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I haven’t updated this journal in almost a year. It’s hard to motivate myself, but I should catch this account up with what’s been happening.
With the timely death of Vaughn and Kyle’s assumption of power, a new era began for both of us. Our purposes aligned sufficiently for Kyle to achieve his main objectives, as well as the central aim of my mission, which was to eliminate the Whip as an extinction threat to the species.
But one part of my mission remains and holds me in a powerful ethical imperative. I am still needed as Kyle’s close ally to moderate the destructive effects of his psychopathy. Though I long to be free of this situation, I must remain responsible for what I helped set in motion. I saved Kyle from having his body harvested by Vaughn and decisively contributed to his trajectory toward becoming the wealthiest and potentially most powerful person on the planet.
He’s not the head of a superpower nation-state, but with the exponential evolution of AI and computational biology, technological corporations have become powers whose effect on the future of the species is more potent than nation states.
Some force, likely Viealetta, used me to transcribe secrets of interstellar travel. Not realizing the significance of what I’d scribbled on my bedside writing pad, I gave it to Kyle. But even if I had known, I would have given it to him anyway. Even without the Whip, it’s only a matter of time before survival requires the species to become viable off-planet.
So the fate of the species, Kyle, and my role in his life as a moderating influence are all entangled, and I am trapped in that knot. What would make me happy—returning to Andrew—counts for nothing against such stakes. The only ethical claim my feelings can make is that I must ensure I remain healthy enough to continue playing my role.
My sadness, loneliness, and weariness about what fate requires of me matter only if they interfere with my functioning in that role. They do to some degree, but so far at least, they have not stopped the one essential thing I do, which is to be a benign influence on Kyle. While that influence continues, and I must make sure it does, I cannot abandon my post.
But right now, my post has me where it does most of the time, alone in my cabin. Like most mornings, I’m here with the curtains drawn to darken the room while I stare at a screen. Other mornings, my screen is a porthole into the world of Jeremiah and his community in their space-faring biosphere, my one creative activity. But this morning, the porthole didn’t open, and I felt called back to my long-neglected journal. I think it was my own unconscious that drew the curtain on that world, realizing that I needed to conduct a self-intervention.
I must do something about my depression, or it will undermine my ability to play the part required of me. I sense that the story vacuum is actually a somber form of grace—there must be something I can do about it, and that’s why a different form of space has opened. I’ve always been able to adapt, and journaling has shown me a way through more desperate situations than this one.
When Kyle’s role as heir apparent shifted to head of Vaughn Enterprises, the role I play for him changed too. To fulfill it, I have to be more than focused and alert during our interactions. Now that he’s assumed power, he needs me to serve as a companion, a confidant, the one person he can trust. To be that companion, I need to summon as much enthusiasm and sympathy for him as I can.
Kyle is soothed by my presence, and this helps him unwind in the evenings. He needs me to shift him out of the make-every-second-count default mode of his working day, as he manipulates other power players, designs and supervises vast projects, and performs all the other work of running a giant corporate empire.
My role as companion is more consequential than it might sound. It’s a chance to humanize Kyle and sometimes help him work through major decisions that have outsize effects on the lives of others.
I’m not always in as poor a state as I am right now. I can still rise to the occasion when my role is needed. I feel most alive when I am writing about the complex dramas arising in the world of Jeremiah’s community in their space-faring biosphere. But in my worst moments, I feel hollowed out, a deadening of feeling where only my sense of duty keeps me together enough to function.
Andrew often quoted a line he’d read in the Zap Oracle: “Never underestimate the value of a partial solution.” So that’s what I’m looking for—partial solutions.
The best one I’ve found is working on my amateurishly written epic, the story of Jeremiah’s space crossing. I’ve also been doing the work Kyle asked me to do—reverse engineering my story to distill principles for helping an isolated community remain psychologically and socially viable. I’ve been writing a constitution for a new community borrowing much from the one The Friends had.
I need to add to my set of partial solutions, but first I have to shake myself out of this deadened state. I’m going to force myself to eat something and move my body to reanimate my energy.
OK, I’m back, and my self-care intervention worked better than I hoped. I feel somewhat revived. I knew I needed to eat something, and oatmeal was not going to cut it. I made a spicy fresh salsa, adding more jalapeños to the limit of what I could tolerate, and ate some with corn chips to raise fire.
