I hurdle the conveyor belt, splitting a gap between a horse and a bucket of rats, and dart toward the emergency exit.

When I open the door, the alarm sounds.

The gazes in the goo court turn toward me.

X slams into me.

“Hey!” X yells. “What’s going on, simul?”

I look around, paralyzed, wondering what to do next.

Yide is up ahead, dashing past Nighthawks.

“This way!” I yell.

I dart in and out of the neon tables of the goo court, past Nighthawks, and then find myself staring down a row of shops selling everything from jumpsuits to fleshysuits.

For a second I lose sight of Yide, and then I spot her again, running past a kiosk. Bunnfield and Claudette are slightly ahead of her, and X is just a few steps behind. That means I’m pulling up the rear.

Get going, I think. You’re gonna lose them.

I pass the kiosk and stumble into this guy with an offbrand vibe before turning a corner at the end of the corridor.

Up ahead is the security check for The Without.

I don’t know what we were thinking.

The security check is lined with middle managers, their blasters leveled at the five of us, who stand side by side, breathless.

My hand twitches toward my blaster, which hangs off my belt, but I know it would be suicide to open fire. We’re outnumbered fifty to five.

Apparently my colleagues have the same idea, because they too are just, like, standing there, doing nothing.

“Hands in the air!” A synth yells.

“Fuck it,” X says. “We’re dead either way. Might as well take out a few middle managers.”

I tend to agree, but something tells me to wait. I raise my hands in the air. “Look for an opening. Play it cool.”

“Vonn is right,” Yide says. “We’re surrounded.”

Another horde of middle managers is approaching us from the rear.

“I wish they’d just shoot,” X says. “Get it over with, you know.”

And then somebody does shoot, the sound of the blaster going pew pew pew, but there aren’t any pulses coming toward me, so I turn. The back line of Middle Managers turn as the sound of the pulses continue, increasing in frequency and volume. Somebody screams.

The alarm starts ringing.

A synth sounds over the overhead speaker.

“Attention shoppers,” the synth says. “There is an active shooter in the area. Please make your way to the closest store and bow your head in prayer.” And then the synth starts praying. “In the name of Efficiency…”

The pulses grow louder, the screaming amplifies.

A pulse intersects two Middle Managers and clips my ear.

I fall to the ground.

“There he is!” a middle manager yells. “Open fire!”

And that’s when the pulses really start flying.

“Run!” X yells. “Toward the elevator.”

I look up. My peripheral is full of Middle Managers, and since we’re all wearing gilets, I can’t tell who is who.

I stand.

Middle Managers are tumbling all around me. Everybody is shooting at everybody.

I jump over a fallen body, twist through a colloidal mass of gilets, and run through the scanner, which flashes red as I pass beneath it, an alarm ringing, the sound a frequency below the active shooter alarm, creating a dissonance that makes my head vibrate.

Pulses ricochet off the back wall. I dodge them one by one, ninja-like.

Although there are Middle Managers all around, I’m too scared to shoot, because I’m afraid that one of them might be a friend, so I take my chances, just a few yards away from the elevator now.

The door is closed.

I slam into it.

I jam the button.

The door kind of stutters, opening and closing in quick succession, and I jam the button again, and the same thing happens.

A blaster pulses heavily toward me.

“Stop!” Yide yells from within the elevator. “Stop pressing the button!”

I spin. A middle manager is a few feet away, his blaster pointed at my head. He pulls the trigger. I jerk my head reflexively, certain I’m about to die. The pulse blasts past my ear, hits the elevator door, and ricochets back toward the middle manager, hitting him squarely in the forehead.

“Hey!” Yide shouts.

She grabs my jumpsuit and jerks me into the elevator.

I turn my head.

The elevator groans. Through the gap in the door, all I see is a chaotic mass of pulses and middle managers.

“To the top!” X yells.

Bunnfield jams a button.

“Are we all here?” I ask.

“Yes,” Claudette says. “All five of us.”

I stand. Take off my visor. There’s blood everywhere. “Is somebody hurt?”

“Just you,” Yide says, touching my ear.

