desk was spacious and held a laptop.


    ¡°That machine is a modified one from the surface,¡± Irene explained. ¡°It¡¯s so you can skip trying to learn our tech.¡±


    ¡°I feel spoilt,¡± I said.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m off,¡± Irene said as she turned to leave. ¡°Let me know if you need anything.¡±


    After she closed the door, I dropped the maths documents onto the desk. I walked over to the window and gazed at the strange world outside. The strange world I was in. Could I ever get used to this? I wondered. I remembered when I had been terrified by the view. It was still unsetting, but perhaps one day it would grow on me. Anything was possible. As if I was diving into the abyss, I took a deep breath before taking a seat at the desk.


    The symbols were at once familiar and mysterious. What I needed was a perspective shift. When I had first attempted the manuscript back in Miller, I made the mistake of treating the document like any other piece of mathematical exposition. I was wrong. It wasn¡¯t a completed text that could be understood linearly. Rather, it was fragmented. As Mariam described, it was more of a collection of criteria. And so in hindsight, it was obvious that the manuscript didn¡¯t make any sense as a whole. They needed someone to connect the dots. If all the pieces of the puzzle had fit neatly together, then they wouldn¡¯t have needed me. Therefore, I need to start by examining the pieces, I concluded. And I would start by inspecting the structure rather than the explicit formulas and equations. Because only through structure could I identify patterns, relative importance and shapes that couldn¡¯t be seen by a linear study.


    ¡°Name¡¯s Erich,¡± the bald man said. He had a surprisingly baritone voice for his small stature. By my estimation, he was younger than me by at least five years. ¡°And this is the computation lab.¡±


    I stepped into the room. It looked like any other shared office. There were only a few people sitting on the other side of the room, tapping away into their interfaces. ¡°I¡¯m Alex,¡± I said. ¡°And by that, you mean supercomputers?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Erich said as he nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve been told to help you with anything you might need for your work.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m surprised that you said supercomputers and not quantum computers.¡±


    ¡°We have those too,¡± Erich said. ¡°It¡¯s just that they¡¯re interfaced via our supercomputers, so they¡¯re more like a tool of computation if you need it. But you know, not every problem benefits from it so we don¡¯t have that many quantum computation units.¡±


    I was shocked at the casualness in which the man said all that. ¡°Nice,¡± I said, not knowing what else to say. ¡°So uh. Where are they? The supercomputers, I mean.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re located in the sub-base levels,¡± Erich said with a shrug.


    ¡°Ah I see. So this lab accesses those machines remotely,¡± I said.


    ¡°Not really. Everyone who needs supercomputer resources can access them anywhere.¡±


    I ran a hand through my hair. ¡°Wait a minute. Then why is this called a lab?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s where my team works,¡± Erich said, either not noticing or not acknowledging the awkwardness of the miscommunication. ¡°This,¡± he gestured to the corner of the room that inhabited the handful of people slouched over screens, ¡°is the computation team. We optimise computation.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I uttered as an understanding finally clicked into place. ¡°So you¡¯re the people I should go to if I need to run a ton of simulations?¡±


    Erich nodded. ¡°That¡¯s us. Your companionable computation comrades.¡±


    ¡°Huh. But I can access the supercomputer from my laptop?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Laptop?¡±


    ¡°The interface I¡¯m using.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure you can,¡± Erich said. ¡°But even our supercomputers won¡¯t feel very super if you have a hundred nested loops or if you¡¯re trying to calculate the seventh Ramsey number. At least in the former case, we can help with simplifying that.¡±


    I lifted an eyebrow. ¡°The seventh Ramsey number? Why, have you calculated the fifth, and sixth Ramsey numbers?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve only calculated up to the fifth so far, about thirty years ago. But I think we might finally be able to hit the sixth by the end of the decade.¡±


    Once again, the casualness in his voice seemed wildly incongruent with his words. ¡°Holy shit.¡±


    Computation and mathematics go hand in hand. Of course, the theory of computation was a blossoming field of mathematics¡ªat least on the surface; I had no idea how saturated the field was among Receiverist researchers. Conversely, computation was an essential tool to the mathematician. More than crunching numbers, solutions could be validated or disproved using simulations. If the theory appeared to be sensible but the simulations failed to yield expected observations, then one¡¯s mathematical ability must be called into question. I resolved to use the tools at my disposal. If I suspected a solution, then rather than rigorously prove it, which would be tiresome, I ought to test it using simulations first. Failing fast was always better than failing slow. The mathematical rigour should only come afterwards.


    After a couple of days, I fell to a steady rhythm. Every day, I would get up a little past seven. I would eat breakfast, then get to my office at eight and begin chipping away at the document. There was a food court a couple of levels down that I frequented for lunch and dinner. The two vendors there were Indian and Greek. I alternated between them. Every two to three hours I¡¯d take a walk through the streets for coffee. I¡¯d return home after dinner, shower then work a little more before hitting the sack. Routine was a breath of fresh air. I was never someone who managed well without a focus. During my first week in Sanctuary, the aimlessness of the hours had made them seem much longer than they had any right to be. In contrast, the third day since I had resumed my research had felt like it had breezed by. And so did the fourth. Some might prefer to enjoy time slowly, to savour its finiteness. I disagreed. I preferred its transience. That was its best part.


    Working as a researcher in Sanctuary was admittedly pleasant. In some ways, it was what I had always imagined it would be, until I had started postgraduate research and became jaded towards the academic industry. Of course, the fact that everything was provided for free was beneficial, yet the greatest perk that came with the absence of money was the way it changed the fundamental nature of research. I was no longer doing it for money. The research institution wasn¡¯t private and hence didn¡¯t burden me with lecturing courses or grooming PhD candidates to meet student quotas that translated to revenue targets. I could finally do research for the sake of research and apply myself fullest towards the pursuit of knowledge. Even justifying what I did to outsiders wasn¡¯t as unpleasant of an ordeal as it was on the surface. Typically, the other party would ask ¡°So. What do you do?¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°I¡¯m an academic,¡± I would say. ¡°I conduct mathematical research.¡±


    The next response was varied, but it was usually along the lines of ¡°Why?¡±, or ¡°How much do you get paid?¡±, or ¡°Man, I used to be good at maths until they added letters into it.¡± Among Receiverists, however, the conversations were much different.


    ¡°Hey,¡± the man sitting a few seats away from me in the food court started, ¡°you¡¯re new here, right?¡± He gestured towards the white stripe symbol.


    I wiped the corners of my mouth with the hand towel. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°An interesting experience, I imagine,¡± the man remarked. ¡°I¡¯ve lived my whole life underground.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine that,¡± I said.


    ¡°No, you probably can¡¯t,¡± he said. ¡°So. Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°To do research,¡± I answered. ¡°I¡¯m a mathematician.¡± The moment I uttered the five-syllable word, the expectation that the conversation was about to descend into tripe had hit me suddenly and impolitely.


    ¡°Wow. You must be doing some seriously important stuff,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that our mathematicians are pretty good, so you being here must mean something.¡±


    I stared at him blankly. That had not fit the pattern I had become so used to. ¡°Maybe,¡± I said with a shrug. ¡°Do you get a lot of¡­ outsiders here?¡±


    The man thought for a moment. ¡°Depends on what you mean. You talking about people from the surface? Yeah, we have a lot. Most of us are born Receiverists, but plenty join us. But if you mean people who are temporarily visiting? Not many.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying that most people who visit end up staying permanently?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yeah, pretty much,¡± the man said. ¡°I mean it makes sense. I know quite a few endenized Receiverists and the way they talked about the world above wasn¡¯t exactly flattering.¡±


    I chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s not surprising.¡±


    ¡°What about you?¡± he asked. ¡°You gonna stay here after you finish whatever it is that you¡¯re here for?¡±


    ¡°Not sure,¡± I said. ¡°They haven¡¯t even asked me about it yet.¡±


    ¡°My friend, my guess is that they give everyone they bring here the opportunity to stay,¡± he said. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be very Receiverist of us to bring in someone and not do that. So. Would you?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯d need to think about it,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ve only been here for a couple weeks. And before that, I didn¡¯t even know this place existed.¡±


    The man laughed. ¡°But the good things are obvious, no?¡±


    ¡°Certainly. But the bad things aren¡¯t,¡± I said. ¡°The good and the bad of where I¡¯m from are clear to me. But here? There are some things I¡¯m not sure how I feel about, yes. But I¡¯m still waiting to see it. The bad.¡±


    The man regarded me for a moment before, like the flick of a switch, his companionable grin returned. ¡°You¡¯re a complicated man,¡± he said. ¡°And from what I¡¯ve seen, geniuses are complicated. Geniuses are unhappy. So I think how you think about Sanctuary is probably the only way you could think about this place.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean, if you thought any differently, maybe you wouldn¡¯t be the kind of person to solve the problem we need solving. Maybe Receiverists are just too happy,¡± The man chuckled. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why we need you.¡±


    ¡°By that logic, it would also mean that if I end up choosing not to stay, then there wouldn¡¯t have been any other way that things could have played out,¡± I said. ¡°Because the kind of person the Receiverists need to solve their maths problems is also the kind of person who would choose not to stay.¡±


    The man scratched his head. ¡°Huh. I guess so?¡± he said tentatively. ¡°But what do I know, I¡¯m just the lights guy.¡±


    ¡°Lights guy?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s me. My team¡¯s responsible for the lights around here,¡± he said as he pointed at the light fixture above. ¡°Installing them. Fixing them. Upgrading them according to the engineers. Unfortunately I¡¯m not a maths wizard, but fortunately no maths wizardry is needed here. It¡¯s important stuff, you know? To be able to see and all.¡±


    ¡°That certainly supersedes everything else,¡± I said. ¡°Do you mind if I ask you a¡­ potentially sensitive question?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he said as he crossed his beefy arms. ¡°You can always ask sensitive questions. You just may not always get an answer back.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± I nodded awkwardly. ¡°Do the lights contain cameras? For surveillance?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the man answered simply, as if I had been asking what an antonym of no was. ¡°I thought you were asking me something sensitive?¡±


    ¡°I thought that would be sensitive information,¡± I said.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± the man said. ¡°Why¡¯d you think that? Anyway. Yeah the lights are fitted with microcameras. Not the ones in your apartment. But everywhere else? Absolutely.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ terrifying to think about.¡±


    The man shrugged. ¡°Why would it be?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want some privacy?¡± I asked, with an almost frantic edge. ¡°To be outside of your home without knowing that everything you do is captured and filed away somewhere, maybe to be used against you?¡± It¡¯s absurd that I need to explain this to you, I omitted.


    The man looked thoughtful for a moment. ¡°Not really, no,¡± he said. ¡°The surveillance is for our benefit. And why would I worry about the footage being used against me? I¡¯m not about to do anything stupid. My kid can be out without me worrying about if anything bad will happen to them. They trip and hurt themselves somewhere without anyone around? The algorithms will instantly identify it and alert our medics. I don¡¯t know anyone who doesn¡¯t like our surveillance system. I¡¯m proud that I¡¯m helping out.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t entirely sure what had changed. Was it the difference in how I was approaching the problem? The context that I had learnt from Mariam? The difference in location? Whatever it was, this second time around at parsing the mathematical document was more fruitful than the first. I supposed in a roundabout way, my request to Irene to obtain more context had been granted, and it was helping with the research. I now saw the mathematical conditions and constraints that needed to be satisfied. They were the shadows of what I needed to find. Vague, amorphous outlines that hinted at something deeply complex. Something greater. With the elevation in my comprehension of the problem, I began to receive ideas for the first time. Granted, most of them weren¡¯t very good and were quickly disproved after several minutes of thought, but some lingered. The ones that formed hypotheses and conjectures that might lead to the right answer. Even if these initial ideas weren¡¯t correct but satisfied a few of the conditions, they would still provide valuable insights into the problem that might eventually lead to the right approach.


    Aside from myself, the laptop that the Receiverists had prepared for me was the only authentic thing in this city I knew of that came from the surface. Everything about it was familiar. The only thing that was different was an inbuilt application that provided a user interface to a developer environment. It tunnelled to the clusters of supercomputers in Sanctuary. It took me some time to familiarise myself with the interface, but it was surprisingly intuitive. In a little over a day, I had not only programmed the conditions that needed to be satisfied by whatever solution I would come up with, but also a couple of initial solution ideas I had. I sent the scripts over to Erich to optimise and tidy up.


    The next day, as I waited for the computation lab to run my simulation, I continued to work on the research in parallel. As more ideas came to me, it was hard to say that I was close to a breakthrough. Each idea showed some promise for one facet of the problem, but failed spectacularly in something else. It was as if I was playing Whac-A-Mole, except I wasn¡¯t sure whether I was the hammer or the mole. But I was determined. Before I had arrived in Sanctuary, the research was important to me because my livelihood depended on it. My life depended on it. Now, those aspects were still true, but their importance felt diluted due to this new looming purpose; the research was important to humanity¡¯s future. The pressure and expectation felt insurmountable, but it also felt strangely right. Perhaps the Receiverists had gotten to me, but if I was destined for something truly impactful, then it was high time for me to rise up to the occasion. The days of research for the sake of publishing ought to be behind me. This was possibly the singular most significant thing I would do in my life. It would have seemed unfathomable, but this research was even more important to me now than it had been before.


    I¡¯m responsible for this research, I thought as I sipped from the warm cup of coffee in my hands. If this was the surface, then maybe there would have been a late afternoon breeze. But it wasn¡¯t, and so the wind didn¡¯t exist. There were, however, children playing near the fountain at the centre of the square. I absentmindedly watched their parents humouring them from the wooden bench. I was a responsible person. I lived my life in routine. I thought of myself as diligent and hardworking in getting to where I was in life. And yet, the word ¡°responsible¡± just didn¡¯t taste right in my mind¡¯s incorporeal tongue.


    Had I acted responsibly in dedicating years of my life to dispassionately researching financial maths? Had I acted responsibly in my relationship with Hope? Had I acted responsibly in the devastation of my family? They were genuinely complicated questions. If I tried, I could perhaps conjure dozens of arguments for and against. It would be a pointless exercise in which the truth was malleable. Or perhaps it was really simple, and that I just didn¡¯t want to acknowledge the answer. Whatever it was, it didn¡¯t matter. Whatever shortcomings I had, it didn¡¯t matter. Because I had to be truly responsible for this one thing. Not just for my own benefit, but for all of our futures. And not just for others, but also a testament to myself. And with that resolution, my break was over. I quickly downed the rest of my coffee and stood from the bench.


    The desk in the office that the Receiverists had lent me was by no means modest. It was larger than the dining table in my apartment on the surface. It was larger than the dining table that our family used to have. And yet, a disease was spreading across its surface. Papers with hastily written mathematical symbols were sprawled across it, like overgrown lilies rampaging across the surface of a pond. Structure was a foreign concept to my thought process. My mind had a tendency to leap from one tangential thought to another, until the progression became incomprehensible. This was reflected in the nonlinearity of the sheets of maths over the desk. It would be difficult even for me to force some kind of logical structure among the sheets, and undoubtedly impossible for anyone else. It would be like trying to impose order onto chaos. This, ultimately, was why I was a good mathematician. It was why I might eventually solve a problem that machines couldn¡¯t.


    There was one piece of paper that summarised my progress. It had a list of nearly a dozen different approaches that had sporadically come to me over the past few days. They were all one line pitches, such as ¡°introduce mean-reversion!¡± or ¡°interdependency between ¦¤(amplitude) and ¦¤(vibration rate)??¡±. I would need to rely completely on the scarce permutation of words triggering the right cluster of neurons to remind me of the much larger details behind those approaches¡ªof which each would undoubtedly take many further pages to describe. This was not new to me, and honestly, it was my preferred way of working. Unfortunately, many of the ideas had been crossed out. Not all, but more than I would¡¯ve liked. I was surprised to find that even some of the approaches that had seemed promising had sunk to the bottom of the ocean into depths that crushed any possibility of resurfacing. Nevertheless, my determination hadn¡¯t been wounded. Finding a breakthrough was necessary. Securing our future was my responsibility. And so I would do it. I must.


    The stroll back to my apartment at night¡ªor its approximation¡ªhad always felt strange. On the surface, it would be relaxing knowing that I was no longer in the confinement of the faculty. Down here, the entire city of Sanctuary felt like one impossibly large workplace. Leaving my office, I was on a floor of a building. Leaving the floor, I was on another floor of that said building. Leaving that building, I was on the same floor of another building that was structurally identical in nearly every aspect. The levels that resembled streets were more pleasant to walk through, with people looking for places to eat or drink or socialise. But the illusion was broken by the absence of the soothing evening breeze and the smells of the night. It didn¡¯t feel like I had left the workplace; the workplace was merely taking a nap. Like an office building after hours. I briefly pondered whether to visit a bar, but I decided against it. In part because I was terrified of the possibility of running into the woman who had come onto me the last time I visited one. Not that I thought she would try again, but the embarrassment of being in close proximity for the both of us would be immense.


    The first thing I had done after reaching my apartment was to lie on my bed. I could take a shower. Make myself some tea. Play around with the detachable interface in the apartment to see what Receiverist recreation and culture looked like. But all of that could come later. It wasn¡¯t that I was exhausted, but the simple act of lying down horizontally and resting one¡¯s eyes was the closest to therapy I could ever get. The darkness behind my eyelids was quieting. Welcoming.


    I wasn¡¯t sure how long I had been resting like that. But what roused me from the tranquillity was the familiar tone from the desk. I reached over for my handheld and read the offending message. My heart sank. The paper wasn¡¯t in front of me, but I could see yet another idea being crossed off the list so vividly with a blood red marker. It wasn¡¯t even remotely close.


    Script alert: Job completed. 0/23 tests passed.

 Chapter 15

    As a child, I had always wondered whether it was possible to smell or taste in dreams. At that early age, I could only recall seeing and hearing during those unconscious hours, not anything else. As an adult, I now knew that the answer was yes. One¡¯s olfactory sense could be simulated in dreams just as vividly as reality. For the past few nights when I went to sleep, all I could smell was iron. It was mixed with another familiar scent and underscored by a shrill echo from a lifetime ago. My dreams were coloured in red and panic with accompaniment by an orchestra of screams and cries and sirens. One would think that having seen the same scenes over and over again would dampen their impact, reduce its meaning to nothingness. Like saying the same word over and over again until it becomes an unrecognisable sound robbed of any significance. Or the fading strength of an echo towards oblivion. One would be wrong.


    I rose from my bed every morning with wild eyes and restlessness. The stickiness of the sweat on my skin and the remnants of terror in my mind lingered until I stepped under the cold rivulets from the showerhead. These dreams didn¡¯t visit often. But when they did, they were always the effect, not the cause.


    The initial progress I had made since resuming the research had been invigorating. It had felt like a breakthrough was dangling in front of me. But as the discard rate of my ideas began to outpace the rate at which new ones were conceived, the familiar walls began to close in again as the prospect of success retreated further into the void. I had hoped that incorporating simulations would verify conjectures and provide guidance towards a successful approach, but instead it had so far done the opposite. Running simulations was akin to putting my ideas in front of an indiscriminate firing squad. The result was the same every time. Not a single condition met. If just one was satisfied, then perhaps I could take inspiration from what had worked from the solution attempt for the next iteration. And yet¡­


    Not a single one.