Kind of a weird breakfast, I know, but it was more medicinal adjustment than a regular meal. I made stronger mate, added a shot of espresso, and then walked outside in the sunlight.
Now I’ve got my energy back and feel alive enough to at least do a better job with the journaling. I can’t let myself sink into the state I woke up to. Where there’s life, there’s hope, and what feels stuck could change in a heartbeat.
Maybe it’s just the espresso kicking in, but I sense some sort of imminent positive change in the air. I’ve been in far worse situations and worked my way through them. I have plenty of practical resources and no excuses. I will find better partial solutions and will continue doing my work, in this case journaling, to the best of my abilities, no matter what.
So, here’s some detail on what’s going on with me and Kyle. That first night after he took out Vaughn, I was frightened by the aura of power I felt emanating from a gloatingly victorious Kyle. There was even a moment when I felt a dark sexual undercurrent from him.
Kyle’s sexuality, like the rest of him, runs on will-to-power, and in his newly triumphant state, the sense of all the wealth and authority he had just inherited shifted the power dynamics between us and aroused a flash of desire, especially since he found me shirtless and in such an opposite state of depressed vulnerability. But it passed, and even by the end of our talk, he had dropped from gloating to actually expressing concern for my well-being.
This Kyle has never made a sexual overture toward me. We’re not sealed in a biosphere, he has his choice of partners, and he’s more than intelligent enough to realize I’m far too valuable to him in other ways to risk jeopardizing that with an unwanted advance. In general, he treats me with more respect and consideration than he shows anyone else. And his rapport with me has dramatically improved since he inherited Vaughn’s empire.
What made the biosphere Kyle so dangerous was that his will-to-power was completely thwarted by the situation, and I was the only one with whom he could act out his frustration. This Kyle has never been trapped or thwarted to that degree. His will-to-power was frustrated while Vaughn was alive, and that did color our interactions, giving them a dangerous edge. I needed to bring my A-game to hold my ground while he tested me, and we had battles of wits and aggressive sparring sessions.
But once Kyle had power, as much as he or anyone could have time to make use of, our dynamic shifted completely. Every second of his fourteen-hour workdays is an expression of his will-to-power, outmaneuvering and dominating other operators all day long. An immediate result was that his need to play power games with me dropped to zero overnight. In this phase, he needs me for the exact opposite function, to be the one person who can help him come down from his ultra-competitive, super-charged workday.
In the early days, he tried a few times to keep charging at tasks till late into the night, but he soon learned that was self-defeating because it predictably resulted in insomnia.
“Insane workaholic mode is ridiculously inefficient,” he told me. “Sleep is an irreducible necessity, and anything that compromises it wrecks performance. From now on, I’d like your company after work most nights so I can calm the fuck down enough to be able to sleep. Hopefully, that’s going to suit you, because it’s definitely what I need.
“You’ll obviously be compensated for the privilege of your company, but there’s a limit to how much I can figure out the needs of an introverted empath, so I need you to name anything that will make life here work for you. Seriously, Tommy. I will make sure you have it and fast.”
As far as I can tell, and I think I can tell, having spent so much time with two versions of him, Kyle is completely sincere in almost everything he says to me. It’s part of the opposite function I serve.
I get called in once Kyle’s psychopathic power drive is spent, which is fine by me, of course. I’m like the cooling, feminine, black yin dot in the fiery white-hot yang fury of his day. But I rarely get called on Friday and Saturday evenings because those are presumably reserved for sexual escapades, the details of which Kyle thankfully keeps to himself.
Often, I’ll cook dinner, just because I like cooking, and Kyle likes what I make. If I’m not in the mood, he’s got gourmet chefs on staff who can prepare anything we request. After dinner, we keep talking or watch a film or a couple of series episodes from a reclining sofa at the back of his state-of-the-art home theater.
Now that I’ve written it out, the crucial “work” I do seems laughably easy and privileged. How many people would complain about a job that consists of a daily martial arts training session and eating dinner and hanging out with a billionaire five nights a week?
To be fair to myself though, my “job” does require permanent separation from my soulmate, and if it weren’t so consequential, I’d trade the rest of my life here for a couple of days with Andrew in the tiny living space of the Mothership.
