Secrets of the Antiwave

PART 1 | Chapter 3: I'll Pay for the Pudding

Although the devices weren't built for it, they managed to detect the Change. Although the heat shields shouldn't have been capable of doing so, they endured the blast -- it seems we had every chance in the world to mess up, but we didn't. A million coincidences came together and the stars aligned in our favour, if only for a moment.

Sometimes life just seems like a congruence of impossible events that couldn't have happened any other way, making us question our understanding of the universe, our scientific scepticism of predetermined fate. You're probably wondering why I'm the one telling this story. I know I am.

Back in 2083, I was just a young boy who called himself a man. Fresh out of university and without a cent to my name, I wanted to become a journalist. Well, what I really wanted to do was to become a writer, a great writer, but first, it was imperative that I became a journalist for unfathomable reasons that once seemed perfectly clear.

I wasn't the only one with such aspirations, though. Positions in the local news were hard to come by, to say nothing of the planetary networks. Realising this, I set out on a journey to find the planet's next headline. No deed was too dangerous or wild if it meant scoring a valuable scoop, not even sneaking into a highly-guarded underground facility.

Surmounting the SMO's electrical fence unscathed -- I felt invincible. Evading security drones and crawling through air vents -- I became the living incarnation of stealth. Conversely, falling through the ceiling of a crowded cafeteria felt far less heroic. I landed in pudding, breaking the table in two.

All of the scientists were still seated, staring down at the intruder sprawled across their ruined meal. In the intense fluorescent light, their glinting spectacles reminded me of praying-mantis eyes.

'Who are you?' said one flatly.

'A journalist.' I replied.

The mantises considered this for a moment. They shuffled over to another table, one where they could still see me. I felt like I was trapped inside a Petri dish.

Brushing off the worst of the pudding, I was beginning to think they'd forgotten about me. I considered making a run for it, but occasional glances in my direction did away with all my wishful thinking.

A tall woman said, 'Be reasonable Cyrus, we need a voice. We need the public on our side.'

'Nonsense!' replied a bearded man, whose stained lab coat could barely contain his colossal waistline, 'they'll only get in our way!'

The tall woman with long hair was Elisa Rutherford, the fat man - Cyrus Winthrop. After much deliberation, Cyrus gestured for me to approach. I wasn't sure how a hand-wave could be condescending. As I would later discover, Winthrop was the master of all things condescending.

'Now look here, boy,' said Winthrop, 'How familiar are you with the proverbial nit and grit of alternative quantum thermodynamics?'

'Not very. To be honest, sir.'

His hand was hovering over the security button. 'Do you have any clue as to what we are doing here in the facility?'

'Something to do with an oven?' I produced a faint smile.

Winthrop's lowered his glasses, his charcoal eyes deconstructed me into a thousand insignificant pieces. 'Judging by your unkempt appearance and digital notepad, I take it you're an amateur  journalist. How much experience do you have?'

'This, erm, was supposed to be my first story.'

Winthrop chuckled with corrosive irony. 'Well, I think we've heard enough.'

He reached for the security alarm--Rutherford pushed his hand aside. 'He's perfect!' She said, 'The public will love him! Welcome aboard, mister...'

'Isaac. Isaac Wells.'

Rutherford and I shook hands; Dr Winthrop stared at me and left the room.

And so, empowered by Rutherford's zealous belief in my abilities, I forgot all about the planetary news networks and knew my work was here. I signed all the documents they gave me, registered my biochip, and promised to someday pay for the ruined pudding.

From there on out, I became the bridge between the SMO and the public. I conducted press conferences and gave interviews, wrote articles and managed social media, carefully controlling what the public did and didn't know.

I worked seven nights a week, twenty hours at a time, pumping out article after article of meticulously double-triple-checked material. I had to receive phone calls from every planet in the System at every hour of the night.

Whenever I went out, I had to force my way through suffocating swarms of envious cameras and shouting reporters. I drank coffee by the jugful, sometimes sleeping in the facility, sometimes on the floor of my apartment, never really sure where I was when I woke up. Former acquaintances were startled by my appearance. I suffered from eating disorders and sometimes heard voices in rooms that were silent.

Those were the very best years of my life.

I concluded that every scientist on the team was positively insane, each in their own frighteningly special way. The only voice of reason was Rutherford, the project's driving force. I rarely saw her, though. If I didn't have time to eat, it seemed that she didn't have time to breathe.

Winthrop's hatred towards me fizzled down into a mild contempt, Dr McGregor loved telling me his theories on applied quantum physics (of which I understood nothing), Dr Lopez composed disturbing violin pieces whenever he was stuck on a physics problem, and Dr Stevenson, although he outspokenly hated socialists, discussed his long-term plans to secretly become a socialist.