    Things were supposed to be different this time. I had suffered. I had seen things I couldn¡¯t have ever imagined. I had information that I wasn¡¯t privy to last time. Even my purpose had evolved. And yet, despite whatever progress I had made, the outcome was still the same. It was maddening. What had all that effort been for? It was starting to feel pointless. Like growing bloodstains on a fresh cloth against an ugly wound, hopelessness began seeping into the fabric of my reality yet again. And there was no other person, not even god, who could be the target of my indignance. My frustrations could only be directed at myself. After all, despite that everything had changed, I was the constant. And so I must be the problem.


    Lennox¡¯s office looked the same as it did the first time I entered it. Except this time, the tea table near his large couch wasn¡¯t empty.


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind me taking the liberty to order your coffee ahead of time,¡± Lennox said with a smile as he teared his attention away from his interface. ¡°Take a seat, Alex.¡±


    I was grateful for the coffee. It gave me a distraction away from the nervousness running through my veins. I had received a message from Lennox to meet him in his office earlier in the day, and I felt as if I was a scholarship student whose grades were slipping.


    I studied my coffee as he sat down.


    ¡°Flat white, no sugar,¡± Lennox said proudly as he tapped his temple with his index finger.


    ¡°Much appreciated,¡± I said.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he said. ¡°What kind of a man would I be if I didn¡¯t offer my guest¡ªwho¡¯s doing us a big favour¡ªthe best hospitality we can provide?¡±


    His description of what I was doing made me feel a pang of inadequacy. I washed it down with another scalding sip of coffee. ¡°I thought all Receiverists are treated the same?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Lennox said with a twinkle in his eye as he finger gunned me.


    ¡°So,¡± I started, figuring that it was pointless to delay the inevitable, ¡°you asked for me?¡±


    Lennox looked at me for a moment, before breaking out into a laugh. ¡°While I appreciate how the way you said that makes me sound royal, I didn¡¯t intend for you to be here under my authority,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I was hoping this would be more of a friendly chat. Not even between colleagues. Between two mates kicking back with some caffeine.¡± Lennox held up his ceramic cup for good measure. ¡°Unless, of course, if you prefer beer. We can do that next time.¡±


    There was a mild wave of reassurance. It didn¡¯t dispel every worry I had, but the way the other man was able to tactfully influence how I felt was impressive. I wasn¡¯t sure if it made him more endearing or dangerous.


    ¡°That¡¯s good to hear,¡± I said. ¡°Honestly, you had me worried for a second. That I wasn¡¯t meeting a quota or something.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not your boss, Alex. But do tell me, how¡¯re you going with doing our maths homework?¡±


    ¡°Well, I like to think I¡¯ve made some progress in my understanding¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s excellent!¡± Lennox boomed. ¡°See, I knew you were the right person. Usually we¡¯d go back and forth about inviting outsiders into Sanctuary, but I didn¡¯t have a single doubt about bringing you in.¡±


    Was I really invited? I thought sardonically. ¡°But it¡¯s still a tough piece of work. I was hoping that I¡¯d have made more progress than I have so far.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Lennox said. ¡°And you¡¯re disappointed?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard not to be,¡± I said with a sigh as I brought my cup to my lips.


    ¡°Did you think this would be easy?¡± Lennox asked.


    ¡°No,¡± I answered. Did I think it would be easy? I couldn¡¯t help but wonder. It was difficult not to think that I was better equipped to solve the problem than I actually was, given everything others have told me.


    ¡°No. Of course not,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Because if it¡¯s easy, you wouldn¡¯t be here right now. We wouldn¡¯t have reached out to you in the first place. Oh my dear Alex, it seems that your expectations are misaligned. We think you can do it, yes, but it doesn¡¯t mean we think it would be a walk in the park.¡±


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know how long it¡¯ll take before you solve the problem,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Maybe minutes from now, you¡¯ll be struck with an epiphany from the heavens. Or maybe, you¡¯ll spend several years on this problem before you find something.¡±


    ¡°Years?¡± I said in a surprised tone. I hadn¡¯t considered that possibility. ¡°I don¡¯t have years.¡±


    ¡°Of course you do,¡± Lennox said simply. ¡°You can stay here as long as you need. Your material needs are taken care of.¡±


    ¡°But I can¡¯t do that,¡± I said. ¡°Out there, my life isn¡¯t just on pause. Nobody knows where I am. I can¡¯t just inexplicably reappear out there ten years later with nothing to show for it.¡±


    Lennox shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s true. But you wouldn¡¯t return with nothing. You¡¯d return with a groundbreaking publication. A career-defining research.¡±


    There was a pause as he sipped his coffee and I caught onto the significance of his words. ¡°You¡¯re saying I can publish whatever findings I make?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Lennox said.


    ¡°Why would you allow me to do that?¡± I asked. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that put the existence of your society at risk?¡±


    ¡°No, not really. Because you¡¯d publish it without any ties to us on paper.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± I said as I leaned forward from my seat. ¡°What¡¯s the point of it?¡±


    ¡°That,¡± Lennox began as he raised his finger, ¡°is precisely the point. That you alone won¡¯t understand the path to prosperity. We want you to publish. Yes, we need your research down here to solve important engineering problems. But the world needs to know as well. So your research can be expanded upon and refined by generations of researchers beyond. You will merely be the start of something greater.¡±


    Whatever clarity and relief that had been provided from my conversation with Lennox was equalised by further expectations of the work that I was now aware of. I had thought this research would be one-off. A mere excursion to a niche physics problem the Receiverists needed to solve. But instead, it was something more. According to Lennox, a seed that was to grow into something intergenerational. A completely new research path that would define not just my career, but a legacy that would outlive me. When I had first sent my response to the then mysterious email, I had only been looking for a small, innocuous research gig that I could churn out a quick paper from. One that would be done just in time for my coming performance review. Now, that research was a crushing ocean of which I lay helplessly on its bedrock.


    The infestation that wasted the surface of my desk had spilled onto the floor. I wasn¡¯t a litterer; the trash drawer hidden in the wall of the room was filled with hundreds of papers that were coloured in hastily crossed out scribbles¡ªmore ink than the papers¡¯ natural hue. No. The papers that covered a significant portion of the surfaces in my office had details for ideas I couldn¡¯t rule out yet¡ªor rather, I was clinging to any hope that they wouldn¡¯t be discarded, like trying to find the heart to cut ties with a lover who just wasn¡¯t meant to be. The plentifulness didn¡¯t represent progress; they represented the lack of it. If I had made significant headways towards the problem, I would have less branches and a more succinct account of the approach. Less paper. But instead, my mind grasped at any straw that it could. It was desperation.


    There were times when I felt overwhelmed by my failure to meet my responsibility for the task. When I felt so powerless. So tiny and insignificant. Like a hopeless krill trying to swim against the violent tides that was pushing it towards a gaping mouth the size of a planet. In those moments, another feeling bubbled from the depths of my being that made my chest feel like it was caving in. Guilt. The old familiar visitor revealed a path that descended into the abyss. A spiralling staircase that would take me into a darkness from which I would not return. A place of accusation and scorn. Of familiar faces. Of damnation.


    A dormant part of my brain registered the door opening a fraction of a second after the tone played, but my mind was in another universe entirely. It was entirely fixated on the sheet of paper in front of me. I had been staring at the same scribbles for over an hour now. There is something here, I willed. I¡¯m sure of it. I just need to find it. As my eyes scanned from symbol to symbol for the nth time, I racked my brain for some kind of a transformation that would make the subproblem more tractable. If I can do it, then maybe, just maybe¡ª


    ¡°You¡¯ve really turned a nice office into a recycling bin,¡± came a familiar raspy voice.


    I looked up to see the unfamiliar shape of a woman with a face I recognised. This was the first time I saw her where she wasn¡¯t sitting behind a desk. She was shorter than I had imagined.


    ¡°Oh. Mariam,¡± I said absentmindedly. Context switching when I was neck deep in concentration gave me a lightheaded sensation akin to whiplash. ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Hello to you too,¡± Mariam said as her eyes continued to appraise the room. I felt naked. ¡°A rather impressive feat that you¡¯ve managed to outdo me in my postgraduate years.¡±


    My eyes couldn¡¯t help but scan over the sea of papers and scribbles. ¡°I honestly don¡¯t know what to say.¡±


    ¡°Then say nothing,¡± she said, ¡°and bask in the accomplishment that I no longer see you as a fraud.¡±


    My eyebrow quirked up. ¡°You saw me as a fraud?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t take it personally,¡± Mariam said as she took a seat on the chair that was on the other side of my desk, like she owned the place. She probably does, I reminded myself. ¡°The only way to distinguish between a real researcher and a fake one is to see them embrace the struggle. And it certainly looks like you¡¯re overdosing on it.¡±


    I crossed my arms. ¡°Are you saying I¡¯m struggling?¡± I asked indignantly.


    Mariam looked at me like a teacher would regard a student who asked if oxygen was breathable.


    I shrugged. ¡°This stuff isn¡¯t exactly easy,¡± I said, sounding more defensive than I would have liked.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Child,¡± Mariam said with a patronising emphasis, ¡°nothing we do here is easy. If it was all easy, I wouldn¡¯t be here. If it was all easy, the world wouldn¡¯t be as fucked as it is.¡±


    I flinched. Hearing the curse come out of a short statured, unassuming looking woman who was no doubt past her prime with the ferocity it had was penetrating.


    ¡°So¡­¡± I uttered, hoping that she would get the message without me explicitly and awkwardly asking ¡°can I help you or can you leave so I can get back to this stuff?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen some of the simulations you¡¯ve been running,¡± Mariam said. ¡°I like the ideas. But I think you could do with a little more creativity.¡±


    My ego flared. Who is she to criticise my mathematical ideas based on creativity? I might be struggling, but if she could solve the problem, then she¡¯d have done so already. Instead of responding, I washed down the indignance with a sip of water.


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking,¡± Mariam said. Does she, now? I thought cynically. ¡°¡®Does this woman really know what I¡¯m thinking?¡¯¡± she said with an exaggerated voice. That¡¯s cheating. ¡°You may think that doesn¡¯t count. Anyway. You were thinking who am I to criticise your ideas, right?¡±


    ¡°No¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course you were,¡± Mariam said. ¡°Because that¡¯s exactly what I would¡¯ve thought. Except maybe I¡¯d throw an ¡®old hag¡¯ in there.¡±


    ¡°Now I wouldn¡¯t go that far.¡±


    ¡°But of course I¡¯d see things you wouldn¡¯t,¡± Mariam said. ¡°I was in your position once. Many times, in fact. And for truly unique problems, you need truly unique solutions. None of these standard academia approaches. They won¡¯t get you anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Not that I don¡¯t appreciate the advice¡ª¡± I don¡¯t¡ª¡°but that¡¯s not actionable. Creative is an elusive concept, and I need to start somewhere concrete.¡±


    Mariam extended her arm towards me, and just as I thought she was going to either choke me or stroke my chin, she reached for the sheet of paper I had been writing on. I sat in silence as I watched her read it, unsure if she would make any sense of my unannotated and chaotic work. She hummed in contemplation every so often. Just as it was getting awkward for me to sit here and watch her appraise something that didn¡¯t even qualify as being ¡°unfinished work¡±, she spoke.


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you what the creative approach you need to take is, but I can tell you what isn¡¯t.¡± Mariam said as she dropped the sheet onto the desk. ¡°I see you¡¯re trying to transform a component of the problem into something else. Something that you¡¯ve seen before. Something that you already know the answer to. Yes, reduction to an existing problem is a standard solution strategy. But what¡¯s the point of that if this problem is the first of its kind?¡±


    There it is again, I thought. That this work is the beginning of something bigger.


    ¡°Frankly, you haven¡¯t seen everything, Alex,¡± Mariam continued. ¡°You may attempt to make sense of new things by trying to frame them into what¡¯s already familiar to you, but you¡¯ll only be confronted with the truth. Nothing here is like what you¡¯ve seen before. And until you understand that, you¡¯ll be too shackled to make true progress.¡±


    After Mariam left, I reached for the paper that I had been working on. The same one that she dismissed. Perhaps she was right in that I was shackled. I certainly felt like it. I was trapped at the centre of a web. That, at the slightest movement, the tiniest admission of defeat, the vibration would alert a monster that was eager to consume me. Like dominoes, if the first piece fell, then would the next. And the next. Until ruins were all that was left. And so I couldn¡¯t admit to myself that nothing I was doing was fruitful. Perhaps it was illogical of me, but it was hard not to feel like it would become true if I admit it. And so I didn¡¯t. And surely, Mariam couldn¡¯t know the true solution to the problem, so it was entirely possible that I was still on the right track.


    It took another couple of days before I felt like I had found enough substance in my approach. And so while the simulation ran, I continued to explore the problem with what I imagined to be a sense of elevated curiosity; the feeling of having already solved the problem, but revisiting it with a recreational flair to see if I could find a more elegant solution, or something new entirely. It had been a while since I had some level of confidence in a solution. Perhaps the solution that was being tested in the clusters of supercomputers wasn¡¯t perfect, but any improvement was a win. A part of me knew that I needed it. Needed to see a number go up. But it wasn¡¯t something I liked to think about.


    It was early afternoon when my handheld played the familiar tone. It was uncanny how attuned my senses had become to the soft notes. Pavlovian conditioning at work. My heart rate jumped and my palms began to sweat. I even salivated a little. I took a deep breath. There isn¡¯t any point in dallying, I thought resolutely. I reached for my handheld. It sat atop several layers of paper. The screen flicked on. It took several attempts before the permutations of symbols made sense.


    Script alert: Job completed. 0/23 tests passed.


    I stood up, not caring that despite the cushions of papers, my handheld still landed on the surface of the desk with a loud, concerning thump. My legs began to take a life of their own and paced around the room. I supposed my instincts had known that if I had sat still, the feelings would have all come crashing at once. Instead, they struck me one at a time as my muscles worked. Disappointment came first, but it was brief and weak. Or perhaps it had been overshadowed by the next. A frantic panic that darkened the edges of my vision. It was as if everything had become a static grey. My nails dug into my palms. The pain wasn¡¯t felt consciously, but I had only realised they drew blood after seeing dark red smears on the fistful of papers I held. I tore and tore until the floor of my room was covered in snowflakes. I wanted to scream, but I couldn¡¯t. That wasn¡¯t surprising. I couldn¡¯t scream back then. Not over the bloodbath in my family home. And so I wouldn¡¯t now. The truth was there. Anything that was important, anything that people relied on me for, I couldn¡¯t do. Whether it was about the survival of humanity, or the life or death of a small, financially struggling family, it didn¡¯t matter. I couldn¡¯t deny it anymore. I was the problem. I was defective. The decades hadn¡¯t changed that fact.


    It was a struggle making it out of the room. I didn¡¯t bother cleaning up the crime scene. If Mariam thought my office was messy before, what would she think now? I wondered sardonically between far less pleasant and coherent thoughts. But it wasn¡¯t a conscious decision, because there was no decision. If I had even tried to clean the office, if I had so much as bent over, I would have vomited. Or toppled like the unstable equilibrium of an upright pen. I was the embodiment of a house of cards. Fragile and hollow. I staggered across the corridors like a zombie. Post-death. It made sense. Maybe I died nearly twenty years ago, and the bag of flesh that existed afterwards was just an unusually slow process of decomposition. Even the detritivores didn¡¯t want me, much less God. I was the meaningless twitch of residual electrical signals in the body that mimicked existence. Echoes of a life that would be, but contorted in all the ways that mattered. The way the corridor was blurred in my shaky vision.


    I had almost missed it. The elevator had looked like a grey, amorphous blob, and my legs didn¡¯t stop for it. It was only when the familiar tone played, followed by the muted swish that the portal made itself recognisable. A man in white walked out in my direction. I only knew he was a man because of his voice.


    ¡°H-hey,¡± he stuttered in the tone that one might use on a lost child that inconveniently landed in their jurisdiction. He only spoke after stopping a metre from me. ¡°You alright?¡±


    I didn¡¯t respond. I didn¡¯t care about much in that moment, but puking onto this man most definitely wasn¡¯t something that I wanted to do. He could only look on as I staggered past him and into the elevator. The buttons were only distinguishable after I wiped my eyes. It wasn¡¯t until the doors had closed that I had realised my finger had pressed one of the buttons. God bless muscle memory, I thought. As the elevator began to drop, the marginal change in the g-force didn¡¯t feel so marginal. My heart was still thumping like I was in death throes, and my hand instinctively held my stomach as if it was the only thing preventing its insides from spilling. The few seconds it took for the elevator to go down a couple of levels had felt much longer. When I exited the doors, my brain strained to comprehend where I was. It was then that I had realised I took an elevator that wasn¡¯t the one I would usually frequent, and so I was somewhere I didn¡¯t recognise. My wobbly legs began walking sluggishly in a direction away from the nearest wall.


    When I reached the square, I was thankful that it was at an hour where there weren''t too many people around. It was well past lunchtime, but distant from the conclusion of anyone¡¯s work shifts. There was only one bench that wasn¡¯t empty, and that was taken up by someone hunching over their tablet. I plopped down onto the bench that was closest to me. My elbows rested on my knees. My face was held up by my hands. My eyes closed. Yet again, I was reminded of where I was by nullity. The lack of the breeze. The absence of the sunshine on my skin. The missing smells of being outside. The only odour was of lifelessness. Of sanitisation. It made me wonder whether trading the freedom of being on the surface for the materially comfortable life in confinement would be truly worth it. What would my mother think, as someone who had their essential needs provided in exchange for freedom. Not that she had a choice.


    The nausea subsided, but only in the statistical sense. In truth, it ebbed and flowed like waves. There would be moments of reprieve when it was muted enough for me to think that it was gone. Enough for me to think at all. I would be convinced it was over, only for my thoughts to wander back to where I was and why I was here. The chain of causality always led back to the root cause, and it would trigger the return of my desolation and the familiar embrace of nausea. And the process would repeat.


    The world outside of the darkness beyond my protective eyelids and hands didn¡¯t exist. Or at least it hadn¡¯t, until a familiar echo penetrated my consciousness. The echo was strange. Instead of fading with each repetition, it became louder and louder. As if it was echoing backwards in time. Backechoes, I thought in amusement. That¡¯s a cool name.


    ¡°¡ªhey, I asked how you¡¯re feeling.¡±


    The voice finally reached the conscious layer of my mind. Oh, someone¡¯s talking to me, I realised.


    ¡°Sinusoidal,¡± I answered without moving anything but the set of muscles that was minimally sufficient to produce sound.


    ¡°Suicidal?¡± the voice shrieked in concern.


    ¡°What? No!¡± I said, shaking my head as I did. Due to my posture, the motion rocked my entire body. ¡°I said sinusoidal.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± the voice asked. It was only then that I realised it belonged to a girl. It tickled my neurons with familiarity, yet my greymatter couldn¡¯t conjure a name or a face.