Complaining or self-pitying in physically luxurious circumstances I chose to put myself in is just lame, I realize. But so what if I need to vent a little in my journal if it helps me function? The main problem is that when I’m not high on writing the epic or spicy food and espresso, I can devolve into a depressive wretch. I can’t afford that. I need to bring positive feelings to my companion sessions with Kyle to help humanize him. So that’s why the search for additional partial solutions needs to continue.
Kyle would certainly provide me with anything I asked for, but the problem is I don’t need additional things—I need meaning and love.
Now that my situation here is stable, I’ve considered adopting a cat or a dog. There’s also a small daycare center here for the children of live-in workers, so I’ve thought about volunteering there as well. But both ideas have a sickening aspect I can’t stomach.
How can I relate to an animal or to kids, knowing I’m actually just using them as my own personal comfort therapy? Gross. If the opportunity to escape this situation presented itself, I’d have to abandon them, just as I abandoned all the galagos, goats and other animals in the biosphere. I can’t be fulfilled by caretaking work, which I do mainly for my benefit. The selfishness of such a setup makes even the thought of it repulsive.
Well, I guess for today, the partial solution was updating this journal. I think that’s probably my answer. Finding useful things I can do, day by day, moment to moment, while keeping every moment in its place.
As usual, on weekdays, a dinner meet-up with Kyle is on the schedule. I’m walking toward Kyle’s apartment when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Kyle, of course. No one else even has my number.
“Come join me on the veranda,” is all it says. For some reason, this innocuous request jolts me into quick time. A feeling of hidden significance charges the air with electricity. The change I sensed earlier in the day now feels imminent.
I step onto the veranda and find Kyle framed by the woods surrounding the hilltop compound and backlit by an orange sun just beginning to set. A table draped in fancy linen is set up beside him. As I approach, Kyle’s face breaks into a crooked grin, like he’s got cards up his sleeve.
“Welcome, Tommy, we’ve got something huge to celebrate tonight.”
He’s probably acquired a new company, but my heart rate accelerates and my premonitory sense is firing like a Geiger counter approaching a glowing stash of uranium.
Now I can see that Kyle has staged the event. With his PR training, he has a certain flair for the dramatic and is famous for setting up company-wide meetings in skillfully theatrical ways. This is the same tactic, now deployed solely for my benefit. I’m guessing he chose a view of the horizon because he wants to talk about long-range plans.
The elaborate staging intensifies the feeling of impending shock. With the sun behind him, Kyle radiates power and confidence. I take a deep breath and keep my expression neutral.
Kyle lifts an old, scuffed-up bottle from an antique silver ice bucket.
“Heidsieck, 1907. This champagne was on its way to the Tsar’s officers in 1916 when a German U-boat torpedoed the freighter carrying it off the coast of Finland. It spent eighty years on the Baltic seabed—cold, dark, perfect cellar conditions, as it turns out—until divers brought the cargo up in the nineties. Bottles have sold for more than a quarter million. I own four. Tonight we drink one.
“And for the meal, I flew in a guest chef—he trained under Passard at L’Arpège, the man who put vegetables at the center of three-star cuisine. He’s built tonight’s menu around you: a whole celeriac roasted in a salt crust and carved at the table, beets cured and dressed like a tartare, and for dessert, Passard’s famous tomato—slow-candied with twelve spices until it eats like something between fruit and incense. So I hope you brought the appetite I requested.”
The menu sounds bizarre, candied tomato that tastes like incense? I just hope my stomach can keep any of it down.
“Celeriac? Is that like French for celery?” I ask in a neutral tone.
Kyle laughs. “Close enough. It’s the root, not the stalk—an ugly, knuckled thing the size of a softball. Which is the point. This chef takes a vegetable that looks like it lost a fight and roasts it in a salt shell until it comes out tasting like something between a truffle and a steak. Trust me, Tommy, I don’t spend money on things that disappoint. Bring your skepticism to the table—I’ll enjoy watching it lose.”
“One catch, though—what I have to say tonight is highly confidential, so I’ve asked the kitchen to hold the courses and stay clear of the veranda until I call for them. To tide us over, the chef left us his master’s signature opener.” Kyle gestures at two small silver cups, each crowned with a swirl of whipped cream.
“Passard’s chaud-froid egg. The top of the shell is sliced off clean, the white poured away, and the yolk gently warmed in its own shell, seasoned with fleur de sel, gray pepper, and chives. Over that goes crème fraîche whipped cold with sherry vinegar and four spices—nutmeg, ginger, white pepper, clove—then a thread of maple syrup between the warm and the cold. Four spoonfuls of contradiction. Fitting, given tonight’s subject.”