I bring my hand to my ear. “Oh right,” I say. “I got hit by a pulse. All good though.”

Yide squeezes my hand.

I smile.

“We’re close,” I say.

“Yeah,” Bunnfield says. “Close to the hornet’s nest. How the hell are we going to escape headquarters?”

“We’ll just have to blast our way through,” I say. “It’s worked so far.”

The elevator groans to a halt. The doors open.

“Hit the emergency stop button,” I say. “It will buy us some time.”

X presses the red button.

We step out of the elevator.

Headquarters is desolate.

No bots, no security guards.

I look around, confused.

It’s like the final showdown scene of a western. The streets are empty, the whole town is hiding. The only missing element is a scrum of tumbleweed blowing in the wind.

My boots crunch in the dirt.

“What the Inefficiency,” I say.

“It has to be a trap,” Bunnfield says.

“It’s definitely a trap,” I say. “But we can’t just stand here. So where do we go?”

“The only way out is past the mansion,” X says.

But before I can take a step in that direction, I feel an electronic grip around my body, a shock and a buzzing, and in my peripheral, I see Bunnfield press down on the trigger of his blaster.

“Shit,” he says. “We’re in a dead zone.”

“A deadzone?” I ask.

“An electric force field that shuts down everything inside.”

I step forward, and it’s like hitting a wall.

Something hisses. The air looks glitchy, a silver streak flashing.

I start pounding against the invisible wall, but it’s useless.

I click on my blaster. Nothing.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“You drop your blasters,” a familiar voice says.

I turn. It’s Vonn Senior, surrounded by security guards and middle managers.

“It’s the end of the line, Vonn 19,” he says. “You and your colleagues have put on quite the show, I’ll give you that. Your gaze ratings are through the roof. In that sense, your execution was the most successful of all time. Everybody is talking about it. But…” He raises his blaster. “I’m sorry to say that it’s time for you to die.”

“Don’t drop your blasters,” I say to my colleagues. “As long as we’re in the deadzone, we’re protected, they can’t shoot us.”

“You’re right,” Vonn Senior says. “I might not be able to shoot you, but then again, you can’t shoot me either. And what’s more, I can make the rest of your life miserable.”

A shock runs up my spine, rattling my bones. My skin is on fire. My ears ring with a high-pitched squeal that sets my teeth on edge. I cover my ears, but the awful sound only grows in volume. Finally, I’m released from the shock. I collapse, my whole body like goo. My colleagues tumble around me.

“Hold on to your blasters,” I gasp.

Vonn Senior snarls. “The shockwave you just felt was level one. It goes all the way up to level ten. Would you like to try two?”

“Bring it on,” I say. “We’re not giving up our blasters.”

And before anyone can protest, another shock, this one twice as bad as the first, the pain shooting through my mainframe, sending me into a seizure, my arms and legs flailing, my vision going all static and glitch, the air squealing like a pig at a slaughterhouse.

“We’re outnumbered,” she says. “I don’t see how we can make it past all these Middle Managers.”

“I’ve got an idea,” I say.

And I tell them my plan.

“It’s worth a shot,” Bunnfield says. “We have to do something. Otherwise we’re just sitting ducks.”

“Fine,” Yide says. “Yell on three.”

“One, two, three,” I say.

We all yell, saying stuff, like, “ugh, I’ve been hit,” and Yide kind of half tosses her gun into the corridor, leaving it within reach. We all hit the ground with a thud.

The shooting stops.

“Central,” a middle manager says, “what’s the gaze on Corridor 9?”

A static voice answers through a talker. “Down. I repeat. The vibekills are down.”

“I can see a blaster. Are there any other weapons?”

“Negative,” the voice says. “No other weapons. You are clear to proceed.”

Teflon hisses. Boots pound against plastic.

We wait for the middle managers to reach us.

I hear them breathing.

“They look hella spent,” one of them says.

“Check their pulses.”

A hand lands on my neck, which is when Claudette swings her leg around, scissor kicking the middle manager.

“Ugh,” he says, his knees buckling.