    ¡°Like a sine wave. If you know what that is.¡±


    ¡°Of course I know what a sine wave is,¡± she said in exasperation. I could imagine her rolling her eyes. ¡°How can you feel like a maths function?¡±


    ¡°It comes and goes,¡± I said.


    ¡°I guess that makes sense,¡± she said, before sighing. ¡°You should¡¯ve just said that to begin with. You know, like a normal person.¡±


    I felt the vibration of impact on the bench. Who is this person? I wondered. The curiosity ate away at me. And so for the first time since sitting down, I decided to withdraw my face out of my hands. For a fearful moment, I almost fell forwards. Was my head always that heavy? With more effort than anticipated, I brought myself upright.


    ¡°Ow, fuck,¡± I cursed as the base of my neck clicked painfully. My hand reached around to massage my neck as I stretched my shoulders and back. My eyes struggled to adjust to the light, and for a moment I was blinded. The sounds of the world returned, and it did so in convoluted layers. All in all, I was experiencing sensory overload.


    When the disorientation faded to a tolerable threshold, it became clear that hours had escaped me entirely. There were crowds of people moving across the square. The benches were utilised almost to capacity. Chatter, walking, the sound of scooters, all melded into an orchestra that took me a moment to follow the rhythm. When I finally turned to see the owner of the voice, I found a school girl staring wide-eyed at me. It made me jump.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you,¡± I said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve forgotten my name,¡± the girl said, before adding for good measure, ¡°Alex.¡±


    I scratched the back of my head. ¡°Look. I¡¯m going to be honest with you, because you deserve nothing less,¡± I said. ¡°I can¡¯t remember.¡±


    The girl sighed. ¡°It¡¯s Charlie.¡±


    ¡°Ah I thought so. It was on the tip of my tongue.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± Charlie said. She didn¡¯t sound impressed. ¡°So. What¡¯s gotten you down?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me? Do I look down?¡±


    Charlie nodded.


    ¡°I guess I am,¡± I said. Despite the understatement it was, I didn¡¯t want to talk to Charlie about my problems. She was still a kid. She would have more life than I ever would. I shouldn¡¯t taint her. ¡°It is what it is.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least you aren¡¯t carrying a gun,¡± Charlie said. ¡°That¡¯s an improvement.¡±


    ¡°Strange how I feel twice as heavy,¡± I said. Jesus, keep it to yourself, I scolded myself internally.


    Charlie regarded me for a moment. I couldn¡¯t read her expression. The urge to say something became unbearable, and so I followed with, ¡°Sorry. Ignore that. I¡¯m just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Whatever you feel right now, you¡¯re supposed to feel it.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Whatever you feel right now,¡± Charlie repeated, slower this time, ¡°you¡¯re supposed to feel it.¡±


    ¡°I heard you the first time,¡± I said. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Charlie shrugged, before she stood up abruptly. ¡°I got to go.¡±


    She took a couple of steps before I called out, ¡°Charlie, wait¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, and Alex?¡± she said as she turned around with a smile. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re not suicidal.¡±


    She blur into the crowd. I could still see her retreating back. She looked like she walked with a purpose.


    I left shortly after that. It was almost a return to normality. I knew that if I thought about it again the awful thoughts would return. And so for now, I compartmentalised the offending cluster of interlinked neural pathways in my brain as a nondescript ¡°it¡± and tried to think about anything but it. I was certain it would all come crashing down again later. It was so entangled with my work here that I wasn¡¯t sure if I could go back to the maths.


    As I turned around the corridor, I saw a familiar figure walking towards my apartment door from the order end. It was uncanny how I could recognise her by the way she walked from so far away.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Irene said as we met at my door. It was almost comforting to hear the familiar flatness in her tone. A lot had changed for me, but at least this didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°Are you busy tomorrow?¡± she asked.


    For a moment I was about to tell her that I planned to work all day. But truthfully, that was the least likely thing I would do. ¡°Not really, no,¡± I said. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Irene said with a smile. ¡°You should take a break.¡±


    Does she know? I wondered. ¡°Maybe I should,¡± I said, before adding, ¡°Yeah. I probably should.¡±


    ¡°With me. You should take a break with me.¡±

 Chapter 16

    The grogginess this morning was magnitudes worse than usual. I had never been someone who was able to quiet their mind as if it was a lightbulb they could switch off even on a good day, and so it wasn¡¯t at all surprising that my sleep the previous night was tumultuous. It had seemed insurmountable. In the darkness, my mind was bent on waging a war against the rest that my body¡ªas well as my mind¡ªdesperately needed. It turned incessantly like the ticking of a rusty grandfather clock. It was impossible not to, when the present was stuck between a wreck and an uncertain void. The thoughts were initially about it. My breakdown yesterday. The entanglement between my work and the complicated emotions that I wasn¡¯t sure how to unpack. Or if I even wanted to unpack. I had no idea how to move forward. The incorporeal walls around me were so close that I felt compelled to pull my legs a little closer. And yet, a part of me had escaped its confines.


    It was impossible to keep her out of my head.


    The exchange we had outside of my door was brief, yet those few words lingered like the scent of cinnamon. They echoed in the early hours of the morning as I lay awake with frustrated sheets sprawled around me. Irene had asked me to take a break with her. I was profoundly confused about what it meant, until I arrived at a surprising realisation. Did Irene just ask me out? I had wondered in disbelief. I couldn¡¯t clarify that at the time since she had already left¡ªnot that I could have if she hadn¡¯t; I had no idea how to pose the clarification without embarrassment. The more my restless mind thought about it, the more I questioned whether it was a date at all and perhaps I had just misinterpreted her. Wishful thinking, one might say. I could also be overthinking it. After all, I had interrogated my minute-long interaction with Irene countless times in my head, and was no longer certain if my memory of the details was uncorrupted. Did I imagine the smile on her lips after I replied? Did her voice sound a little less flat than usual? Was there a twinkle in her eyes? Was her lips a shade darker? That last one couldn¡¯t be the case; I was willing to bet terrible things that they didn¡¯t have lipstick around here.


    It was admittedly freeing to be without work for a day. I wasn¡¯t in the appropriate mindset to struggle over mathematical problems. God knows my sanity was hanging by a thread of which its fibres were gradually snapping one by one. Also, I had told Irene that I wasn¡¯t going to work today. I felt a strange obligation to honour that. Having gotten out of bed at an odd hour, the porridge I was having was, by definition, lunch. Irene had told me that she would come get me in the early afternoon.


    How did I feel about her? I wondered. Of course, I still wasn¡¯t one hundred percent sure that this was actually a date and not literally a break, but I figured that the best thing to do here was to act as if it was a date. If it ended up not being a date, then my acting as though it was one could be played off as being polite. The gentleman that I was. And if it was a date but I acted as though it wasn¡¯t one, then I might come to regret it. But why would I regret such a contingency? Well, I suppose it would be due to how I feel about her.


    The sensations of the streams of hot water hitting the back of my neck felt medicinal. Irene was attractive. I had known this fact intellectually since the moment I met her, but it wasn¡¯t at all relevant. The thought of Irene and I being lovers was off limits because it wasn¡¯t possible. So for all intents and purposes, she was emphatically unattractive. But if this was truly a date, then my axioms were no longer certain, and their implications needed to be revisited.


    Irene¡¯s beauty wasn¡¯t entirely physical. It was in the way she walked. The unreadable yet unwavering gaze of grey she would fix me with. The lack of repetitions in her speech. The way she would turn her head to look at me in passive curiosity when she led me somewhere and I spoke. There was a confidence in the way she carried herself. It was one of simplicity and grace. Sufficiency without excess. Composed and unburdened. It was everything I wasn¡¯t. And it became clear as time went on that I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to read her like a graduate textbook to find all the axioms and theorems that had made her who she was.


    As I sat in front of my desk, abstractedly watching the view of the city in front of me, I wondered about the converse. Why is she asking me out? I pondered. What could she possibly see in someone like me? That was a question for which I had no good answer to. And from that arose an all too familiar feeling of suspicion and cynicism. Could Irene be asking me out for reasons relating to her job as my handler? It was the best explanation I had. There was nothing attractive or romantic or sexy about me. There was that woman from the bar who had propositioned me, but she was probably intoxicated, looking for a good time, and thought I was exotic enough to be worth something. She would be wrong of course, but that was the only reason why she might have singled me out. If she had known me better, like Irene seemed to, then she would have surely known to keep away. So, why is Irene asking me out on a date?


    When the tones of my door called, I nearly jumped. I had been anticipating it with a nervousness I hadn¡¯t felt for a long time. I stopped in front of the mirror first to make sure I didn¡¯t look more frazzled than usual.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I said as I opened the door.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Irene greeted.


    I was surprised to see Irene not wearing her signature jacket, but a shirt that had a faint blue tint with sleeves that bordered on inexistence, and light grey cigarette pants. Her hair was tied back as usual. I was disappointed. Not in the sense that I didn¡¯t think she looked good, but rather I still couldn¡¯t tell whether this was a date or not based on what she wore. Her attire was more casual than usual, but it didn¡¯t scream date. Since Irene¡¯s sense of style was undoubtedly different to what I was used to on the surface, it didn¡¯t rule anything out. As for myself, the Receiverist attire I was provided was most definitely not date material.


    ¡°So,¡± Irene began after a silence that stretched longer than it should, ¡°shall we go?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Walking side by side with Irene was rather difficult, since I had no idea where we were going. I could ask for the destination, but that wouldn¡¯t help since I wouldn¡¯t know the direction. And so I settled for Irene being slightly ahead. The walk was almost entirely exchangeless. Irene, in the way that she always was, barely paid me any heed as she navigated the busy streets. Today was a Sunday. Weekends existed with some authority for students and those who worked entirely at desks, but for most Receiverists, the work week was dependent on their job. Some worked every day but with six hour shifts, others worked long hours but fewer days. Today was busier than usual, but not to the extent that I was used to on the streets above. Because after all, to most Receiverists, today was still a workday.


    ¡°Do you normally have weekends off?¡± I asked, when the several minutes of my existence being ignored by Irene got to me.


    Irene briefly turned to look at me. ¡°Not usually. It depends on the work.¡± And just like that, her attention was back on the path ahead.


    I didn¡¯t think she was going to say anything more, until, ¡°You don¡¯t take any breaks, do you?¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± I said.


    We continued to walk in silence, until Irene led us to an elevator several buildings away from where we started. I hoped that she would lead me back later.


    ¡°Here we are,¡± Irene said as she entered the elevator.


    ¡°Where¡¯s ¡®here¡¯?¡± I asked.


    ¡°A good time,¡± Irene smiled coyly as she pressed for level three.


    The doors opened to an out of place breeze. However, as I stepped outside of the doors, it didn¡¯t seem so incongruous. The smell, sight and sound all depicted a scene that couldn¡¯t exist here. Trees and vines outlined two elevated paths that converged to a waterfall at the end. In between the walkways were streams of water falling from an edge, immersing the rocks of varying sizes along the way. The background was a forested valley. It looked so real, despite the faint voice of my critical faculties telling me it was merely simulation.


    ¡°Before you ask, I¡¯m impressed,¡± I said as my eyes hungrily took in the mesmerising scene I was in.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disappoint,¡± Irene said. ¡°Let¡¯s walk up.¡±


    For the first time, since the path ahead was obvious, we walked side by side at a leisurely pace. There were dozens of ducks and pigeons resting among the rocks in between the walkways. It occurred to me that these birds were most likely happier here than on the surface. They grew up without the real horizon, and therefore didn¡¯t yearn for it. The air and water in this place was clean and unpolluted. Free from disease. Free from starvation.


    ¡°Popular with the kids,¡± I said as I nodded towards the children playing among the rocks. The ducks were clearly used to Receiverists.


    ¡°And I used to be a kid,¡± Irene said. ¡°They only perfected the background visuals about twenty years ago. But as a little girl who hadn¡¯t seen the surface back then, this place was flawless.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever seen a real waterfall?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I certainly have,¡± Irene answered.


    ¡°And how was that?¡±


    ¡°Amazing. But it only made me nostalgic for this one.¡±


    The paths converged and concluded a few dozen metres from the waterfall, forming a viewing platform. There were benches and picnic tables, of which about half of them were occupied. We walked to the edge of the platform. The water vapours felt cool on my face. I longed to get closer. The sun was visible in the cloudy sky above, but not directly overhead. It casted no shadows.


    ¡°Ironically, this is the first time I¡¯ve ever seen a waterfall,¡± I admitted as I stretched out my hands in front of me, feeling the moisture build up.


    ¡°Why would that be ironic?¡± Irene asked.


    ¡°Well, because this one isn¡¯t natural.¡±


    ¡°But it is real,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°I suppose it is.¡±


    The way the water descended was hypnotic. Individual droplets were clustered together at the top, but as they fell, they spread apart further and further. There was a beauty in seeing the consistency of the patterns. An elegance in seeing mathematics appearing so perfectly in nature. Of course the droplets spread away. They obeyed gravitational acceleration, and hence travelled quadratically as a function of time. The longer the droplets had been falling, the faster they fell, and so they spread apart. This was of course not taking into account air resistance, which meant that the droplets will only travel quadratically for a period of time before reaching a linear limit. The terminal velocity. So if the waterfall had been sufficiently high, then eventually the spaces between the droplets would stop growing.


    I chuckled. Irene turned to me curiously. ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± I said. ¡°I just realised I¡¯m still thinking about maths even as I watch this waterfall.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like torment,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°No. Not exactly,¡± I said. ¡°It actually makes me appreciate the waterfall even more. Maybe in some weird and twisted way, but it really does.¡±


    It was Irene¡¯s turn to chuckle. ¡°Let¡¯s sit somewhere.¡±


    We found an empty bench away from everyone else. I didn¡¯t know who took the lead to find it. Maybe she knew that I wanted to be away from the happy families. Perhaps we both did. The water vapours were largely out of reach, but the soft breeze was still there. For a few minutes, neither of us had spoken. I watched the patterns of the waterfall. I didn¡¯t know what Irene was looking at.


    Eventually, I had to ask.¡°Is this a date?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Irene said. ¡°Didn¡¯t I make that clear?¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°I think so,¡± I answered. ¡°I was overthinking it.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like you,¡± Irene said. ¡°Do you not want this to be a date?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, I wasn¡¯t implying that,¡± I said in a placating tone, despite the fact that Irene didn¡¯t have any accusation in her voice. ¡°I was just surprised.¡± I shrugged. ¡°Are you enjoying this date?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Irene began as she turned to me with the tiniest of smirks, ¡°I¡¯m not not enjoying it.¡±


    ¡°But that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean you¡¯re enjoying it,¡± I said.


    ¡°Interpret it however you like.¡±


    ¡°Okay then. How do I make it more enjoyable for you?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Well if you¡¯re so eager, you can go grab some bird feed from that dispenser over there.¡± Irene nodded in the direction past me.


    I turned to see that, indeed, there was a machine that a couple of children were collecting small bags from.


    ¡°Be right back,¡± I said as I walked towards it. The dispenser had a display that indicated its approval. I tapped on a button on the screen and a small paper bag dropped. I tapped it once again for a second bag.


    Irene watched me as I returned. ¡°Here you go,¡± I said as I handed the bag to her.


    ¡°Now I¡¯m enjoying this date,¡± Irene said as she opened her bag and threw some feed in the direction of a couple of sitting ducks. They stood and approached the seeds.


    ¡°Oh, so you only enjoy it when you use me,¡± I said.


    ¡°So we¡¯re finally on the same page,¡± Irene said. I chuckled.


    I opened my own bag. Oats and corn. I grabbed a small handful and threw. A couple of other ducks waddled towards us.


    ¡°You¡¯ve told me that I¡¯m a stepping stone for a promotion to you,¡± I said.


    Irene hummed.


    ¡°Why do you care about a promotion?¡± I asked. ¡°I mean, every Receiverist I¡¯ve met seems to be motivated purely by a sense of duty and progress and doing something important and whatnot. But you want a promotion?¡±


    ¡°Other people are motivated by all that, yes,¡± Irene said. ¡°But they¡¯re always motivated by something else too. By their belief that they are motivated by those things. And in believing in the narrative they¡¯ve made for themselves, I think it distracts them from their true reasons.¡±


    I turned to her in surprise. ¡°And what are those true reasons?¡±


    ¡°It varies for everyone. A desire to feel important. Their legacy. A sense of belonging. Power. Or maybe it¡¯s as simple as wanting to live a comfortable life.¡±


    ¡°And so what are you motivated by?¡± I asked.


    ¡°The same things, really,¡± Irene said. ¡°I want to do important things. A sense of achievement. Maybe even power. But where I differ from the others you¡¯ve met, is that I have no delusions about it. And so I won¡¯t tell you that I¡¯m working towards human prosperity, when all I¡¯m really doing is going for a promotion. And maybe eventually the one after that.¡±


    I thought for a moment. ¡°So in practice, you have the same goals as everyone else, but you have no delusions of grandeur.¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Irene said as she threw some more feed onto the ground.


    ¡°I admire that,¡± I said earnestly.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Irene started, ¡°but I also don¡¯t have any delusions that admitting this fact makes me better than anyone else.¡±


    ¡°Okay, maybe let¡¯s dial back the honesty,¡± I said. Irene chuckled.


    There were half a dozen ducks, but now a couple of pigeons have flown in. I threw some feed a little further to spread them out.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Irene asked. ¡°About my perspective, that is.¡±


    ¡°Do you really care about what I have to think?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Not really. But I am curious.¡±


    I thought for a moment. ¡°I admire the honesty. But I don¡¯t think everyone can handle that much honesty. A lot of people need narratives to function day to day. A little grandeur can be medicinal, I think.¡±


    ¡°And what about for yourself?¡± Irene asked. There seemed to be a question behind the question.


    My gaze returned to the waterfall. The clusters of water spreading out in smooth motion as they fell freely. The water vapours that formed a mist as they dispersed with the breeze. The reality of it conflicted with the knowledge that it was theatrical deception. One that I desired to believe in.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I said after a moment. ¡°Maybe I need a stronger narrative. Or maybe I need to be more like you.¡±


    I turned to look at Irene. She was looking back at me in her usual unreadable way. Except it was a little different. Perhaps it was the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes or something else, but in her expression I saw something soft. She smiled ever so slightly before turning to watch the waterfall. Something in me stirred.


    A girl near a picnic table on the other end staggered towards a duck. But her legs were far too short and uncoordinated to catch it. Her father called for her to return.


    ¡°Are your parents here?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know my parents,¡± Irene said. ¡°I grew up in an orphanage here.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± I was tempted to tell her that I was sorry, but refrained. Instead, I asked, ¡°What was that like?¡±


    ¡°No shortage of food, obviously,¡± Irene said. ¡°The caretakers were kind. The other kids were, well, the way that kids were. But at the end of the day we were all orphans, so after the teasing and the mean things that kids sometimes said to each other, we knew that no one was really any better than anyone else.¡± She turned to me. ¡°It was nice.¡±


    ¡°Would you ever want to meet your parents?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Are we assuming they¡¯re alive?¡± Irene asked.