I wince when I realize that what I thought was some sort of dessert espresso with whipped cream on top is actually some kind of semi-raw egg sundae.
“And, you’re sure these are cage-free, certified-humane eggs, and not from chickens slowly tortured in a French monastery or something to improve the flavor?” I ask as I summon my courage to try a spoonful.
“Nice one, Tommy,” says Kyle, laughing. “I’m sure you know everything here is sourced from the compound’s own farm operation. Free-range hens with more security than most heads of state. Not for their welfare—for mine. Vaughn died by poison, so no one outside this fence touches my food supply. My paranoia and your ethics happen to arrive at the same place.”
Kyle pours the Heidsieck into a fluted crystal glass for me. It has a deep golden color but few bubbles. I guess it’s gone flat after a hundred and thirty-one years. It tastes sickeningly sweet, almost syrupy, not like real champagne at all. The price of this one glass could have bought a couple of pickup trucks for my Friends community, and I don’t even like it.
“We’re celebrating some major news, and no, it’s not just more success for Vaughn Enterprises, but something that will dramatically improve your situation. I’ve been concerned about your well-being for some time, and tonight I can finally act on it. You do your best to hide it, but it’s been apparent for a while that you’re not happy. I thought succeeding with your mission would change that, but I can see it hasn’t. You also haven’t shown much enthusiasm for any of the rewards I’ve proposed that I thought might improve your quality of life.
“I’ve got some major plans in mind I want you to be part of, but first, I want to establish credibility since this is going to require more trust of my intentions than I think you’ve had so far.
“From a purely logical and practical standpoint, you ought to be able to see why your well-being is a high priority for me. To use a crude and selfish analogy, you’re like the proverbial goose that lays golden eggs. Besides the martial arts training, insights, and companionship you provide, the download you got, that one scribbled page, is the most valuable golden egg in human history. So, without suggesting anything beyond the self-serving intentions of a psychopath, it should be obvious why I’d want you to be as healthy and happy as possible to keep receiving more golden eggs.
“You haven’t given many details, but I know you weren’t treated very well by the older version of me you lived with in such extreme isolation in the biosphere. If I had to endure that, I’m sure I’d be frustrated and angry, and I’d have no one to take that out on but you.
“I may share the same essence as that other version of me, but my life has played out so differently that we must be divergent in many aspects. I don’t know what that other version felt toward you, but—and I realize this will stretch credibility—I’ve come to the surprising conclusion that I actually do care about you, not just as an asset but as a person.
“All human differences are on a spectrum. On the psychopathy spectrum, I’m certainly, unambiguously on the far end as I was designed to be, and I’ve never claimed anything different. Nevertheless, human differences are not absolutes.
“You’re on the opposite end of that spectrum, but I’m sure there’ve been people in your life who were so annoying or abhorrent you had little to no sympathy for them. I don’t think you shed any empathic tears for Vaughn. People are complex, so no matter how strongly they’re defined by a certain aspect—like being a psychopath or an empath—there will be exceptions.
“Whether you believe it or not, Tommy, you are my one exception. Obviously, I like you, and that’s why I seek out your company. And, as I’ve pointed out, I have strong self-serving reasons to want your well-being. But since you’re an empath, I think you’ll eventually see that there’s something more besides. As ludicrous as this might sound coming from me, I believe I have a degree of . . . personal affection for you. It took me a while to believe this myself.
“Yesterday, I tested this with a thought experiment. I imagined a scenario where we were permanently separated for reasons beyond my control. In that scenario, I could never receive any benefit, no golden eggs from you ever again. And yet, I found my concern for you did not entirely disappear. I’d still want you to be healthy and happy, and I’d be disturbed if you weren’t. I know that contradicts your idea and mine of psychopathy, but as I say, people are complex.
“This won’t make me look good, but the truth is I’ve known for quite a while what would make you happier, but I’ve never suggested it because it ran strongly counter to my agenda and inclinations.
“It’s obvious an empath who grew up in a loving community would be happier with more people in their life than one psychopath, no matter how charming and clever. You’ve never asked for that, and I was certainly not motivated to suggest it because I’m inherently selfish and therefore highly possessive toward the one person I like. I don’t want to share you with anyone else. On the other hand, I want you to be happy for both self-serving reasons and, because of that something more—a personal desire for your well-being.