He releases his blaster. The gun hovers, floating. I roll from my side to my back. I gaze the gun falling. Reach out my hand. Feel the treaded handle slam into my palm. I tighten my grip.

Another middle manager hurdles toward me, but before he can unholster his gun, I blast his chest with two laser pulses. Zip, zap. He stumbles, gripping at his heart, and falls on top of the other middle manager.

And now the horde converges.

I pulse lasers into every gilet in sight, and meanwhile Yide reaches for her blaster, and X and Claudette and Bunnfield all take down a middle manager or two, bowling ball style, sending the entourage tumbling, creating even more mayhem and confusion.

X gets his hands on a blaster. Then Claudette. Then Bunnfield. And in a flash, we’re all armed, standing above a pile of middle managers. Some are dead. Others just injured.

I step over the entourage.

“Which way?” I ask.

Bunnfield puts on a middle manager’s visor.

“We’re in Corridor 9 of Pod 65,” he says. “It looks like there’s a goo factory this way, attached to a goo court. And then, past the goo court, the elevator...”

“I know that goo court,” I say. “It’s where Nighthawks is.”

“Is it crowded?” Bunnfield asks.

“Usually, yes.”

“That’s good. We could use some cover.”

“Speaking of,” Yide says. “Let’s put on these gilets.”

We zip up the gilets and head toward the goo factory.

A Trance advertisement plays on the screen.

After the advertisement, Icon 75 bangs his gavel.

I brace myself for the inevitable.

Icon 75’s synth floats sonorously over the hushed crowd.

“The Board has come to a decision. After weighing all the evidence against the defendant, we have decided that, for the sake of Efficiency, Vonn 19 must die. His execution will be livestreamed tomorrow night at seven, after the season finale of The Real Simuls of Pod 109. Thanks to our sponsor, Trance. Remember kids: don’t forget to take a chance, and have a dance, and take your Trance today.”

The Board dissipates.

The crowd cheers as I’m led out of the boardroom.

I’m tossed back inside the waiting room, where I fall into Yide’s arms.

Soon after, a security guard leads X into the boardroom, then Bunnfield, and then Claudette. I watch the hearings on the big screen. Unlike me, X and Bunnfield receive positive performance reviews from their supervisors, but the reviews make absolutely no difference, given that both of them openly admit to being accomplices in Operation Digital Disruption, so naturally The Board convicts them of vibekilling and sentences them to death by deathbeam. Claudette and Yide’s hearings are quicker, given that they’re both unemployed. They too are convicted of vibekilling and sentenced to death.

After that, we’re all asked to sign NDAs, which we do, naturally, because why not?

The next day we watch the hours tick by before a button pusher steps into the waiting room and tells us that it’s time. The crowd is waiting. The deathbeam is primed. The season finale of The Real Simuls of Pod 109 has ended.

I stand, my knees wobbly, and follow the buttonpusher into the arena.

My pale avatar is projected onto the megatron. A DJ spins “Hunt Without, Without the Hunter,” the bass pumping. I recognize the DJ but can’t random access his name. The crowd is cheering, their avatars viral dancing.

In the center of the arena are five silver tables. It’s all very efficient and professional, this execution. A button pusher grabs my elbow and leads me to the table, where I’m strapped down. All I can see is the bottom of the megatron. I’m glassed so that viewers can watch my gaze. A blaster, connected to two silver rods, buzzes into view. It hovers above me, the muzzle flashing orange. Yide takes a deep breath beside me. I want very badly to reach out and hold her hand, but my hands are quite literally tied.

“I love you,” I say.

She turns her head. “What’s that?”

“I love you,” I say. “You know, like The Withouters say.”

She smiles, her eyes sad. “I love you too, Vonn 19.”

“Hey, what about me?” X asks.

“Don’t worry, X. I love you too. Just in a different way.”

“Good,” X says. “You should. I’m about to die because of you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Yide says. “You did plenty to get yourself killed.”

X purses his lips. “I guess I am pretty awesome like that.”

I turn toward Bunnfield and Claudette. “It was nice knowing you two. Hope to see you on the other side.”