    ¡°Yeah. I hope so.¡±


    ¡°Then no,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°So you¡¯d meet them if they were dead instead?¡± I asked with an amused look.


    ¡°That depends on whether I¡¯m dead or not.¡±


    ¡°You believe in the afterlife, then?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    I chuckled. So did Irene.


    ¡°I would like to at least know who they are,¡± she said. ¡°But I haven¡¯t found anything. Not for the lack of trying. I¡¯ve asked the orphanage, but they said they don¡¯t keep any records like that. I¡¯ve tried lodging something with the information division, but it was denied. I¡¯ve even tried asking Lenny personally, but that didn¡¯t go anywhere.¡±


    I ran a hand through my hair. ¡°What did Lennox do?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Irene said. ¡°He dismissed me by saying that I would be happier not knowing. That was ten years ago.¡±


    My eyes were wide. ¡°That¡¯s it? Just like that?¡±


    ¡°Well, he said it his usual jolly way.¡±


    There was a righteous anger in my chest. ¡°That¡¯s unacceptable. You deserve more than that.¡±


    ¡°Well look at you,¡± Irene teased. ¡°Getting all worked up for me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying. If he knows something and he¡¯s withholding it because he thinks it¡¯s better for you, then he¡¯s being an asshole. Plain and simple. You should be entitled to know about yourself.¡±


    Irene threw her head back over the bench and stretched. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said. ¡°It is what it is. And it¡¯s not really anything important. I do appreciate your concern. It¡¯s touching.¡±


    The way she said ¡°it¡¯s touching¡± could have also been the way she might tell a child that they were cute. With Irene, I couldn¡¯t tell what was genuine and what was detached amusement. Maybe that was intentional. It was one of the things that made her so impenetrable.


    ¡°I¡¯m curious as to why you asked Lennox,¡± I said. ¡°He described himself to me as an administrator. Or a logistician. Or something along those lines. Why would he know anything about your parents?¡±


    Irene looked at me suspiciously. ¡°Is that what he told you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Why?¡±


    Irene hummed. ¡°That¡¯s not exactly true. If that¡¯s what he told you, then he¡¯s underselling it.¡±


    I was surprised. Lennox didn¡¯t seem to be dishonest. But perhaps that was what made him so good at it. I unconsciously leaned forward. ¡°Then what is it that he does?¡±


    Irene thought for a moment. ¡°The Reception Division calls the shots around here. They make the plans, decide the priorities, have the final say on project proposals from all other divisions, and so forth. If decisions were water flowing from a mountain, then the Reception Decision is the peak body of water. And the dam that gatekeeps the pool is Lenny.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I began as my mind churned through the implications of the magnitude of Lennox¡¯s power, ¡°so he¡¯s basically the head Receiverist?¡±


    ¡°Technically his title is Executive Receiverist, and there are others with that title who sits in the same rooms as him,¡± Irene explained. ¡°But there¡¯s a tacit understanding that he has the largest sway. He¡¯s essentially the face of Executive Receiverists. He is the Executive Receiverist.¡±


    My mind tried to turn this new knowledge over to see all of its faces, but there was so much I didn¡¯t know. And I didn¡¯t know what I didn¡¯t know. ¡°To have reached that much power, surely he must be a pragmatist? Someone who played politics for politics, not because he believes in something.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be wrong,¡± Irene said. ¡°He may not seem like it due to his lighthearted facade, but he¡¯s a believer. Probably the truest believer there is.¡±


    ¡°How do you know that?¡± I asked. ¡°Lennox didn¡¯t divulge much about himself in all the conversations I¡¯ve had with him.¡±


    ¡°No, he doesn¡¯t,¡± Irene said. ¡°Not to me. And probably not to anyone. But I¡¯ve heard things.¡±


    ¡°Like rumours?¡± I asked.


    ¡°More authoritative than that,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve once met a woman who used to be Lenny¡¯s academic supervisor. She told me that he wasn¡¯t always like this. When he was younger, he didn¡¯t take the Receiverist purpose seriously. A young troublemaker who didn¡¯t care about much.¡±


    ¡°What changed?¡±


    ¡°He fell in love. His partner gave birth to a daughter. But his child died. Sudden infant death syndrome.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible,¡± I said. ¡°But I don¡¯t understand how it changed him to become the head of this entire society.¡±


    ¡°Apparently he struggled with processing his grief,¡± Irene said. ¡°Fell out with his partner. They haven¡¯t spoken to one another since. At some point, there was a shift in his thinking. He took the death of his kid as a sign that having a child wasn¡¯t his calling in life.


    ¡°Just like that?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Just like that. He threw himself into work. The Receiverist effort became his sole purpose in life. His supervisor told me that the grief gave birth to a new person. Someone who didn¡¯t resemble the Lenny prior to the tragedy at all.¡±


    I thought for a long moment. My eyes gazed out to the distance, to the convincing forest that spanned the mountains. ¡°Narratives,¡± I said.


    ¡°Narratives,¡± Irene agreed.


    We sat wordlessly for some time, occasionally feeding the birds. Our handouts became more intermittent, and eventually they crowded around benches and tables with more generous hands. I didn¡¯t know how much time had passed, but at some point Irene rested her head on my shoulder.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± Irene said.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± I said.


    Her hair smelled like lilac and nutmeg. My hand found her¡¯s and they intertwined, resting on our laps. Her palm felt colder than mine. It felt right. This was more intimate than I had been with anyone else in years. It was less of a feeling that I had missed, but more of something new entirely. And it was in this moment that I realised I didn¡¯t really know when these feelings for Irene began.


    After some time, I tentatively broke the silence between us. ¡°Hey Irene?¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡± Irene hummed. I felt her vibrations through my shoulder.


    ¡°Can you be honest with me about something?¡±


    Her head left her pillow and looked at me. ¡°Have I been dishonest about anything?¡± Irene asked with one eyebrow raised in question.


    ¡°I suppose not,¡± I admitted. I didn¡¯t really want to ask the question, but it couldn¡¯t be helped. I¡¯d rather know than not to know. ¡°Why did you ask me out on a date? I mean, you aren¡¯t doing this because it¡¯s a part of your job, right?¡±


    Irene regarded me for a moment. There was a slight crease in her eyebrows. ¡°I¡¯m not a sex worker, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    ¡°N-no, I don¡¯t mean it like that,¡± I stuttered.


    ¡°And no. I¡¯m not here because duty calls. I¡¯m here because I want to be.¡±


    I looked at her questioningly. Irene sighed, before saying, ¡°You have a real self-esteem issue, you know that?¡±


    ¡°No¡­?¡± I said, which came out more like a question than a statement, and so I added, ¡°I¡¯m just¡ªI know that I¡¯m not a catch. I don¡¯t have a nice personality that I imagine most people want. We have kind of a weird work relationship. And on top of that, I¡¯ve only just known you.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve known you much longer than you think,¡± Irene said. ¡°Probably years at this point.¡±


    My eyes widened. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be that surprised,¡± Irene said. ¡°We¡¯re a secret bunch. We plan things well ahead of time. Even more so for anything related to the surface.¡±


    ¡°So that means you had your eyes set on me as your researcher for years. That you were waiting for an opportunity where I¡¯d be willing to help.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but the point is, I¡¯ve been observing your life for years. Do you know what that does to a person?¡± Irene asked rhetorically. ¡°You¡¯re my first ever assignment that involved someone from the surface. And frankly my last, because I¡¯ll never put myself through that again. I hate getting tangled in other people¡¯s problems, so I don¡¯t do it. But I had to know every little detail about your daily life. Who you talk to. How long you spend in the shower. Where you like to go to sit on a small hill and look all melancholic. And when I know so much about you, how can I not see you as a person? Someone who¡¯s troubled and complicated, yet somehow gets out of his bed every morning even when he knows that the day ahead is struggle. Even when everything around him is crumbling.¡±


    ¡°And so I began to care,¡± Irene continued. ¡°I don¡¯t want to. But I do. When I proposed to bring you in, the official reason for the request was that I assessed an insertion was crucial to completing the solution. The real reason was that I thought you¡¯d find peace here. That was the only ulterior motive I had. I stayed away as much as I can, because this should¡¯ve been only about you finding peace. But I realised I wasn¡¯t being honest.¡±


    I was speechless. When Irene saw me scratching the back of my neck, she added, ¡°Sorry. That was a lot, I know. I¡¯d hate it if somebody did that to me too.¡±


    ¡°You must have had all that in your mind for a while,¡± I said.


    Irene smiled as she watched the infinite waterfall.

 Chapter 17

    We stayed in the park until the sun had set. It was only a simulated approximation of the real thing, but it still looked beautiful. Perhaps the artificiality was an improvement upon nature. A perfection in itself. When I told this to Irene, her response surprised me.


    ¡°Actually, I liked the imperfections of sunsets and sunrises on the surface,¡± she said. ¡°It makes the experience more unique.¡±


    When the skies dimmed to only a hint of blue, I asked, ¡°Well, what do we do now?¡±


    Irene looked me in the eye, and flatly said, ¡°I¡¯m taking you to The Exit.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I asked. ¡°Are you serious?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Irene said as she got up.


    I couldn¡¯t believe it. I shouldn¡¯t have believed it.


    The Exit was written in thin, cursive font on a sign that was placed above the door into an establishment. The windows revealed tables of patrons sitting at tables with candles and wine.


    ¡°See? As promised,¡± Irene teased.


    ¡°Ha ha,¡± I mocked. ¡°Very funny.¡±


    Irene briefly gave me a side glance and a mischievous lift of her eyebrow as she entered the restaurant. I saw a glimpse of the ghost of a smile in that passing moment.


    The Exit had chequered floors. Strangely enough, part of the ceiling had an arc to it, made of bricks. Being under it evoked the feeling of being in a needlessly tall hall; a rare pause of the utilitarianism of Receiverist architecture. The walls were mostly a cream colour, with small paintings next to tables that accentuated the immense space around it. The tables and chairs were of dark, shiny wood.


    ¡°Good evening,¡± the waiter said with a polite smile. ¡°Do you have a reservation?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Irene said. The waiter brought up a palm-sized device. Irene brought her handheld to it. A tone played.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± the waiter said, before bringing up an empty black bag. ¡°May I have your handhelds?¡±


    Irene placed her handheld into the bag and looked at me. Her gaze flicked down to my pocket, and back to me again. I pulled out my handheld and discarded it into the bag as well.


    ¡°This way, please,¡± the waiter said after placing our belongings into a pigeonhole.


    We followed him to a table at the other end of the restaurant, next to a window to the unlivable space between the monoliths.


    ¡°Can I start you off with any drinks?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Irene said. ¡°I¡¯d like a Messenger¡¯s Sunless.¡±


    I quirked my eyebrows.


    ¡°And for you, sir?¡± the waiter asked.


    A gin and tonic, I thought. Yet before I knew it, I said, ¡°The same, thanks.¡±


    The waiter nodded. It wasn¡¯t until he had left our table that I realised how alone we were. The nearest occupied table was at least a couple of tables away, by two men who couldn¡¯t have possibly worked the same profession. It was like we were in a bubble of privacy. But of course, that couldn¡¯t be the case. Knowing what I now knew about this city, we were probably data points for at least two cameras and twice as many sensors. It was at this moment I realised that intimacy and privacy were really decoupled concepts.


    ¡°So¡­¡± I trailed.


    ¡°So¡­?¡±


    ¡°This is going to seem like a horribly forward question,¡± I said. At Irene¡¯s beckoning, I asked, ¡°Well. Any exes?¡±


    Irene leaned forward and rested her chin on her fingers. ¡°Hm. Why? Is that a problem for you?¡± she asked. It almost came off like a challenge. Or a tease of some sort that I didn¡¯t understand.


    ¡°No, not at all,¡± I said as I brought my palms up in surrender. ¡°I¡¯m just curious. But you don¡¯t need to tell me if you don¡¯t want to.¡±


    ¡°I think the question needs to be refined a little,¡± Irene said. ¡°I¡¯m not a virgin, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    ¡°I swear I wasn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°But they were all short term flings,¡± Irene continued. ¡°Only physical. Nothing more than that.¡±


    ¡°Did you ever want anything more?¡± I asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Irene swiftly answered. ¡°It was never something on my mind. There had been a couple of times when my partners wanted to go further. Become long term. But the priorities were always misaligned.¡± She paused for a moment, before sighing. ¡°It just wouldn¡¯t have worked out. You understand that, right?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°I do.¡±


    The waiter reappeared, carrying a tray with two tall glasses holding pitch black liquid. He set a glass each in front of us before leaving.


    Irene took a long sip from the metallic straw. I looked down at mine and saw no appeal. If it fizzled, it would have reassembled cola. Except it didn¡¯t, so it looked instead like flat cola. Taking a tentative sip, the liquid had a spicy edge that sliced my wholly unprepared taste buds. The experience of swallowing it was what I imagined a nuclear winter would feel like down my throat. I didn¡¯t realise just how alcoholic the drink was, until the chill in my throat dissipated enough for me to feel the familiar warmth.


    ¡°Like it?¡± Irene asked. When I finally lifted my gaze up from the hypnotic void of the pitch black fluid, I saw amusement in her eyes.


    ¡°It¡¯s interesting,¡± I said. ¡°It''s a hell of a lot in one drink.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Irene said. ¡°Now tell me about your past lovers.¡±


    I took another sip from my Messenger¡¯s Sunless. ¡°Well,¡± I started, ¡°I¡¯ve been in a couple of relationships. One during my undergrad years, and another during postdoc.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about the undergrad one.¡±


    ¡°It was during my first year at uni. The girl I sat next to in my electromagnetism lectures asked me to help with an assignment. It turned into a study date. A few weeks later, it turned into a bit of a thing.¡±


    ¡°But it didn¡¯t last,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°It didn¡¯t,¡± I said. ¡°She broke up with me at the end of the year because I wasn¡¯t spending enough time with her. And she was right. We were both too young. We clearly wanted different things.¡±


    ¡°Poor girl,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°I saw her the semester after that sneaking around with her astrophysics tutor, so I¡¯m sure she didn¡¯t suffer lasting damage from the time spent with me.¡±


    Irene chuckled. ¡°And what about the second one?¡±


    ¡°We lasted nearly two years,¡± I said. ¡°She was lovely. She was in an economics PhD program when I just began my life as a humble postdoc researcher at a uni on the other side of town. We met at a party that a mutual friend of our''s hosted. I spent the night working up the courage to talk to her. I didn¡¯t realise I had gone through half a dozen drinks by the time I went up to her. And that was only because she was about to leave. I can¡¯t remember what I said, but it must have worked since I woke up at my friend¡¯s with a hangover and a phone number on a napkin.¡±


    ¡°Aw,¡± Irene cooed as she held back a grin.


    ¡°It really was a good first year. But the second year was¡­ rough. I knew she wanted us to settle down in London, but I had always known that I would leave. And I was far from being ready to settle down. I struggled with telling her that, and so I didn¡¯t. I kinda just drifted away from her. She told me I had always been too closed off, and she was right. I shied away from the responsibility and it was my fault.¡±


    ¡°Poor girl,¡± Irene said.


    I sighed. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m an asshole for that one.¡±


    Irene looked thoughtful for a moment. ¡°You should¡¯ve been more honest,¡± she said. ¡°But you were scared. I get that. You were an asshole. And you know that. So whether you¡¯re still an asshole depends entirely on the person that¡¯s sitting right in front of me.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I appreciate it,¡± I said. I raised my glass and said, ¡°Let¡¯s drink to that.¡±


    Irene raised her glass too. ¡°To figuring our shit out.¡±


    ¡°To figuring our shit out.¡±


    Our glasses clinked as we both downed the drink. I had finished a few seconds later than Irene did.


    ¡°God my throat burns,¡± I barely squeaked out as I cleared my throat.


    I didn¡¯t realise the waiter returned until I heard his voice. ¡°Sorry to interrupt,¡± he said in a slightly bashful tone, ¡°but are you ready to order?¡±


    ¡°Oh shit, we haven¡¯t even opened the menu,¡± I admitted. Irene and I laughed.


    Serving portions in Sanctuary were always enough to satisfy, but not excessively so. This was an example of mathematical optimisation, but under an alternative objective function to what I was used to. On the surface world, restaurants were optimised to sell as much as possible, even if it meant that the logical outcome was superfluity. In Sanctuary, the objective seemed to be to minimise waste. The constraint was to satisfy. The result was efficiency.


    We left the restaurant nearly two hours later with satisfied stomachs and a bottle of red wine that was half full. There was a warmth in my chest that could only be partially attributed to the alcohol.Stolen story; please report.


    Not wanting to end the night here, I suggested, ¡°Shall we go to a bar somewhere?¡±


    ¡°How about let¡¯s go back to your place,¡± Irene said. ¡°If it¡¯s alcohol you¡¯re after, you¡¯re clearly not short of it.¡± She gestured to the bottle of wine in my hand.


    I smiled. ¡°Even better.¡± She took my hand¡ªor did I take her hand?¡ªand we made our way towards my apartment at a relaxed pace. The temperature, the breeze and the black sky I had often associated with this time of the night weren¡¯t there, but that magical feeling was. It was in the other people that roamed the streets. They were mostly couples. A woman whose arm wrapped intimately low around a man¡¯s hip. Another couple giggled as they kissed ever so fleetingly. There were also groups of friends whose familiarity with one another exceeded what I had with anyone in my life. At least more than half of them weren¡¯t entirely sober, although it was interesting that no one was excessively drunk¡ªthat was yet another notable difference from the surface world. Perhaps the people here didn¡¯t need to numb themselves to distract from the incessant existential dread of living at the brink of an unstable equilibrium. Perhaps Sanctuary was more than just a name. We walked past bar after bar, each lively and showed no signs of waning. Bridge after bridge, the lit up windows that peppered the sides of the buildings casted an illusion of walking among an endless forest of stars. And yet, I could only focus on the warm softness in my hand and the person walking next to me.


    The apartment looked the same as it did when I had left it a lifetime ago. Yet, it felt fundamentally different. A paradigm shift, I realised. The space was the same, but the possibilities within that space had expanded. The living space no longer felt as lonely as it did¡ªa loneliness I hadn¡¯t even been aware of until a moment ago. The space felt woefully inadequate. There was nothing homely about it. It was sorely lacking details worth remembering. It wasn¡¯t something I cared about until I saw Irene standing in the middle of the room. She sat at the couch as I rummaged through my kitchen cupboards until I found two glasses. Not wine glasses, but they would have to do.


    Irene watched as I poured the dark red liquid into her glass. When I settled on the couch next to her, she raised her glass and I followed, before we drank. I was starting to feel a little buzzed, and so I made a mental note that I didn¡¯t need to finish the glass.


    ¡°What did we just toast to?¡± I asked.


    Irene shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m going to be honest with you. I don¡¯t need a reason to drink,¡± she said.


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I said. The silence after that dragged uncomfortably. And so to keep myself busy, I took another small sip from my glass. Bars and pubs helped with the awkwardness; the noise, the dim lighting, the atmosphere. But in this blank living room? It was a canvas and I sure as shit wasn¡¯t an artist. Why did Irene want to come back to my place, anyway? I wondered. I could guess, but I didn¡¯t want to.