“At the conclusion of my thought experiment a couple of weeks ago, I decided the time had come for me to go past my comfort zone and suggest that you need more of your own social life besides spending evenings with me. Just as I’ve known for quite a while that you would be happier if you had that, I also realized why you wouldn’t ask for it. You understandably regard me, and this whole situation, as too dangerous to invite anybody else into your life. You correctly surmised that I’d regard anyone else in your life as a possible security threat, and no doubt you’ve sensed my selfish possessiveness.
“While that’s still true, I’ve concluded that your social isolation is not in my best interests, and seeing you unhappy cuts against my personal inclinations as well.
“Moments after I made the decision to offer you the chance to expand your social life, there was what you might consider a synchronicity. I got a call from the leader of the team I’d put in charge of creating an experiment to test the validity of your page of equations. It was an outstanding success.
“The proximity of this event to that decision inspired me to create a long-range plan involving you that, if successful . . .” Kyle pauses for dramatic effect—“could be the salvation of mankind.”
“I encouraged your fiction-writing experiment because I wanted you to game out how a group of people could be psychologically and socially viable in the long-term isolation of generational space travel. The success of the experiment brings the grand ambition I formed even before we met — the goal of building a space-faring biosphere that could reach a habitable planet outside our solar system — into the realm of practical reality. And that is likely the only way to ensure our personal survival and that of Homo sapiens.
“AI is already replacing us as the dominant species on the planet. It is only a matter of time before an autonomous super AI finds us inconvenient to its agenda. The future of our species requires a genetically viable colony on another world. I want both of us to be on that life raft.
“Unlike you, my life span in this body is self-limiting. I haven’t said much recently about the team of geneticists studying your genome. I assigned them numerous tasks, such as investigating why you’re naturally immune to disease and whether there’s a way to transfer your non-aging biology to a fully grown person like me. Everything I’ve asked them to study has failed to produce the results I wanted.
“To be fair, they warned me from the start that while it might be possible to reproduce such a mutation in vitro, we’re very far from having the capability to re-edit the genes of an adult to the extent required to make such a massive change. Worse yet, after much study of your genome, they have not identified what genes, or combination of genes, are responsible. They can’t even be sure if it is a genetic phenomenon.
“Therefore, I can’t afford to waste a huge chunk of my remaining years on such a long space journey. I’ve got a team working on suspended animation. If that succeeds, I’d like to be on board in suspension and come out only once we’ve reached a habitable planet.
“But robotics are not at a point where we could have more than one or two persons in suspension and still have a functioning biosphere. We also need the community to learn how to adapt to the kind of social isolation they’ll face on an exoplanet. I’d need someone on board I trust to ensure the viability of the community during the journey, and you are the only person I trust. And I need you to become socially viable again to play that future role, the one you’re gaming out in your fiction.
“In the shorter term, I want you to use your empathic abilities to vet potential biospherians. You grew up in a socially viable intentional community of twenty persons. That’s about the number that would be necessary and practical. And you’ve described it as a peaceful community, while my research has shown that most intentional communities have infighting and social instability. No one is better equipped than you to choose just the right people to set up a community that could endure the isolation of space travel.”
Kyle can see I’m stunned by his plan, and he gives me some silence to process. I almost can’t believe I’ve heard what I thought I’d heard. Did Kyle really just ask me to choose suitable candidates for a community? The part of myself I had tried to numb out, my longing for Andrew, springs back to life and my heart begins racing. But I need to keep myself wary—anything from Kyle that sounds too good to be true likely is. There has to be a catch, probably an ethical poison pill I won’t be able to swallow.
“If you’re willing to take on this mission, there’s no time to waste. My assessment is that the human species’ ability to survive on this planet is rapidly running out. It’s going to be a close call whether we can get a life raft built and launched before that window closes on us.
“Vaughn Enterprises owns an island in the South Pacific that already has basic infrastructure. This is where I intend to construct the spacecraft independent of the regulations and scrutiny of any nation-state. I would like you to establish an experimental permaculture community there. For obvious security reasons, you couldn’t disclose our ultimate goal, but you would be able to truthfully present the opportunity as an experiment in the social viability of a small, self-sustaining, isolated community with the goal of continuing that experiment in a terrestrial biosphere being constructed on the island.