“Is there another side?” Bunnfield asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I haven’t thought much about death. Too distracted. Too much to do. Too much homework. Too many notifications. Too many posts to like and vids to gaze. Too many emails to unsubscribe from. Too many resumes to send. Too many accounts to optimize. Too many rungs of the corporate ladder to climb. Maybe, during my next life, I’ll give death more thought.”

“So you think there’s another life then?” Yide asks.

“We’re about to find out,” I say. “If there is another life, I’d like to live it decently, you know. Be a decent sort of fella. Be kind. Be generous. Be compassionate. You know what I mean?”

“No,” X says. “You’re talking rubbish. Me, if I live another life, I want to be rich, because money can solve all your problems. Like right now, if I had more money, I bet I could buy my way out of this mess.”

“X, you’re a piece of work,” Yide says. “Even in the face of death, you somehow find a way to sound like a douchebag.”

The laser gun lowers until the orange muzzle touches my forehead.

The DJ stops spinning, a hush falls over the crowd.

Mr. Vonn Senior’s synth rumbles through the speakers. “By the power invested in me by The Board of Vonn Industries, I now pronounce the five of you vibekills. May Efficiency have mercy on your resumes.”

A generator buzzes. Comments stream down the side of my ocular: can’t wait to see this vibekill get it straight to the dome…I had so many emails to catch up on because of this asshole…

A DM dings. I blink to open the message. All five of us are included in a group chat with Cosmo.

In ten seconds, run.

I blink twice, switching my gaze to the DJ. And that’s when I see it: the glitch over the arm, the exact place where I tore my jumpsuit.

The DJ is wearing my old jumpsuit…

The DJ is Cosmo…

I take a deep breath, staring down the muzzle.

“Get on with it already!” Mr. Vonn Senior yells. “What are you waiting on?”

Cosmo taps on his laptop. I hear my shackles disengage. The laser gun sucks up, then buzzes a few yards before turning to Mr. Vonn Senior’s box.

“What the fuck!” he yells.

The laser beams start flying, lighting up the arena.

“Run!” I yell.

The five of us rise from the tables.

“This way!” Bunnfield points toward an arched exit.

Laser beams are blasting every which way.

A middle manager runs toward us. A laser beam bounces off the ground and ricochets into his thigh. He falls to the ground.

Bunnfield grabs my arm. “Now!” he yells.

I look around for Yide. She’s running toward the middle manager.

“No!” I yell.

She kneels, takes the laser gun off his belt. Then she stands and runs toward me. “Come on,” she says. “What are you waiting for?” She points at the archway. Bunnfield, X, and Claudette are already halfway there.

I turn and run.

“Stop those vibekills!” Mr. Vonn Senior yells.

“Goo Me, Goo Me” starts blasting on the overhead speakers, sending a wave of viral dancing undulating through the crowd.

A laser beam zaps by my heel, caroms off the plastic siding of the arena, and curls back toward my head. I duck, trip, fall. I hear something behind me, a scurrying, and turn my head. The laserless middle manager is darting toward me. His boot is nearing my head.

Yide jerks my wrist, dragging me through the arch.

X hits a button, closing the panel.

“Let’s go,” Bunnfield says. “This way.”

“Which way?” I ask, getting to my feet, brushing off my jumpsuit.

“Toward the elevator,” Bunnfield says. “It’s the only way out.”

“How are we going to get through security?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Bunnfield says. “You got a better idea?”

“No,” I say. “But there has to be an easier way out. Isn’t there, like, an entry point somewhere?”

Bunnfield shakes his head. “They’ve all been compromised.”

Yide taps the side of her blaster. “We’ll blast our way through. No other way.”

“She’s right,” X says. “It’s a suicide mission, but we’re living on borrowed time anyway. We should have been dead ten minutes ago.”

“What about Cosmo?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t worry about Cosmo,” Bunnfield says. “I’m sure he has a plan.”

“Alright,” I say. “Which way is the elevator?”

“This way,” Bunnfield says, pointing down an empty corridor.