    ¡°I want to understand you a bit better,¡± Irene said as she looked at me, before adding, ¡°If you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    I tensed a little, but I tried to give the impression of casual indifference. ¡°Of course,¡± I started, ¡°but surely you know more about myself than I do by this point.¡±


    Irene chuckled humourlessly. ¡°That¡¯s not true. No one can know more about you than you.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure if that was true, given everything I had been told since I had been here. ¡°I might know some factual things here and there,¡± she continued, ¡°but they don¡¯t really tell me about you.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t?¡± I asked in puzzlement.


    ¡°Nope,¡± Irene answered as she subtly shook her head. ¡°Because you¡¯re more than whatever data points you may or may not provide right this moment. You¡¯re an evolving being through time. I want to understand what made you who you are now. I want to know where you go when your eyes look far away.¡±


    I took another sip of wine. A pitiful distraction. I knew what she was getting at; she wasn¡¯t asking for my entire life story. She was asking for a very specific thing. ¡°I¡¯ve never talked about it before,¡± I said. It came out like an excuse.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Irene said softly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you really want to hear this.¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± she said.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if three drinks in is a good time to talk about this stuff,¡± I said.


    Irene smiled. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s the best time to talk about it.¡±


    I took a deep breath and sighed. ¡°I was thirteen,¡± I began. ¡°Or¡ªshit, was I fourteen at the time? I don¡¯t know. It doesn¡¯t matter. I felt thirteen. My parents never had the picturesque relationship you¡¯d see on TV¡ªdid you grow up with TV? Not that it matters. Anyway. They¡¯d fight and argue every other day, but it was never too bad. They¡¯d cool off and it would seem alright, like they¡¯d tolerate each other. If for nothing else, for my brother and I. It was like the rain in London. Unpredictable, but you¡¯re guaranteed it¡¯ll happen every other day. But it always passes. Always.¡±


    I paused for a moment. A shaky breath that I wasn¡¯t aware I was holding escaped my lips. ¡°Until it didn¡¯t.¡±


    I was about to take a sip from the wine when I felt Irene¡¯s hand on mine. I looked at her. When did she get a glass of water? I wondered. She handed it to me. I whispered thanks, before taking a large sip from it. I didn¡¯t realise how parched the wine had made me.


    ¡°They¡¯d been constantly fighting for at least a week,¡± I continued. ¡°I can¡¯t even remember what it was about now. Pretty sure it was something to do with finances. Half the time it was anyway. It might have been about the mortgage on our house. I wouldn¡¯t have remembered even if it was, but I feel a resentment towards that word so maybe that was the case. A kid didn¡¯t even know what a mortgage was, only that it was to blame, and I think that accusatory feeling stuck with me. Sorry, I digress.¡± I knew why I was rambling about a detail that didn¡¯t matter. There was a slight shaking in my hand. It originated from my chest. ¡°I had been in my room trying to do homework. It kinda helped to distract me. But nothing could¡¯ve made me miss the blood-curdling scream from the kitchen. I don¡¯t even know whose it was. When I got there¡ª¡± I coughed. There was a nauseating sensation rising from my stomach. I tried to swallow it down with water.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Irene cooed as she rubbed gentle circles on my back. I didn¡¯t notice when she had started, nor when she had moved closer to me on the couch.


    ¡°When I got there,¡± I continued, ¡°I saw the blood before anything else. The red smudges on the kitchen bench. The drips on the floor. The growing red spreading on my father¡¯s shirt that seemed to come from nowhere. He was sitting against the kitchen bench on the floor holding the knife inside him. He was writhing in pain and groaning as he did. My mother covered her mouth and just kept screaming over and over. Her eyes were panicked and wild and crying. Neither of them noticed me or my brother. We just stood, trying to make sense of what was in front of us. It wasn¡¯t our fault. It wasn¡¯t my fault.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±


    I hadn¡¯t realised that my vision was blurring until I felt a wetness down my cheek. ¡°I was just a kid.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault,¡± Irene placated. ¡°Can you tell me what happened after that?¡± For a brief moment I wondered whether she knew all this, but it was too late for me to stop.


    ¡°My brother asked mum to call an ambulance,¡± I continued, ¡°but she was too shocked to do so. Dad couldn¡¯t speak. The rest of that day was a blur. I wasn¡¯t sure how but the ambulance eventually came. Along with the police. She was taken away. My brother and I were taken for questioning. I know that intellectually these things happened, but all I remember was just standing there and watching my father in agony as he bled to death. I can still smell it. Even now.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Irene cooed. ¡°Don¡¯t think about that. What happened after?¡±


    ¡°Mother¡¯s defence lawyer tried to argue that it was a moment of insanity. It didn¡¯t matter in the end. She was sent to prison. We were placed in foster care for some time, until my brother turned eighteen,¡± I said. ¡°He died a year later. In a car accident. But I know the truth.¡±


    ¡°The truth?¡±


    ¡°That he wanted to die. I had felt it for some time. His vacant and lifeless gaze. I knew he was going to do it. I¡¯m sure I did. And I didn¡¯t do anything about it. Just like how I didn¡¯t do anything about my parents when I knew that things were about to snap. I did the only thing I ever do. I looked the other way and pretended. Pretending is all I ever do. It¡¯s all I am.¡±


    ¡°No it¡¯s not¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my fault,¡± I said manically. ¡°All of it. There were so many things I could¡¯ve done to prevent it. If not my dad¡¯s death, then my brother¡¯s. And of all of the possibilities, I chose nothing. It¡¯s my fault.¡±


    ¡°That is not true,¡± Irene said resolutely.


    ¡°Yes it is and you know it,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s why I can¡¯t help you with the research. Because when things depend on me, when I have responsibilities, I fuck it up. That¡¯s just what I do. I couldn¡¯t save my parents. I couldn¡¯t save my brother. And I can¡¯t save humanity. Sorry. You¡¯ve wasted your time on the wrong person.¡±


    ¡°Listen to me,¡± Irene said. ¡°What happened to you and your family was awful, but it wasn¡¯t your fault. You were just a kid. You¡¯ve gone over what had happened so much, that in your memories it wasn¡¯t a child who witnessed something awful, but an adult. That¡¯s not fair to the kid. And that¡¯s not fair to you as you are now. It¡¯s not your fault.¡±


    I hadn¡¯t noticed how hard I was gripping the glass until I looked down. I wiped my eyes in the silence that followed. I didn¡¯t know whether I agreed with her. The fact of the matter was that if I had acted differently back then, then things would be different now. I was going to say that, but something stopped me. It was in Irene¡¯s eyes. She wasn¡¯t focused on me at all. She was in deep thought, and I could see in her features that something troubled her. That she was on the precipice of making an important decision, one that couldn¡¯t be taken back. One where she didn¡¯t know right from wrong. I was entranced by the manifestation on her features of whatever war that was waging inside her. Until she flicked her gaze to me. And it was clear that the moment had passed and she had decided. In a flash, the uncertainty became certain.


    ¡°Hey Alex,¡± Irene said softly, ¡°can you do me a favour?¡±


    ¡°A favour?¡± I repeated in confusion.


    ¡°Yes, bear with me here,¡± Irene said. ¡°Pretend for a moment that everything is predetermined. That the future is set in stone.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I said tentatively.


    ¡°Then the tragedy that happened to your family was always destined to happen,¡± Irene said. ¡°That you have no ability to influence it. Maybe you can¡¯t even choose how you act. If you just accept that for a moment, then the tragedy was definitely not your fault. And there¡¯s something else too.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°That there is a meaning to your suffering. There is beauty to it. Because it was that very tragedy that made the person who you are today. You might be tortured, unhappy, and definitely need therapy, but it made you into the person that we asked for help with our research. It led you to the turning point of humanity¡¯s survival. But everything is predetermined, so solving the maths is a matter of when, not if. And so you see, Alex, your suffering wasn¡¯t meaningless. Because it gave birth to the very person who will save all of us.¡±


    I felt my eyes water. ¡°Irene, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°And,¡± Irene interjected softly, even shyly, ¡°that you¡¯re destined to be right here with me tonight.¡±


    We leaned into each other and I felt her lips on mine.


    That night, I wasn¡¯t sure what I had dreamt. They were either pleasant, or entirely nonexistent. I welcomed either.


    I woke up to movements on my bed. When my heavy eyes wearily opened, I saw Irene dressing herself. Like a sixth sense, she turned to meet my eyes. She smiled softly, in the generous way that one did when they had something else they needed to do.


    ¡°I have to go to work,¡± Irene said quietly.


    ¡°What time is it?¡± I managed to croak out in my barely aware state.


    ¡°Too early for you,¡± she said. ¡°Go back to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Will I see you later?¡± I asked.


    Irene grinned. ¡°I¡¯ll come by tonight.¡±


    And with that, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was past eight. I had thought I would need to make a conscious choice. That I would engage in an internal war against myself for a hard fought decision. But instead, it was completely unconscious. Without a single thought about it, I showered, had breakfast, and made my way to my office.


    It was just as messy as I had left it. The surfaces of the room were covered in papers with scribbles, some whole, some in pieces. I had only taken a brief moment to appreciate the scene, before I began cleaning. As I did, I catalogued which papers had substance, and which I could freely discard without regret. It took a couple dozen minutes. As it turned out, the ratio was about one-to-ten. There was something therapeutic about the mechanical way in which I had transformed the room back into something that resembled an office. It felt like a clean slate. A second chance. It occurred to me that a previous version of myself might have vowed to not waste it this time. But now, that thought seemed entirely silly. It was necessary for me to have struggled and experienced failure in order to have the possibility of a breakthrough in the future. It wasn¡¯t a matter of wasting my chances, as though they were independent attempts. No, they were dependent, as if each attempt was sequentially placed one after another, and I had to experience each one fully before reaching the end. After all, to solve a labyrinth, one needed to hit as many deadends as it took.


    The work itself felt strangely lighter. As if an oppressive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. And with it, so did a fog that had been plaguing the synapses of my brain. The fog had been there for so long that I hadn¡¯t even realised that it was there. As if my world ended where the opaque white began.


    In the evenings, I would be in my room, thinking over what I had tried that day and the avenues I would explore tomorrow, until Irene would visit. And when she did, all thoughts of work went away. It was almost scary the way that my mind and body was so willing to shift into a fundamentally different being when I was with her. For so long, my personhood was intertwined with the facade of being a mathematician. There was no distinction between the person that was hunched over equations on a paper and the person who lived in the same place I did. But when Irene was around, that person wasn¡¯t. I was.


    And that was how my days went after that first night I had spent with Irene. I was content. More so than I had ever believed I would be. And several days later, I solved it.

 Chapter 18

    The realisation that I might have discovered the solution didn¡¯t dawn on me until a day after I had begun experimenting with this particular approach.


    At that point, I had already experimented with a dozen different formulations of stochastic dynamical systems that could satisfy maybe a few of the conditions outlined in the mathematical document, but not all. Oftentimes, they would meet the required criteria only on an approximate basis, or under strong regularity assumptions. Frustrating, but the process was educational. Even if only incrementally. The conditions that were always the most elusive were the ones that demanded a strong, unfamiliar notion of consistency. Almost as if they were asking for some kind of predictability criterion.


    ¡°Glad to see you¡¯ve cleaned up my office,¡± Mariam said as she walked in.


    I chuckled as I continued to pen symbols onto paper. ¡°Sorry about that. I¡¯m trying to see if a tidier office is conducive to better research.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Mariam said. ¡°It¡¯s all a part of the process I suppose.¡± She sat down on the chair on the other side of my desk and subtly peered at my writing. ¡°And is it working?¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    Eventually, I decided to try something radically different. Like introducing a new species into a terrarium and seeing how it tips the equilibrium of all other living things inside it, I defined a new object into the dynamical system. An experimental process such that its current state depended on its successive state, and that state depended on its successive state, and so forth. My thought was that this mathematical recursion¡ªbackechoing, as I called it¡ªwould be an expedient way to meet the slippery consistency conditions I had been struggling to satisfy. It was, admittedly, a nihilistic and nonsensical technical convenience that made no theoretical sense. Kind of like a mathematical fake it ¡®til you make it. But I just wanted to see if it could be done. What a home run might look like. And it looked too easy. Almost suspiciously so. Not to imply that the elusive conditions were trivially met, but with a bit of work, they seemed to snap right into place.


    ¡°That¡¯s strange,¡± Irene said. ¡°You look content.¡±


    ¡°Bad strange?¡±


    ¡°Good strange,¡± she said with a smile. ¡°But are you going to tell me why?¡±


    I grinned. ¡°Well. I am in bed right now with a beautiful woman who¡¯s way out of my league that we¡¯re not even from the same layer of earth.¡±


    ¡°Three things,¡± Irene said. ¡°First, ¡®woman¡¯ makes me sound old. Second, you could say that about every person here. And third, is it really me, or is it maths?¡±


    ¡°What? How could you accuse me of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you think of trig identities when we fuck?¡± Irene asked.


    I laughed. ¡°Absolutely not. I mean, they¡¯re kinda sexy, but they don¡¯t even come close to you.¡±


    ¡°They better not,¡± Irene teased, before smiling knowingly and saying, ¡°But research is going well, then?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    But even then, it was still like being a poor kid looking through the windows of a jewellery store. That was what it would look like if I could do it, but the approach was theoretically absurd. The mathematical object I dreamt up vaguely resembled a stochastic process, but every stochastic process needed to be defined over some kind of filtration¡ªthe theoretical structure that modelled the information space the process lived on. But for an object that depended on its successive state, the conventional theory of filtrations needed to be thrown out the window. And so to justify the existence of this object that would solve my problems, I began fleshing out an exotic theory that would complete the solution.


    The new manuscript that sat atop my desk was my response to the original mathematical documents that had appeared in front of my apartment door a lifetime ago. The first act began by describing a new theory of nonlinear filtrations. It then shifts into the second act on closed-curve filtrations. Its final act ends with an example of an application; the formulation of a stochastic dynamical system that implies the existence of a solution that satisfies the conditions provided by the Receiverist Particle Physics research group. I had gone over the document half a dozen times at this point. With each review, my certainty grew. It had been a while since I felt like a real mathematician. I closed the manuscript and stretched. As I reached for my cup, I was taken off guard by how light it was. I suppose another trip to the cafe wouldn¡¯t hurt, I thought.


    Just as I stood, the tones from my handheld played. I reached for it.


    Script alert: Job completed. 23/23 tests passed.


    Despite knowing what the notification would say before I had seen it, I still had a moment. I raised a clenched fist to my mouth and bit on it. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to stop me from having a euphoria attack in my office. It took half a dozen paces around the room to calm my ragged breathing.


    I haven¡¯t told anyone that I had made a substantial breakthrough yet. I didn¡¯t want to claim progress only for it to come crashing down on me later. I was certain that Irene knew I was onto something, and that illustrated just how well she could read me. But I hadn¡¯t explicitly told her. But now that I had both the theory and simulation results backing my solution, there was no uncertainty. I had done it.


    I tapped away at my handheld.


    Alex: Hey, can we meet?


    A moment later, Irene responded.


    Irene: Right now?


    I had only realised how absurd my request was after receiving her message. Irene was at work. It wasn¡¯t reasonable to ask your girlfriend¡ªnot that we talked about labels yet¡ªto abruptly abandon work for you.


    Alex: Sorry, not if you¡¯re busy


    Irene: Ok, your place in 30 min?


    Alex: See you soon


    I¡¯m still her work, I realised. The thought was slightly demoralising. But then again, once I hand off my research, I would no longer be her assignment. Irene would get that promotion she wanted. I would stay. Mariam and Lennox seemed to suggest that I could, and this work was irrefutable evidence of not only my current contribution, but also potential future value of my continued presence here. I would speak to Lennox about this after turning in my results.


    I grabbed my laptop and the manuscripts with me as I left my office. I figured I would do some final polishing in my apartment before heading for Mariam¡¯s office tomorrow. When the elevator opened, there were already a few people in it, and I joined them. Seeing that the group got off at a street, I left as well, deciding to take a detour in this building-level combination that I hadn¡¯t been on before. There was no rush. Irene would get there in about over half the time it would take me. And the newfound freedom that came with accomplishment was intoxicating.


    I would become a Receiverist. A resident of Sanctuary. I was walking among fellow Receiverists on the streets. This would be my home. I would be rid of the white stripe above my heart that was the single tangible discriminant between me and everyone else in this city. Perhaps it would be replaced by a green stripe, of which Mariam had three. I wondered where Irene lived. Whether she might be opposed to moving in together. Is it too soon for that? I wondered. Yeah. It probably is. Definitely. I don¡¯t want to come off too strong. I don¡¯t want to rush anything¡ª


    The Backecho


    A pub. The brick facade was quaint, but the grey colours made it entirely unassuming as it blended into the space between the barber and the gym that were on either side of it. Through the windows it looked almost empty, which was entirely reasonable for this hour¡ªexcept for one bloke having a late lunch with a pint. None of those details about this pub was at all noteworthy. This was an entirely unexceptional establishment. All with the exception of the name of the pub that hung above its front door.


    I froze in my tracks. It didn¡¯t make sense. It shouldn¡¯t. ¡°Backecho¡± wasn¡¯t a word in the dictionary. I was sure of it. But it appeared only in one place I knew of. The manuscript that was in my hands. The one that didn¡¯t exist until a few days ago. The one that no one else had seen. Backecho, to my knowledge, was a term that I had very recently invented to describe a backward recursion in a very technical context. So why was it the name of some dingy pub in Sanctuary? The name gnawed at my mind. As I entered the pub, the bartender looked up from his book and nodded at me.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said indifferently. ¡°What can I get¡ª¡±


    ¡°What does it mean?¡± I interjected.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± the bartender asked in bemusement.


    ¡°The name of the pub,¡± I clarified. ¡°What does it mean?¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s¡ª¡± the bartender¡¯s gaze flicked down at my little white stripe. ¡°You know what? Now that you mention it, I haven¡¯t a clue.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you,¡± I said indignantly. ¡°You clearly know. So why don¡¯t you just tell me?¡±


    The bartender looked past me at the other patron, before fixing his gaze back on me. ¡°Hey, keep it down¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just tell me what it means!¡± I demanded. It surprised me how frantic I sounded. ¡°I need to know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to ask you to leave,¡± the bartender said in a low voice. I felt chills down my spine. ¡°I won¡¯t ask twice.¡±


    I stared him down for a moment, before I stormed out of the pub. The interaction had left me feeling even more uneasy than before. There was a reason why the pub was called The Backecho, but it was a guarded secret. At least to me. Somewhere, someone had decided that I didn¡¯t deserve the privilege to be privy to that knowledge. As much as I wanted to pin the blame on the bartender, it was clear that he was merely abiding by some directive. So now the question wasn¡¯t just why that name exists, but also why I couldn¡¯t know. I chewed on the question angrily as I traversed the streets. I deserved to know.