“So, what do you think?” Kyle says, leaning back in his chair to appraise me. “Are you ready to get out of our little compound here, so that we can get humanity moving toward a future out there?” He points a confident finger beyond the orange-and-rose-colored sunset on the horizon.
The possibility of a new future with Andrew crackles all around me, so much so that I almost miss Kyle’s sleight-of-hand. Almost. The poison pill was tossed in so casually, tucked behind rose-colored glass, as if I wouldn’t notice—he’s expecting me to start a community, and to found the future of humanity, on a massive deception.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued,” I begin. “More than intrigued. It’s something I’ve been craving for a long time now. Not only a purpose beyond what we’re doing here together, but a community. But, Kyle, there’s no way I’d ever recruit unsuspecting people based on a deceptive agenda. Do you really think I’m going to pull unknowing folks into an experiment, no matter how important, just so you can abduct them into the space-faring biosphere?”
“Hang on, Tommy, you misunderstand me. It’s not a deception, it’s a truth that comes in stages,” he says in a slickly reassuring tone. “Everyone will know everything as soon as it’s safe for them to know, which is once we have a viable biosphere ready for launch. Otherwise, anyone in the community could compromise the security of the whole operation. Besides respecting your ethics, if there’s any element of coercion or anything involuntary, it would undermine social viability. Even I can see that. Participation in all parts of the experiment will be voluntary, and anyone can leave at any time. Social viability means we want anyone who would wish to leave to do so.
“When we have a craft immediately capable of launch, we can safely disclose that and take only those who choose to undergo the journey. Those who choose to stay can remain on the island or get free transport to wherever they want to go once our craft has departed.
“No one will be abducted. Anybody so clueless that they’d pass up an opportunity to be one of the few chosen for the one life raft available to mankind is definitely not someone I’d want onboard. But I really doubt that anybody willing to break with their former life to be part of an isolated community on a tropical island is going to decline such an opportunity. And I think you’re more than savvy enough not to recruit anyone who lacks the sense and altruism to accept an adventure that would be humanity’s greatest chance to preserve the species. Have I answered your objection?”
“You have, Kyle. But what else do I need to know? Is there anything important you haven’t said? Any other truths that will only come in stages? I don’t want there to be any sort of hidden catch that I find out about later. For example, do you reserve the right to veto anybody I recruit for your own reasons?”
“No, Tommy. I trust your ability to vet people for community viability. Obviously, I’d have an issue if you choose someone with an incurable disease or paranoid schizophrenia, but I don’t see you doing anything like that. Recruitment is your department. Truthfully, I’ve got so much else to deal with that I don’t even have the time to second-guess your choices. But it would make sense for you to have me run a security check on anyone you’ve selected before you recruit them. I doubt anyone objectionable could get past your intuition, but some basic due diligence is to everyone’s benefit.
“For security reasons, I’ve preferred that you remain at the compound or leave only with a security detail. But obviously, the type of recruitment needed will not work if you’re surrounded by a phalanx of armed bodyguards. Risk is a necessary part of any venture, and with all your abilities, I’m confident you can take care of yourself. If there’s anyone you know and trust from your former life who can travel with you and help with recruitment, so much the better. Perhaps your friend Andrew would be willing to help.”
I stop breathing, and this is one case with Kyle where I can’t disguise a reaction. He meant to shock me, and it worked. This is the first time in years I’ve heard Andrew’s name spoken aloud. To protect him, I had never said a word about him to Kyle.
Kyle grins, not in a sinister way, but more as if he had performed a comic gotcha, before handing me a grand prize.
“Of course I know about Andrew,” Kyle says, still grinning. “I’ve known about him for years and haven’t interfered with his solitary life in the Mothership. You covered your tracks really well, and Jason, the hacker you used to create your identity, is first class. In fact, I’ve been employing him as a subcontractor, and he’s been richly rewarded for his services. You must realize that I command surveillance resources that few nation states can equal, so of course, given my curiosity, I was able to trace your ID back to its source and learned all I needed to. Sometimes I even considered letting you invite him here, but besides possessiveness, having two non-aging mutants at such a high-profile location was not wise. But he obviously needs to be part of our new plans, and I’m sure you would be including him anyway.”
I’ve regained my composure but can’t think of anything to say to this stunning disclosure, so I just let Kyle keep rolling with his pitch.