    Something ate away at the back of my mind. It was just outside the peripheral of my consciousness. Something important. Relevant. But I struggled to pin it down. I wasn¡¯t sure why I was invaded by this sudden, overwhelming sensation. It displaced the frustration. This feeling was not unfamiliar; it was a feeling I got when I worked on a maths problem, when the solution to a particular permutation of symbols was at the tip of my tongue, but ever so slightly out of reach. It would always come to me in the end. What is it, what is it, I rummaged through my mind. Something to do with backechoes? Something to do with work? Something to do with Irene¡ª


    The future is set in stone.


    My breaths became shallow. Irene had said those exact words. A hypothetical for me to think about. To help me take meaning from things that were otherwise too meaningless and horrible. And yet, I now couldn¡¯t help but relate it to the idea of backechoes. The mathematical objects where each state depends on the next. Like dominoes, they fell. But from a certain frame of reference, when indexed over a temporal variable, they fell backwards in time. In which case, the future really was set in stone for these objects.


    The edges of my vision pulsated in sync with my pounding chest. Does my work describe a time travelling phenomenon? I thought frantically. Is that what I¡¯ve been working on this whole time? But that couldn¡¯t be. Time travel didn¡¯t exist. It couldn¡¯t. It would violate the laws of physics. It simply wouldn¡¯t make sense. But sense from an academic perspective was really just another way of describing theories and models. And indeed I had been told that I had been working on a mathematical model that would describe a new theory of particle physics. So could it be that time travel didn¡¯t make sense in the current understanding of physics, but the phenomenon could exist in my new model?


    Without waiting to find a bench, I sat myself outside of a grocery store, wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and began scanning through the pages of my work. Passers-by looked at me curiously, but otherwise reciprocated my indifference. I flipped back and forth between pages, tracing the occurrences of mathematical expressions. Substitutions were mentally made and I checked whether contradictions arose. They didn¡¯t. The results resolved themselves, almost like snapping a new part perfectly into place, like it was always meant for it. Like it was the singular purpose of the entire design. Time travel was consistent in this new theory. And it was I who uncovered it.


    I creased the documents that I had so carefully tried not to before. I didn¡¯t care. I needed answers. And I was certain that Irene had been holding them back from me. I stood and began walking at a brisk pace. Other people on the street moved to avoid me.


    The maths that I had written only proved that time travel could theoretically exist, not how it could be done. This was the one occasion that I wished my maths was wrong. But I knew it wasn¡¯t. The simulations showed that it was valid, and the theoretical foundations were all there. But I was still hopeful that time travel was still practically impossible. My rather rudimentary understanding of contemporary physics told me that to achieve actual time travel¡ªif it was even possible¡ªwould require tremendous amounts of energy. More than would be feasible. But that was just the old theory.


    When I reached my apartment I was breathless. I fumbled with my handheld until the door opened.


    ¡°Irene?¡± I yelled. ¡°Irene?¡±


    No response. She wasn¡¯t here yet.


    My thoughts swam like a school of slippery eels. It was difficult to focus on one without jumping to another. To properly process them would require me to calm down and think it over a substantial amount of time. But I couldn¡¯t do either. Not when Irene was going to be here any second now.


    The existence of time travel would mean that time itself wasn¡¯t as linear as anyone had believed it to be; the fundamental assumption that grounded the way we think. It would mean that time wrapped back on itself in convoluted, dizzying ways that had implications for quite literally everything. It would recontextualise the very origin of all things; if time travel really did exist, then it would mean that the future already happened. Things would exist because they were always meant to exist, not because of the result of some causal chain of events.


    If time travel existed, it would be a divine secret that humans should never discover. All technologies inevitably converge to military applications and warfare. New advancements only ever lead to weapons of devastation against fellow humans on a scale beyond what came before. And so if time travel really exists, then eventually so will weapons of time. Perhaps they had already been deployed without anyone ever knowing. Entire civilisations wiped out, turned into not ruins and rubble, but into inexistence itself. The very thought shook me to my core. I felt sick. I had always chosen to take research projects from financial mathematics to avoid this kind of responsibility; I would rather have my research amount to meaninglessness than something terrible.


    I felt the onset of a deep panic. Am I the creator of the final weapon? I thought frantically. Am I the destroyer of everything? It seemed that I couldn¡¯t do anything right. I couldn¡¯t save my parents. I couldn¡¯t save my brother. And I couldn¡¯t save humanity. No. When I finally thought I was doing the right thing, it turned out I was doing the very opposite. Humanity wouldn¡¯t be saved by my hand. It would be destroyed. Because that was all I was able to do. I should have known.


    When the door opened, I stopped mid-pace.


    ¡°Alex, so what is it that you¡¯re so excited¡ª¡± Irene saw how I looked and froze. Standing by the door, she took a moment to study me. I hated that. At that moment, I hated how penetrating she always was with me. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°Irene,¡± I began slowly, sternly, ¡°what is my research for, really?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been over this already,¡± Irene said. ¡°I¡¯m not a physicist. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve asked Mariam already.¡±


    ¡°Tell me the truth!¡± I demanded angrily. A part of me felt bad for raising my voice, but Irene didn¡¯t look scared at all. She only tensed ever so imperceptibly. ¡°I know you know more than you¡¯re letting on. Just tell me. Please.¡±


    A pregnant silence. Irene¡¯s eyes were unreadable as ever, but I knew that behind them was a calculus taking place to determine whether she should lie or not.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Irene said. ¡°I don¡¯t want to lie to you, but I can¡¯t give you any answers. It¡¯s not my place.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean ¡®it¡¯s not your place¡¯?¡± I asked. ¡°I deserve to know! I¡¯ve been strung along on some ambiguous story about what I¡¯m doing, and I ate it up because I wanted to believe. That the world isn¡¯t as shitty as it is. That I don¡¯t have to live in hopelessness. That I can do something truly good. But I¡¯m not sure I believe any of that anymore. I¡¯m not sure I believe in anything you people have told me.¡±


    ¡°Alex, please,¡± Irene placated. ¡°It¡¯s not like that. Not like that at all. We haven¡¯t lied to you about the importance of your work, nor what we¡¯re trying to do here.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you,¡± I said.


    It happened for a split second. There was a flash of hurt on Irene¡¯s features, before it dissipated as if it was never there. ¡°Okay,¡± she said. ¡°Then what is it that you think we¡¯re doing here?¡±


    I looked at her for a moment. I thought about the things I could say, about how I could play this conversation out so I could get as much information I could without giving away the knowledge I had that she didn¡¯t know I had. But I was tired. Tired of half truths and reading between the lines. Amorphous meanings and devious whispers.


    ¡°Time travel,¡± I said. ¡°I think you¡¯re working on time travel.¡±


    She didn¡¯t seem too surprised. ¡°You¡¯re not serious. You can¡¯t believe that.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re lying,¡± I said. ¡°The only thing that has been honest with me this whole time is the maths. It¡¯s the only thing that hasn''t manipulated me since I¡¯ve been here.¡±


    Irene regarded me for a moment. I couldn¡¯t tell what the silence meant. She sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t do this to me, Alex,¡± she said. ¡°Not right now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not doing anything,¡± I said. ¡°I just want the truth.¡±


    Irene smiled. It looked a little sad, a little pitying, but I didn¡¯t know for whom. In a flash, she turned and ran. The door slammed shut behind her. By the time I had opened it and entered the corridor, she was nowhere to be seen, no doubt having turned into a different corridor. And another one after that. It was impossible to find her now.


    But Irene did run. Which had to indicate that I was onto something. That I wasn¡¯t delusional in seeing the implication in my model for the existence of time travel. But what did it mean? That the Receiverists had been after time travel this whole time, and that they needed someone like me to complete the theory? Or could it be that they were already aware of time travel because it had already happened?


    As impossible as it was, I needed to rid myself of those questions for now. Time wasn¡¯t on my side. With Irene out of sight, she could have called security already. Whatever I was going to do, it needed to be done fast. And I had to do something. I couldn¡¯t just wait for the Receiverists to apprehend me and throw me into yet another prison cell. And this time, it would be for the rest of my life, which could be very short if they decided to just off me to save resources. Now that I was thinking about it, that seemed like the Receiverist thing to do. Fuck, I really am screwed, aren¡¯t I? I thought, before, Maybe not yet. I needed leverage if I was going to have any chance of finding out the truth and surviving this. And it occurred to me that I had one.


    I switched on my laptop. I needed to erase my simulations. Unfortunately, all computing systems in this city were distributed, meaning that I couldn¡¯t just smash this laptop to get the job done. Fortunately, I was provided enough privileges to access the cluster history. The justification had been that it would come in handy if I ever lose my copy of the script somehow. Now, it was infinitely more useful. I logged onto the cluster and opened the history. Since this particular cluster session was created just to run my simulations, all of it was my scripts. I erased it all. I then fitted the laptop into the microwave oven, set the heat to the highest possible and turned it on.


    The real leverage was the theory. Without the mathematical machinery, even if they somehow recover the simulations wouldn¡¯t mean much. It would amount to little more than gibberish to the uninitiated, which was everyone who wasn¡¯t me. So my manuscript was worth something. I turned the ventilation on and held the papers to the stove. It took a while, but eventually they caught on fire. I was in a trance as I watched the sheets of paper turn into black ashes. Once, I had believed that writing this paper would save me. Now, I knew that burning it was my only chance.


    With the leverage I had in my head, I needed to figure out what to do next. In Sanctuary, there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. My survival depended entirely on how generous the Receiverists were feeling. But answers? I might be able to do something about that. A plan formed in my head. An insane one, but when your back is against the wall, sanity and insanity were entirely arbitrary.


    I walked into my room and opened a drawer that I had only ever opened once. It was still there. The dark metal shined against the ceiling light. I took the gun and left my apartment for the last time.

 Chapter 19

    Jumpy would have been an understatement. Sweat drops fell from my temples down to my neck. My eyes snapped to every minutia of movement, mistaking shadows for stalkers and door handles for guns. I regarded every person in the corridor with suspicion. Their eyes like steel barrels trained on me. Whenever they reached for their pockets, I braced for the worst, only for a handkerchief or handheld to appear instead of a weapon. Every corner was a portal from which danger could spring from. I was hyper aware of the metallic weight in my laptop bag. I wasn¡¯t sure if I could draw the weapon out in time if I needed to. With what little recess of my mind that wasn¡¯t dedicated to worrying about every little detail around me wondered, how had I ever felt safe here?


    By the time I had reached an elevator, I was drenched in sweat. The sticky sensation usually bothered me, but not when there was a steady stream of adrenaline in my veins. I had passed two elevators before this one, but they had people waiting, and so I walked on. I pressed for the elevator. As I waited, I saw a man appear from a corner on the other end of the corridor. Even from a distance, I could tell that he looked large. An ideal body type for security work. Knowing that Receiverists used algorithms to determine a person¡¯s career, it was likely that this very man was a security officer. He didn¡¯t run, but it only made his slow approach so much more menacing. The slow march of fatalism. I inched my hand slightly towards the opening of my laptop bag. Not like this, I pleaded.


    As if my prayer had been heeded, I heard the familiar tones play, and the elevator doors opened. This was, frankly, the closest thing I ever had to a religious experience. This opinion was discarded immediately when I turned and saw two men in the elevator. A bearded man who looked to be nearing his sixties, and another who looked like a rising politician who was no more than half the other man¡¯s age. I hesitated. I didn¡¯t want to enter this elevator. I glanced at the approaching man in the hallway. Step after step, the distance shortened.


    ¡°Mate, ya coming in?¡± the bearded man asked.


    Fuck it, I thought, before I quickly entered the elevator, pressed a level that my muscle memory suggested, and mashed the close button. The doors reappeared and the elevator began moving. I wiped my forehead with my hand and felt a layer of dampness in my palm, which could have been from either part of me. I sighed in relief.


    ¡°Sir, are you alright?¡± the young man asked with a tone of concern.


    I turned to look at him. ¡°You mean me?¡±


    The young man nodded.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m fine,¡± I said nonchalantly. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    The young man didn¡¯t look convinced. The bearded man looked at me with an unreadable expression.


    ¡°This place is perfectly safe,¡± the bearded man said in a gruff voice. ¡°Unless if ya do something stupid. Then ya get sorted out.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no need to be so severe,¡± the young man said politely. ¡°No one here can do anything malicious.¡±


    The bearded man nodded at me. ¡°Fella¡¯s not from here.¡±


    Just as the young man turned to me with a quizzical gaze, the doors opened and I began walking away at a brisk pace.


    ¡°Hey,¡± the young man said, ¡°this isn¡¯t the floor you pressed.¡±


    I turned my head and saw the two of them walking behind me. I tried to wave them off casually. ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± I barely squeaked out. Stupid! I reprimanded myself. I need to calm down and focus. I can¡¯t afford mistakes. They could cost me my life. I picked up my pace.


    The streets felt safer. Intellectually, I knew that this was not true. This level that gave the false impression of a city block was no different from any of the other floors. This was just another enclosed space in an enclosed world. There were as many cameras and sensors in this place as the corridors I had been in before. Maybe even more. Most likely more. And with corridors, I could at least hide. Here, it was much easier to eat a bullet if it came to that. But even knowing this, I still felt paradoxically safer. Such was the irrationality of the human psyche.


    When I entered the elevator I had been looking for, I swiped my handheld next to the panel and pressed sixteen. No response. I tried again. Still nothing. Shit! It suddenly occurred to me that I didn¡¯t have access privileges to that level. In fact, I never had. The only times I had been up there were when I was scheduled in. I exited the elevator. I wasn¡¯t sure if it would work, but it was worth a shot. I didn¡¯t have any other options. I began tapping away into my handheld.


    Alex: Hey Lenny, I¡¯m hoping to speak to you about something. Can I come up to your office right now?


    I waited anxiously, praying to whichever god that was willing to hear me. A moment later, my handheld chimed.


    Lennox: Of course mate! My door¡¯s always open to you. Come up whenever.


    I pressed for the elevator again. When it arrived, I entered and placed my handheld near the interface and tried sixteen once again. This time, the tones played and the button lit up. Once the doors closed, rather than feeling relieved, my anxiety grew as the elevator took me closer. This is it, I thought. There¡¯s no turning back. I was going to see Lennox. And I could imagine several different scenarios that would end badly for me. I couldn¡¯t picture what a good scenario looked like, but I couldn¡¯t let that matter now.


    When the elevator doors opened, I let out a sigh of relief. Not seeing an army of armed security guards waiting for me was very fortuitous. I began walking the floor at a casual pace, not wanting to alert anyone. Lennox was an incredibly important person around here. Any threat to his life would undoubtedly be met with extreme prejudice.


    Walking through the office space was almost surreal. It looked so normal. Like they could be doing taxes, or trading stocks, or copywriting. But instead, they were working on things that had far-reaching consequences for the entire world. On predictions and forecasts down to the actions of individuals. On clandestine plans on the behalf of the future without any oversight or limits to their power. On violating the sanctity of time. They were, in plain terms, playing god. That didn¡¯t sit right with me. They claimed to do so for the betterment of everyone, including the rest of the world that didn¡¯t ask to be a part of the Receiverists¡¯ machinations. But that couldn¡¯t be right. This unchecked power could only lead to ruin. It was what dictators and industrial complexes had in common. And I believed them simply because I had wanted to believe in something greater. That made me no different to the executioners who thought they were ridding the world of evil, or defence researchers who thought that building the next weapon of mass destruction was making the world a safer place. I felt the disgust clawing at the base of my oesophagus.


    Lennox¡¯s door looked the same as it had the previous times I had been here. And yet, it was different. This was likely the last time I would ever see the door like this. It was a portal to which I wouldn¡¯t return from. I waved my handheld in front of the interface and the door opened. On the other side was Lennox sitting in front of his desk. He was reading something from his handheld. He snorted. A moment later, he looked up. For an ever so brief instant, I thought I saw eyes that could see everything. Eyes that knew what I knew and what I was going to do. But that could have the imaginings of a paranoid and adrenaline-drunk man, as Lennox¡¯s expression was as jovial as ever.


    ¡°Alex!¡± Lennox said boisterously. ¡°Come in.¡±


    I closed the door behind me and took a seat in the chair on the other side of Lennox¡¯s desk.


    ¡°Coffee?¡± he asked. ¡°I¡¯d have ordered one for you before you got here, but you¡¯ve sprung up on me this time.¡±


    ¡°No, thanks,¡± I said. Now that I was here, I realised just how ill prepared I was. I didn¡¯t really have much of a plan other than to ask Lennox for answers.


    ¡°So. How can I help you?¡± Lennox asked, before nodding at my laptop bag. ¡°I see you¡¯ve brought your computer with you. Did you want to show me some progress?¡± He rubbed his hands together as if I was about to hand him a medium rare steak.


    ¡°Well, not exactly,¡± I said as I pulled out the gun from the bag and pointed it at the wider man.


    Lennox¡¯s eyes went wide. ¡°Oh. That wasn¡¯t what I was expecting.¡±


    ¡°No, it wasn¡¯t,¡± I agreed. ¡°Now lock the door to your office and turn off the surveillance in this room. I¡¯m not fucking around.¡± My threat was punctuated with a flick of the safety switch.


    Lennox brought his hands up in a placating manner. ¡°Alright, alright. There¡¯s no need for threats.¡± He slowly rose and walked over to the interface near the door. A couple of taps later, a mechanical sound came from the door handle. A few more taps later, Lennox turned to me and said, ¡°You¡¯re just gonna have to trust me on this one. The surveillance has been deactivated.¡±


    I gestured for him to sit back down at his desk with my gun. ¡°Give me your handheld. And don¡¯t you dare touch any of the electronic devices.¡±


    After he obliged, he said in a hurt voice, ¡°I thought we were friends, Alex. I¡¯ve been good to you, haven¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Friends don¡¯t lie to each other¡¯s faces,¡± I said venomously. ¡°Getting into your office, I¡¯ve lied in the same way you¡¯ve been lying to me this whole time. Manipulating me with half-truths and omissions.¡±


    ¡°I knew something was off,¡± Lennox said. ¡°You never call me Lenny.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been lying to me about my research all this time,¡± I said. ¡°You knew what it was really about, but you pretended like you didn¡¯t.¡±


    Lennox sighed. ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯ve been making omissions. But a lot of the details are on a need-to-know basis for very good reasons. But I didn¡¯t lie to you about the most important part¡ªthe goal. All this work is going towards making sure humanity has a future. That people will survive the next century. And the one after that.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡± I shouted. I was glad my index finger was off the trigger. I was white-knuckling the grip. ¡°You didn¡¯t think time travel was important enough to bring up?¡±


    Lennox raised his eyebrows, before leaning back into his chair. ¡°Ah, so you¡¯ve figured it out. I always thought you were brilliant at maths, so maybe you¡¯d finish the work but never figure out the true application. This proves that you¡¯re a genius. Full stop.¡± He clapped slowly.


    His mannerisms and musings had always been a little annoying to me, but right now it was down right irritating.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lennox continued calmly, ¡°what you¡¯ll solve¡ªhave solved, based on this conversation we¡¯re having right now¡ªis indeed a new model for particle physics. No one lied to you about that. And yes, as a consequence, the model describes a more nuanced nature of time. You can call it time travel¡ªwhich isn¡¯t entirely correct¡ªbut it¡¯s the single most fundamental tool to the continued existence of humanity. It is a necessity. I told you right from the beginning that your work is important to the survival of all of us. This detail doesn¡¯t contradict that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s beside the point,¡± I rebuffed. ¡°It¡¯s a lie by omission. If you¡¯d told me upfront that this work was about time travel, then I never would have agreed to it.¡±


    ¡°And that is the point,¡± Lennox said. ¡°That¡¯s why we never told you.¡±


    ¡°Then you admit it!¡± I shouted. ¡°You¡¯ve been manipulating me this whole damn time.¡±


    Lennox shrugged. ¡°Sure. But I think ¡®manipulating¡¯ isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use. It has too many negative connotations. I like to think that we¡¯ve been guiding you. Like¡­ a teacher guiding a student to solve a problem without giving away the point, so the student¡ªyou¡ªcan reach it naturally. And the point here is greatness. With the work you¡¯ve done, your career and legacy is guaranteed to go down as possibly the most important in history. So did we manipulate you? Sure. But it is you who will transcend because of us.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for any of this,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s not right.¡±


    ¡°¡®Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them,¡¯¡± Lennox quoted. He aimed a finger gun at me. ¡°And that last one? That¡¯s you.¡± He fired his imaginary gun and made a ¡°pew¡± sound.


    I unconsciously recoiled as if I had been shot. I shook my head violently. Lennox was shoving this idea of doing me a favour down my throat and it wasn¡¯t going anywhere I needed the conversation to go. He was obnoxiously good at controlling the conversation. I had to step on the brakes.


    ¡°Tell me about the time travel,¡± I demanded firmly. ¡°Tell me what it really is that you people do here.¡±


    ¡°As for the ¡®time travel¡¯, I¡¯m really not the best person for this,¡± Lennox said. ¡°You should be speaking to Mariam instead. She¡¯s much smarter than I am. But let¡¯s be serious. Unless Mariam comes in here, you¡¯ll never speak to her.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯re just gonna have to do your best,¡± I said.


    ¡°Wrong,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I can bring her here. For your troubles and how courageous you are in holding a poor innocent lad such as myself hostage, you deserve some answers. I can call her.¡±


    I thought about it for a moment, wondering if this was some trick. ¡°No funny business,¡± I said, fixing my gun on Lennox again as I handed him back his handheld.


    ¡°No funny business,¡± Lennox said as he began tapping away. He held the device in such a way that I could see the familiar face that appeared on the screen, but only Lennox¡¯s face could be seen from the other end. ¡°Mariam?¡±


    ¡°Oh for god¡¯s sake Lenny,¡± Mariam¡¯s annoyed voice came from the speaker, ¡°have some patience. The quarterly report for the General Executive still isn¡¯t ready, but if you keep calling me like this then we¡¯re well and truly going to miss the deadline.¡±


    ¡°Oh no, I¡¯m not calling about that,¡± Lennox replied. ¡°Can you come over to my office right now? Something¡¯s come up and I want to run through some ideas with you.¡±


    The hesitance on Mariam¡¯s face made me tense. ¡°Is it urgent?¡±


    ¡°You could say that, yes,¡± Lennox said. ¡°But not too urgent. Just hoping to pick your brain a little.¡±


    Mariam sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll push back my meeting with energy engineering and be there in a bit.¡±


    The call ended and Lennox handed me his handheld yet again. ¡°Now where were we?¡± he wondered aloud. ¡°Ah yes. Your other question. What we actually do here. You already know that. Our work is to ensure not only the survival of our species into the future, but also our prosperity. We¡¯ve always been upfront about this, no? You¡¯re making me feel like a broken record.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± I dismissed impatiently, ¡°but what does time travel have to do with any of it?¡±


    Lennox chuckled. ¡°Alex my boy, time travel has everything to do with it. It¡¯s not that we believe time travel is possible. No. We know it¡¯s possible.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve seen it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes, we have evidence,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Our existence is evidence. The signal was first discovered by the founder of our organisation when she was a teenager over a hundred years ago. She was a genius then, and she still is now. When she decoded it, the signal revealed things to her. Predictions about the future. Knowledge that was generations ahead. The coordinates to where we are now to build a sanctuary.¡±


    ¡°Was that the only time you¡¯ve received¡­ the signal?¡± I asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Lennox answered. ¡°We still get data drops sporadically. It¡¯s impossible to predict when they arrive. We¡¯re very much kept on a need-to-know basis.¡±


    ¡°So when instructions arrive from the future, you carry them out?¡± I asked.


    Lennox winked. ¡°Bingo.¡±


    ¡°Assuming you¡¯re telling the truth,¡± I began, ¡°how can you trust what you¡¯re provided? How do you know you¡¯re not manipulated into doing terrible things?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a philosophical question, Alex,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Have you ever thought about why we¡¯re called Receiverists?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve told me already,¡± I said. ¡°Because you¡¯ll be receiving refugees when the time comes.¡±


    ¡°No, I never said that,¡± he corrected. ¡°You said that. You assumed I corroborated with you when I didn¡¯t.¡±


    I racked my brain to recall what was exactly said and what wasn¡¯t. ¡°Half-truths and omissions,¡± I realised. It made me angry just how little truth I was actually given. Lennox looked smug. ¡°Then tell me. Why are you called Receiverists?¡±


    ¡°Because we receive messages from the future,¡± he explained simply.


    ¡°If that¡¯s the case, then why don¡¯t you call yourselves Receivers?¡±


    ¡°Because that¡¯s an object,¡± Lennox snickered. ¡°It would be an awful name. And also, being Receiverists implies that we have a philosophy. Receiverism.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a formal logic argument outlined by the General Executive Receiverist over a hundred years ago,¡± Lennox explained. ¡°I think you¡¯d love her, but being over a hundred and thirty years old means she doesn¡¯t get out much. But to give you the high level summary, it really just comes down to two main premises. First, we are receiving messages originating from a further point in time by Future Humans. That¡¯s what we call them. Second, Future Humans must operate in the interest of humanity. Therefore, we ought to act in accordance with the messages from Future Humans.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t place what exactly the trouble was, but something about that argument felt off. In truth, I didn¡¯t care about the logic. The conclusion offended me. ¡°That can¡¯t be right,¡± I said. To my dismay, my voice sounded petulant. ¡°All that means is you¡¯re completely subservient to the so-called Future Humans. Blindly following orders without question. How do you know they really have your best interests in mind, apart from apologetics you¡¯ve convinced yourselves with? Have you ever communicated with them?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°But you can,¡± I said. ¡°You can leave messages for them to find, and they can send responses back in time.¡±


    Lennox sighed. ¡°Yes, in theory we could do that. But we¡¯re not allowed. The Law of Zero Transmission existed for as long as this city has. The General Executive herself had personally placed the decree, enforceable by punishment.¡±


    ¡°That seems awfully disproportionate,¡± I said.


    ¡°We take all matters involving time very seriously. There can be no room for error.¡±


    I was perplexed. ¡°Why isn¡¯t that allowed? Is open dialogue not a good thing? More information cannot be bad.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a tradeoff between information and the energy required to transmit messages back through time,¡± Lennox said. ¡°So if it¡¯s not necessary, it¡¯s to be avoided. But more broadly, using the logical framework of Receverism, you can deduce that the messages by Future Humans aren¡¯t just necessary, but sufficient. So there¡¯s no need at all to seek out two-way communication. Because we¡¯re provided with everything we need.¡±


    ¡°Then my question still stands,¡± I said. ¡°You don¡¯t know for sure that the Future Humans are acting in the best interests of humanity. They could be a group of individuals placing their own prosperity above everyone else¡¯s. It¡¯s entirely possible that every Receiverist here is being misled and manipulated into doing something terrible.¡±


    ¡°Of course, I haven¡¯t given you a comprehensive account of Receiverism, so your ignorance is understandable,¡± Lennox said. ¡°Based on what we know about The Event, it will be totally catastrophic on a global scale. The thing about the surface right now is that every country is interlinked and dependent on one another. So when the disruption is ubiquitous, infrastructure fails. Supply chains break. No single, isolated group of people will be able to survive on their own.¡±


    ¡°And how do you know for certain?¡± I asked.


    Lennox looked at me as if I had told a joke. ¡°You know this yourself. You¡¯ve lived up there all your life. If anything, this is the easiest thing to believe out of everything I¡¯ve told you. Anyway, any technology that enables sending information back in time would require tremendous effort, resources, and coordination on a global level. Future Humans are therefore constrained by scarcity to act in the interests of aggregated prosperity, not aggregated detriment. The effort taken to send these messages back in time cannot be profitable. It can only be a final stand for survival.¡±


    I realised, begrudgingly, that I was starting to see the argument. Is he right? I wondered with bubbling panic. Does all this really make sense?


    ¡°And plus,¡± Lennox continued, ¡°even if it¡¯s manipulation, it¡¯d still be guidance. Like the way we guided you. You thought you¡¯d solve some mildly important problem, maybe something that¡¯ll improve the energy efficiency of solar panels by some nominal amount. Instead, look what you¡¯ve achieved. You¡¯ve unlocked the gates to humanity¡¯s future, and everyone will remember you for it. If Future Humans led us to solutions we didn¡¯t expect, then so be it. To be a Receiverist is to be faithful. Unlike your surface world, we trust one another. Even when we¡¯re not told all the details. And we trust the grand plan pieced together in the messages from the Future Humans.¡± He sighed. ¡°I trusted you by bringing you into this city and handing you the gun that you¡¯re pointing at me now. I hate to say it Alex, but you¡¯re not a very faithful person.¡±


    I felt a flash of anger. ¡°Don¡¯t you try to pin this on me!¡± I snapped. ¡°I was trusting. I was faithful. But you misled me. You¡¯re a hypocrite.¡±


    ¡°No. Your problem is that you don¡¯t trust me enough. Even after I explained everything, you still refuse to entertain the possibility that I might be right, and that this is a good thing.¡± Lennox leaned forward. ¡°There¡¯s an insecurity in you. And rather than confronting it, you try to run. But you can¡¯t run from the inevitable, Alex.¡±


    ¡°And what, pray tell, is that inevitability?¡± I challenged.


    Before Lennox got a chance to respond, there was a knock at the door.


    ¡°That must be Mariam,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I¡¯ll go get her.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I said quickly. ¡°You stay right there.¡±


    Lennox shrugged as I rose and walked to the interface at the door. I tapped the unlock and the door clicked. I held the gun behind my back as I opened the door.


    ¡°Alex?¡± Mariam said in bemusement as she walked in. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect you to be here.¡± She shot a concerned look at Lennox. ¡°Must be one hell of a conversation if you¡¯re locking the door, Lenny.¡±


    I closed the door behind her and locked the door again. The mechanical click made Mariam spin around.


    ¡°What is this?¡± she asked. There was a tinge of fear in her voice.


    ¡°Relax,¡± Lennox said nonchalantly. ¡°Alex just wants some answers. We should help him with that.¡±


    ¡°Lenny, are you sure¡ª¡±


    I pulled out my gun and raised it in the air. ¡°Give me your handheld, Mariam.¡±


    Mariam was petrified. A moment passed, before she handed me her device. I gestured for her to sit in the other vacant chair on my side of the desk. I sat after she obliged.


    ¡°Mariam,¡± Lennox began in a calm voice, ¡°would you be so kind as to explain to Alex the phenomenon that he refers to as time travel?¡±


    Mariam¡¯s eyes went wide. ¡°So he¡¯s solved it?¡± she asked Lennox, before turning to me. ¡°You¡¯ve solved it, then?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°And I saw the implication. And now I want answers. Real answers, not half-truths.¡±


    ¡°Give me a moment to collect my thoughts,¡± Mariam said. She rested a hand on her chest, closed her eyes and breathed deeply for several moments. I felt the urge to calm her, but I didn¡¯t want to lose my leverage. I needed them to believe that I was willing to shoot them.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Mariam said to herself, before saying a little louder, more resolutely, ¡°Okay. And Lenny, you¡¯ve explained to him some contexts already?¡±


    ¡°Only at a high level,¡± Lennox said. ¡°I¡¯ve told him that we receive messages from the future.¡±


    ¡°Where do I even begin,¡± Mariam said. ¡°At our current understanding, we know that in the future, a stochastic model will be shown to account for the properties of matter with remarkable accuracy. Better than any model that came before it by many orders of magnitude. The caveat will be that¡ªpurely on a technicality¡ªthe model will necessarily imply the existence of an exotic subatomic particle, such that changes to its vibration rate will backecho through time.¡±


    I breathed sharply. Bachecho. That word again. I felt Lennox¡¯s eyes silently taking in my reaction. I ignored him.


    ¡°As you can imagine,¡± Mariam continued, ¡°particle physicists will do what they do best and set out to try to find this exotic particle. They won¡¯t expect it to exist because it obviously violated their understanding of physics and reality. Mathematicians won¡¯t expect it either. They¡¯ll think the result is a mathematical novelty and exists purely as an expediency.¡±


    It was hard to sit still. ¡°But they¡¯ll find it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes. To their surprise, they will.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s say I accept that. Then how does time travel work?¡±


    Mariam sighed. ¡°We don¡¯t call it time travel, because nothing physical is actually sent back,¡± she said. ¡°We just refer to it as backechoing. The things that are actually travelling backwards in time are just waves. Differentials. Backechoes, which are caused by future vibration rate changes, can act as binary signals. So with the right tools, one simply needs to encode information into a series of vibration rate changes, and the information will backecho into the past.¡±


    The maths just wasn¡¯t clicking. ¡°How would you determine how far back the signals travel? Surely they can¡¯t travel backwards in time infinitely.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Mariam said. ¡°That would require infinite energy, which is infeasible. How far back depends on the magnitude of the vibration rate change.¡±


    ¡°Ah, so the further back you go, the greater the magnitude you need, which requires greater amounts of energy.¡±


    Mariam nodded. ¡°Exactly. And the energy you need grows exponentially as a function of magnitude. And the size of the information. We¡¯re fairly certain that this is why the messages we¡¯ve received so far are sporadic and small in size.¡±


    ¡°What if I tried to break causality?¡± I asked. ¡°Say I detect a backecho that I know I made at a later point in time. But I kill myself so the vibration rate change can never be caused by me. Doesn¡¯t that break causality?¡±


    Mariam smiled. ¡°No it wouldn¡¯t, because you don¡¯t know for a fact that you caused the backecho. Maybe the message encoded into the backecho told you that, but it¡¯s just a message. The inciting vibration will still happen eventually, as necessary, but it could be caused by someone else. Hence, causality is not broken.¡±


    ¡°Okay, let me amend that,¡± I said. ¡°Let¡¯s say I¡¯ve locked myself alone in an insulated environment where only I can cause vibration rate changes. Then what?¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯ll eventually cause the change,¡± Mariam said. ¡°You may try to kill yourself, but you¡¯ll fail and you¡¯ll cause the change later. Or you do succeed to kill yourself, but you¡¯ll have caused the change before. You can¡¯t trick certainty, but certainty can trick you. You can¡¯t run from inevitability.¡±


    ¡°Does that mean the cause is my detection of the signal, that the effect is the vibration rate changes I¡¯ll make in the future?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Admittedly, the distinction between cause and effect becomes somewhat archaic and arbitrary,¡± Mariam said. ¡°You need to elevate your perspective to the post-causal way of thinking.¡±


    The implications swarmed my mind like an angry hive. They buzzed and buzzed, one after the other, until I could hear the distinct tone of the queen. She sang a one note song of calamity. I could only ignore it by drowning it with something else. And so I did.


    ¡°But time travel¡ªbackecho, or whatever you call it, is too dangerous,¡± I said. ¡°Knowing what will happen in the future when other people don¡¯t? Knowing exactly what to do and when to do it? That¡¯s a weapon infinitely more powerful than the atom bomb. And like the atom bomb, it¡¯ll only cause escalation in the worst ways possible, not prosperity. And like the atom bomb, this is a mistake. This is a line that shouldn¡¯t be crossed. You might know whatever you know about the future, but I know what will happen at the end. There will be nothing left.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but my boy,¡± Lennox began, ¡°that¡¯s the true elegance of Receiverism. That the motions have already been set, and that we¡¯re just doing exactly what we¡¯re supposed to. Not more. Not less. Perfection, is what it is. It means your cute but vapid ethics conjecturing is pointless. The line will be crossed. It already has been.¡±


    ¡°Then you are the final destroyer of all of us!¡± I said angrily. ¡°With all your grand delusions about saving humanity, when the bullet was fired at us, you chose to let it happen instead of pushing humanity out of the way.¡±


    ¡°I could turn the metaphor around and say you¡¯re the one who wants humanity to just die rather than to intervene,¡± Lennox said. ¡°All because you¡¯re a deeply fearful person. But it¡¯s pointless, because in real life, you can¡¯t move faster than a speeding bullet. And perhaps that¡¯s the best metaphor of all.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re in no position to accuse,¡± he continued. ¡°A Receiverist¡¯s life¡¯s work is ultimately to ensure that humanity survives and prospers in the future. Among many things, Sanctuary is an undeniable example of that. This city will shelter millions, and provide necessities to many more. But what have you done? All you¡¯ve accomplished so far in your life is doing maths that make insurance companies, fund managers and traders a little richer. But now, you¡¯ll do something truly meaningful for the first time in your life by giving humanity a fighting chance in the ever bleak future. You have Receiverism to thank for that.¡±


    I seethed. That wasn¡¯t fair. I chose to study financial mathematics not because I wanted to make those people richer, but because it was what was available to me if I wanted a career. If I wanted to leave England.


    ¡°Well, I refuse to participate,¡± I said firmly. ¡°I¡¯ve burned all traces of my work. It doesn¡¯t exist anymore.¡±


    I had wanted to save this leverage for when the situation became more dire. Perhaps to bargain my safety with it. But I couldn¡¯t. It had become something larger than my life. Lennox didn¡¯t react, but Mariam did.


    ¡°And why would you do that?¡± Mariam asked in a tone that wasn¡¯t chiding, but of genuine perplexity.