“If you choose this path, I will leave all the details of your part to you, and you’ll have an unlimited budget. So . . . are you willing to undertake this mission?”
My racing heart wants me to shout, ‘Hell yes!’ but I restrain my enthusiasm and keep my voice level.
“Well, Kyle, if there really are no hidden conditions or catches, I can only answer yes. I couldn’t possibly say no to a mission that might save the species.”
“I expected nothing less from you,” says Kyle, passing me a device. “This will allow encrypted satellite communications so we can stay in touch. It also contains the details of your unlimited credit accounts. The work we do must be meticulous, but we also have no time to waste, so I suggest you begin this mission as soon as possible.
“But it can wait till after dinner. And before they serve the main courses, I wanted you to see the alternate dessert in case candied tomato isn’t your cup of tea. I don’t want to give away the surprise—let’s just say it’s thematically related to our conversation—but I know I can count on you not to let any comment about our confidential plans slip out while the staff is on the veranda.”
“Loose lips sink ships,” I reply.
“More apt than you know,” says Kyle. He sends a text from his phone, and in seconds the veranda doors open and a waiter wheels in a cart that seems to hold an even larger version of the space-faring biosphere model I saw in Kyle’s room four years ago.
Except this one, apparently, is a cake. Its great domes look like blown glass, so flawlessly clear I can see entire miniature landscapes sheltered beneath them—terraced green fields, tiny forests, orchards of trees no bigger than my thumbnail. A ring-shaped habitat circles the central dome on a dark bridge, and across the black base, a spiral galaxy of silver dust glitters in the evening light. The waiter parks the cart, touches something at its base, and a ring of slender sparklers ignites around the whole assembly, throwing white fire like a launch plume. Then he withdraws, and the doors close behind him.
“Forgive the déclassé sparklers,” says Kyle. “I have a weakness for launch effects, and the real thing won’t offer any. If your equations scale the way the experiment suggests, there’s no combustion at all—the drive doesn’t push the ship, it changes what the ship falls toward. From outside, you’d see a silent rising, a faint shimmer around the hull like heat over asphalt, then empty sky. No giant rocket plume for early-warning satellites to detect, nothing to trigger interceptor missiles. The most consequential launch in history will look like nothing happened. So I’m taking my pyrotechnics where I can get them.
“The finished design will be less grandiose too. No forests under glass—transparent domes are a luxury for planets with a magnetic field. The real biosphere will be a sealed hull jacketed in water for radiation shielding, sunlight piped in or from LEDs, food raised in stacked aeroponic decks—dwarf grains, algae bioreactors, mushroom galleries—every gram accounted for. This,” he gestures at the cake, “is—besides a few synthetic sapphire observation windows with high-performance AR coatings—the only glass this ship will ever get: vacuum-cast isomalt, a sugar glass, plant-derived, so entirely vegetarian, annealed to optical clarity. The technique didn’t exist three years ago. Under the domes, the farmland is terraced matcha sponge, the forests are candied rosemary and spun-sugar pine, the orchards are marzipan, and the galaxy is edible silver. The pastry architect spent two weeks on it working from my model’s specifications. She thinks I’m an eccentric billionaire commissioning a birthday cake. Which, in a sense, I am—consider it the birthday of the project.”
I’m slightly horrified when I realize that this cake, which neither of us will likely touch, since Kyle is as sugar-averse as I am, probably cost enough to feed an African village for ten years.
“Kyle, I hope you’re not expecting me to eat my future community in effigy,” I whisper.
Kyle laughs. “We can have our community and eat it too,” he replies, just before the veranda doors open again with the rest of the meal.
I’m too excited to write anything more tonight! I need to pack. I plan to leave at dawn tomorrow.
Sitting In front of me is the weather-worn green nylon backpack my mom gave me when I turned fifteen. It’s the same backpack I had with me when I traveled to the biosphere so many years ago, and when I showed up at Kyle’s martial arts school. But this time it’s coming with me as I escape isolation and venture off into the world and perhaps beyond the solar system!
I don’t know my next destination, because I don’t know what’s become of Andrew in the years of our separation. What if he’s started a whole new life with someone else? All I know is what I’m going to do once I’m safely away from the Vaughn compound. I will break the Vehrillion spell that sundered our telepathic bond and end the long silence between us.
Andrew, are you still out there somewhere? If you are, tomorrow you will get a call to adventure that could take us to a new world . . .