    It bothered me that she couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°If what you¡¯re telling me about my work is true, then this should never be allowed to exist. I will not be responsible for the consequences of this research.¡±


    ¡°But you already are,¡± Mariam said. ¡°The existence of the signal not only guarantees that you¡¯ll be responsible for the creation of backechoing. It means that with certainty, you¡¯ll eventually publish your work yourself, or you¡¯ll set off a chain of events that cause your work to be published by someone else. Either way, it all starts with you. It has already started.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t run from inevitability, Alex,¡± Lennox said with an amused smile, like he was appreciating a good joke. ¡°And it¡¯s for the same reason why the gun you¡¯ve been threatening me with is nothing but a toy. Alex, your destiny isn¡¯t to kill me. Your destiny is to be the father of backechoing. To be our father. We exist because of what you¡¯ll do. Every instance of your life has been determined by the succeeding instance. And this backwards recursion is what you are, completely. The same goes for me, Mariam, and everything else. It¡¯s why I can freely give you these answers. Because I know you won¡¯t be a nuisance. All because of the first signal.¡±


    The gun was cold metal, yet my palms dripped with sweat as if it had been scorching. I had a headache, but the agony I felt wasn¡¯t just physical. The fabric of my reality was being ripped away by words from a man who I didn¡¯t trust. Couldn¡¯t trust. For an infinitesimal minutia of a moment, there was a wrath within me that made my index finger twitch ever slightly towards the trigger. It passed without consequence as I felt the chills of having only realised how close I was to the edge.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you,¡± I said. The words sounded hollow. ¡°I don¡¯t believe a single word from either of you unless you show me definitive proof of what you¡¯re claiming. Of backechoes. Of information about the future that can¡¯t be predicted by models.¡±


    Lennox regarded me for an uncomfortably long moment. His eyes were cold and I feared the calculus behind them. The metallic weight in my hand didn¡¯t feel like protection or reassurance. It hadn¡¯t for a while now.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you a choice, because I¡¯m a fucking saint,¡± Lennox said. ¡°If you wish to leave and go back to the surface, I¡¯ll honour it.¡±


    After all that had happened, that seemed too good to be true. ¡°And what¡¯s the other option?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I can show you the definitive proof you want,¡± Lennox started, ¡°that¡¯ll dispel all doubts you have about the truth of what we¡¯re telling you. It¡¯ll forever and irrevocably change the way you think and perceive the world. But there¡¯s a catch. You must work as a Receiverist down here for the rest of your life.¡±


    ¡°And why¡¯s that?¡± I asked. ¡°You¡¯ve already given me a lot of details. There¡¯s a lot I already know.¡±


    ¡°Because there are limits to my trust, especially to someone like you who¡¯s broken it,¡± Lennox said. ¡°All the stuff you already know and see, that¡¯s unverifiable. Nothing but hearsay to the outside world. No one will believe you. But the evidence you¡¯re looking for? That¡¯s different. Beyond mere words or a city that no one can find. We can¡¯t have you taking that information out there.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t trust Lennox with even giving me coffee anymore, but he seemed serious. So much so that I could almost believe by looking into his eyes that indeed, he had irrefutable proof.


    ¡°The choice is obvious, isn¡¯t it?¡± Mariam asked rhetorically. ¡°You¡¯ve seen what we do here. You¡¯ve seen that we¡¯re at the very forefront of humanity, and that the work we do¡ªthat you¡¯ll do¡ªwill be more meaningful than anything out there. Out there is nothing but chaos and tragedy. That¡¯s all that awaits you and everyone else above. But here, there¡¯s not just security, but hope. We can use someone like you. Don¡¯t waste your life up there when you know that everything you¡¯ve ever wanted is down here.¡±


    The silence stretched as I thought through my options. But in the end, I realised that I had already known what I would choose before Lennox had even posed the question.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to leave, then.¡±

 Chapter 20

    The room was unfamiliar, but the circumstances were. The door looked metallic and sturdy, the walls were a dark grey that signified their impenetrability, and the bed was merely an immovable mattress on the floor. The washroom was clean, but as minimalist and unsympathetic as the rest of the tiny room. I was entirely at the mercy of Lennox, and whoever else was in charge. If he wanted to end me, he could certainly do it with the same effort that he might spend on an ant. My opinion wouldn¡¯t matter at all. But what really bothered me was just how long it was taking for whatever that was going to happen to happen.


    I had woken up in this room a few days ago. Unlike the first time I had been held in captivity, I was entirely devoid of the panic and dread. The idea that I was capitulating offended me, but really, any form of protest would be a waste of energy. If these were my last days, then I¡¯d rather be peaceful. There was no other path than to accept the reality of the situation that I was in. The simple reality that really, the only thing I had was Lennox¡¯s word, which was nothing at all. If what Lennox and Mariam told me was true, then perhaps there was some sort of guarantee that I would survive. But that was only as true to me as I was willing to believe their words. And of course it doesn¡¯t rule out the possibility that they could order a savage beating of me as retribution for causing trouble. So maybe I would live, but whether I did so with functioning kneecaps was another thing entirely.


    The daily regime was familiar. Three meals a day. A ham sandwich, a couple of sausages and an apple. In between those isolated events, there was a vacuum. Just my thoughts and I with my back on the grey mattress.


    It had occurred to me that perhaps the conspiracy ran much deeper than I had imagined. Now that I was aware of the Receiverists¡¯ willingness to manipulate, could it be that they had a hand in pushing me towards the inciting incident? I had only accepted the initial research proposition from a place of desperation. Had I not been desperate, I would have never even given it a second glance. Could it be that the Receiverists sowed that desperation within me by somehow getting my papers and grant applications rejected? If that was true, then that would imply a terrifying depth to their infiltrations of the surface world. If they could infiltrate academia, then they could certainly also infiltrate governments and militaries. No institution would be impenetrable. This thought brought me great unease. It meant that even if they were letting me go, I would still be in their grasp. If they didn¡¯t want me to have a career in academia, then that would become reality. Even if they would let me go, they could change their mind one day and I would disappear without a trace, like I had never even existed. I would need to look behind my back for the rest of my life. I would never be truly free.


    But freedom was a word that lost its meaning. If knowledge of the future could be passed backwards through time, then it meant that my life story was penned before I had ever been born. Every choice I would make would be done so under the coercion of an invisible force infinitely more oppressive than gravity. Every experience that happened to me was a stage play by a draconian theatre director. Destiny was the enemy that outclassed famine and disease, war and climate apocalypse. Perhaps the only freedom from being enslaved to the tyranny of time was death. But all this was only the case if what they were telling me was true. And given their penchant for lying to me before, I was certain that I shouldn¡¯t take their words at face value. Even if they believed what they were saying, that didn¡¯t mean that their version of reality was correct. They could still be manipulated the way I was by them. I wasn¡¯t sure what the truth was. I wasn¡¯t sure whether I could ever reach it.


    My thoughts occasionally wandered to my own role in all of this. I still blamed myself for falling for the deceit, but it was now clear that whatever all of this was, it was far larger than me. The currents that had led me here were both invisible and persuasive.


    More often than not, I would find my thoughts drifting to her. Like a moth drawn to a flame, it burned me to do so. I tried not to think of her, but I couldn¡¯t. And so when the door opened and she stood there, it felt like I was engulfed in a conflagration. I had to look away.


    Irene regarded me for a moment, before walking across the tiny room and sitting on the bedside table. The door closed by itself. The abrasive noise that accompanied the motion made me recoil. Yet, it was the silence that came after that cut the deepest. She set down a small black case. The only sounds in the room were our breaths. Minutes had gone by, until I saw from the edge of my periphery that Irene turned to look at me. She sighed


    ¡°Hey,¡± she said quietly, almost whispering.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I uttered back.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been okay?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. ¡°As okay as I can be in this situation, I guess.¡±


    Irene chuckled mirthlessly. ¡°Not that it matters anymore, but if everything went the way I¡¯d hoped it would, none of this would¡¯ve happened.¡±


    ¡°But shouldn¡¯t you know exactly what would happen?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple,¡± Irene said as she slowly shook her head. ¡°Everything might be predetermined, but I don¡¯t know all the details.¡±


    The silence returned. Irene slumped against the wall of the room. A part of me wished that there was at least an analogue clock around, so the quietness would be populated by metronomic ticking rather than her breaths that I couldn¡¯t help but focus on. It was hard enough not to think about Irene when she wasn¡¯t here, and now she was the only detail in this empty cell. Something told me that this would be the last time I would see her. I sat up from the mattress and sat on it with my back against the wall. I could feel her eyes on me as I did. I turned my gaze to her and saw grey pearls full of pity. The knife in my chest stung.


    ¡°I feel betrayed,¡± I said. ¡°I feel used by everyone. Like I was the butt of a sick joke that everyone was in on except me.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°But worst of all, I feel betrayed by you.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± she repeated.


    ¡°I¡¯m so stupid,¡± I said with a sad chuckle. ¡°I know I shouldn¡¯t feel this way, because you had told me upfront that you were in this for a promotion. It was just business for you. So that¡¯s on me.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°I cared,¡± Irene said.


    ¡°Then why didn¡¯t you tell me the truth?¡± I asked. There was no accusation in my voice. Just defeat.


    ¡°Because it¡¯s complicated,¡± she said. ¡°I know that¡¯s an unsatisfying answer, but that¡¯s the truth. There are just things I can¡¯t tell you even if I wanted to, because if I did it would have terrible consequences.¡±


    ¡°But in the end, does it even matter?¡± I asked rhetorically. ¡°I could¡¯ve learnt everything I know now, but without the betrayal. Without this awful feeling inside me.¡±


    ¡°Then things would¡¯ve ended differently and you probably wouldn¡¯t know the things you know now.¡± A moment passed, before she said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry you feel this way.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean you¡¯re sorry I feel this way?¡± I said. I felt genuine anger. ¡°You mean you¡¯re sorry for my feelings of being betrayed and lied to and used? My feelings of being responsible for a discovery that¡¯s more terrifying than anything I can imagine? Why can¡¯t you feel sorry for the things that happened instead?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m not, and I don¡¯t want to lie to you about that,¡± Irene said. ¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do about the things that happen. And the things that will happen, really. But I¡¯m sorry that you feel about them the way that you do. I hope that eventually, your feelings will change and you¡¯ll see them differently.¡±


    Irene got up from the bedside table and sat next to me on the mattress. Only the small black case remained.


    ¡°For one, you¡¯re not responsible for backechoes,¡± she continued. ¡°You didn¡¯t invent that. That¡¯s a concept that already existed and only needed someone to discover the idea. If anything, it invented itself using you as a vessel.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrifying to think about,¡± I said.


    ¡°If it wasn¡¯t you, it would¡¯ve been someone else,¡± Irene said. ¡°You¡¯re just unlucky.¡±


    I chuckled. ¡°Does luck really exist, then?¡±


    Irene shrugged. ¡°Sure. Why not?¡±


    ¡°And how should I think about being used and misled in the way that I was?¡± I asked.


    She sighed. ¡°You feel used by me, don¡¯t you?¡±


    I looked away.


    ¡°Yes, I knew that getting closer to you would be pragmatic,¡± Irene said. ¡°It would help ground you and keep you here long enough. And so it was necessary. That¡¯s just the reality that we found ourselves in. But I like you. I like you a lot. And this reality, the sequence of events that happened, was the only place where I could be with you. Even if for a short time. And within that, I felt joy, and I like to think you did too. Don¡¯t you see, Alex? I can¡¯t be sorry about that. Things happened the way they were supposed to, but you can steal away joy and meaning and keep it all for yourself. That¡¯s what the determinism principle really is.¡±


    The silence that followed felt heavy. I did my best to will the wetness away from my eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll ever understand that,¡± I said weakly.


    ¡°Give yourself more credit,¡± Irene said. ¡°I think that in time, you will. That it¡¯ll be something we can share.¡±


    I sighed. It came out pitifully.


    Irene reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the black case.


    ¡°Why did you run?¡± I asked. ¡°That day when I tried to confront you about the truth in my apartment.¡±


    Irene laughed, before lowering her voice to a whisper. ¡°Losing my prospects for a promotion.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll get it, after what happened,¡± she said quietly as she leaned in a little closer.


    ¡°Did I do that?¡± I asked. I couldn¡¯t help but feel guilty. A part of me had wanted her to lose the promotion she worked for, but now I felt concerned.


    ¡°Not really, no,¡± Irene said. ¡°It¡¯s more about what I did.¡±


    ¡°What did you do?¡±


    ¡°Well, it doesn¡¯t take complicated algorithms or messages from the future to figure out what you were going to do,¡± Irene said with a smile. ¡°That you were going to be a reckless idiot and demand answers from Lenny. Most likely with that gun of yours. So I quickly made a situation assessment to Lenny and recommended letting you go.¡±


    I swallowed. ¡°You did that?¡± I asked as I looked into her grey eyes.


    Irene nodded.


    ¡°I¡ªGod. Thank you,¡± I swallowed a sob. ¡°But why would that make you lose your promotion? You¡¯ve told me that the outcome doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°No it doesn¡¯t,¡± Irene whispered. ¡°But the intent and method do.¡± She sighed. ¡°Not everything in that assessment I gave was true. They¡¯ll find out sooner or later. But don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    My eyes widened. ¡°You lied?¡±


    Irene shifted so she kneeled. ¡°I included in the assessment that the forecasted probability of you killing Lenny was essentially zero,¡± she said quietly as she leaned closely. ¡°I only ran the numbers afterwards.¡±


    ¡°What was it?¡± I whispered anxiously.


    ¡°Not zero.¡±


    ¡°What does probability even mean if everything is predetermined?¡± I asked. ¡°How can I kill Lennox one in ten times if ¡®times¡¯ doesn¡¯t make sense?¡±


    ¡°Think Bayesianism.¡±


    I pondered for a moment. ¡°Degrees of belief?¡±


    Irene nodded. ¡°Lennox and the Reception Division don¡¯t know every detail about the future. They¡¯re kept in a need-to-know basis by the future. And I¡¯m kept on a need-to-know basis by them. The only thing I know is that your work is necessary to the discovery of backechoes. But I don¡¯t know what you¡¯ll do outside of that.¡±


    ¡°Like shooting Lennox,¡± I said.


    ¡°Exactly. So I needed to act with the imperfect information that I have. And instead of acting to protect Lennox, I protected you instead. I don¡¯t think my superiors in Special Operations will appreciate that very much.¡± Irene chuckled.


    ¡°But if the future is predetermined, you didn¡¯t have a choice. You were a slave to time. To fate.¡±


    ¡°But I didn¡¯t know what would happen. And so my actions were a reflection of who I am. I am who I am, Alex. Determinism can¡¯t rob me of that.¡±


    I felt an admiration for Irene wash through me. Her strength. Her certainty.


    What was the difference between the illusion of free will¡ªa simulation of free will¡ªand free will itself?


    Irene unzipped the black case. In it was a single syringe and a small vial of a translucent liquid. She removed the cap from the syringe and extracted a small amount. I knew what it meant. The inevitability of it all. I watched her as she prepared. I wanted to commit as much of Irene to memory as possible. There was a futility in asking, in suggesting that there was an alternative to the unwavering, singular path ahead that was shaped by the forces beyond. But I asked anyway. Because in that futility was reverie. In that reverie was humanity.


    ¡°Will I ever see you again?¡±


    Irene paused in her motions. She looked at me. Her grey eyes tracing the contours of my face. Of my soul. In that moment, there was something exchanged between us. An understanding that was free from regret and sorrow. An infinite and infinitesimal instance where time stood still. We existed outside of it in a paradise we stole. The culmination of everything that had happened and everything that hadn¡¯t yet. And then, as all moments did, it passed.


    Irene smiled and kissed my forehead for the last time.

 Epilogue

    In business news, the defense giant Stabilic has recently acquired the Center for Future AI Systems, a non-profit research institute based in Miller University. Collaboration between defense contractors and research groups is common, however acquisitions are less so, prompting experts to speculate that the defense giant is working on a large-scale project that will continue to entrench it as the favourite contractor for the United States Air Force. The price of Stabilic shares had fallen earlier this year due to leaked documents from the NSA suggesting its involvement in a controversial project for nationwide profiling, of which its CEO had since repeatedly disavowed and stated that any such project is fundamentally counter to the firm¡¯s values. Over the weekend, its share price rose to above two hundred dollars for the first time in its history. In other news, the water shortage in the state of Utah has prompted¡­


    The words from the news reporter ringed in the spacious waiting lounge. Despite being an hour early, I was considered late by the other prudent travellers who looked as if they had arrived here two hours prior. Their suitcases were colourful and large, suggesting that most of them were moving permanently or visiting family. Like me. But unlike them, the size of my suitcase was void and its colour was inexistence. My only accompaniment was my cheap backpack that was far from being exhausted. The sunrise from the wall of windows was doing little to dispel the remnants of my drowsiness. Neither was the increasingly dissatisfying taste of the most inexpensive coffee I could find. The mediocrity made perfect sense. This was a place of obligated transcience. Good things were entirely unnecessary. But the prices were still cruel.


    As I drowned out the bleak noises from the television with the rays of light peeking from behind the clouds, it dawned on me that this was likely the last time I would be in this airport. There was nothing left for me in this city. It had been a couple of months since I had woken up on the bed of my shabby apartment again. It had taken a few days for the initial shock to wear off, but when it did, I became busy with damage control. The rent wasn¡¯t an issue¡ªmy repayments were automatic. But it was everything else that had crumbled. Due to my admittedly less than stellar behaviour in the weeks leading up to my abduction, the absence from my teaching and research duties were taken as a sign of a troubled employee, not a victim of conspiracy. So rather than alerting the authorities about my disappearance, they terminated my employment contract instead. That was the very thing I had feared the most. And yet I felt liberated.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Another couple entered the waiting area. The woman had black hair in a loose ponytail. My heart skipped a beat, but without even bothering to try to sneakily verify as I had wont to do in the first month, I knew it wasn¡¯t her. She didn¡¯t walk like Irene anyway. Not that the details mattered when you wanted to believe something.


    Without a job, I had two things; an expiring visa, and time to process everything that had happened. I had even written a detailed account of what had happened. I wasn¡¯t going to show it to anyone of course. Not that anyone would believe me anyway. I still had a lot of questions. Over time, I began to accept the truth of some of it, but there were also things I didn¡¯t believe. But I wasn¡¯t going to get any answers. Even if Irene or Lennox told me their truths, it wouldn¡¯t be the real truth. The unobtainable narrative kept me awake every night. But I did come to understand one thing that seemed to be the footnote of all of this. It gave me an understanding deeper than any mathematical proof could possibly offer.


    Backechoes gave Receiverists the notion that the future was fixed. This meant that all suffering and pleasure were miniscule yet necessary in the ever-happening grand plan towards prosperity. This was the determinism principle that defined how Receiverists understood their own experiences. It inscribed order to chaos. It derived meaning from the meaningless. It made everything make sense. I wasn¡¯t sure about any time travelling technologies or grand plans, and a part of me still doubted whether they were really receiving messages from the future, but I didn¡¯t doubt Irene. I cherished everything that she had told me.


    Everything was brighter. The sunrise had passed. There were more people in the waiting area for our terminal now. The pollution was heavy, but not enough to completely erase the cerulean from the sky. It reminded me that the weather in London was awful at this time of the year, and that finding an umbrella was going to be my top priority after landing. I didn¡¯t have a lot of money. And I didn¡¯t exactly know what we were going to do once my mother completed her sentence. But something told me that everything was going to be fine.


    I downed the rest of the plastic flavoured coffee and went to throw the empty cup into the bin. In the last half hour, the atmosphere had shifted from drowsiness to energetic anticipation. I suppose a sunrise has that effect, I thought, before feeling a slight pity for the burrowed lives of Receiverists. I checked the time after I sat back down.


    I guess there¡¯s nothing else to do, I thought.


    With a shrug, I pulled out the manuscript from my bag.