And that’s when I hear it, the pounding of boots against plastic, and I know, for certain, that a horde of middle managers is moving toward us, ready for a fight.

I hope they beam him straight to Inefficiency, one message says.

Inefficiency would be too good for this vibekill, another says. He deserves to be straightup cancelled.

Out of habit, I try to check my Beehive email, but I’ve lost access. In fact, I’ve lost access to everything – my feed profile, my personal email, my crypto wallet, my arcade. Everything. A total content ban. The worst punishment imaginable for a Withiner. I might as well be dead.

Icon 75 announces that the hearing is sponsored by a new pharma called Trance (side effects include death, suicidal thoughts, malaria, gangrene, swollen testicles, scurvy, and acne) and after an advertisement for Trance plays on the screen, Icon 75 sounds his synth again.

“Vonn 19,” he announces, “you stand tonight before your colleagues, charged with the most heinous of crimes. The accusations brought against you are of a capital nature, and the punishment, if found guilty, is that of death.”

The crowd gasps. I turn around. All the avatars bounce in their seats, like spectators at a sporting match, their sponsored banners waving above their heads, advertising discounts for everything from a new pharma called Odium to a sexSuit that glows in the dark. I feel sorry for my colleagues, but I don’t know why. Really I should feel sorry for myself. After all, I’m the one on trial. At the end of this, my colleagues will be free to return to their persyPods, whereas I will almost certainly be curled up on a hard, cold bench on Deathbeam Row, awaiting my imminent execution. Somehow, though, despite everything, I’d rather be me than them.

I turn back to Icon 75.

“In my thirty years serving on this board,” the CCO says, an advertisement for Derrick 9 blinking above his head, “I have yet to see crimes as heinous as the ones you’ve committed – or, shall I say, have been charged with committing – and I can personally say that I’ve been disgusted looking over the evidence brought against you.” Icon 75 gestures toward a beeping data processor. “I don’t mind saying that your supervisor, the venerable Zed, has his work cut out for him if he intends to defend your performance.” Zed shifts in his seat, swiping. “Regardless,” Icon 75 continues, “I do hope to see you exhibit a great deal of shame during this hearing, because otherwise you don’t stand a chance at winning over the sympathy of your colleagues. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod, my avatar projected onto the big screen behind the Chief Compliance Officer. I look unremarkable sitting there all alone, thin and pale, like a poorly-drawn stick figure, and I realize that my skin has been photoshopped, bled of color and shape, by the dNet admins.

“Alrighty then.” Icon 75 swipes. “I will now read the charges brought against you.” He clears his synth, scrolls, and crinkles his nose. “Vonn 19, your parent company, Vonn Industries, charges you with thirty-three counts of vibekilling, which, I don’t mind saying, is an astronomical amount. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” I say.

A collective gasp envelopes the court.

Icon 75 lowers his heartshaped glasses and leans forward. “Do you mean to suggest, Vonn 19, that you have been framed for these vibekills?”

“Not at all,” I say. “What I mean to suggest, sir, is that I don’t believe that what I did was wrong, and I don’t believe that I should die for it.”

A man in the crowd slings a slew of rotten tomato goo, hitting me directly in the back of the head. I crouch for cover. The courtroom bursts into a standing O. Even Icon 75 and Zed applaud the accuracy of the throw, and by the time the courtroom settles down, it’s time for another Trance advertisement.

It’s the same commercial as before, the typical montage of colleague laughter and coin gathering. And meanwhile, a pop star sings the jingle:

Trance will make you dance

will make you dance, oh yeah

So take a chance and have a dance

and take your Trance today

After the advert (terminal cancer has been added to the list of common side effects) Icon 75 announces that he’s changing the charges from thirty-three counts of vibekilling to thirty-three counts of vibekilling without remorse, which is a more serious charge, even if the punishment is the same.

I’m then told by the CCO to “stand up and sit down,” for I’ve remained crouched during the entire Trance advertisement, afraid that another rotten tomato might be chucked in my direction.

After I do as I’m told, the back of my head still covered in juicy rotten tomato goo, Icon 75 gestures toward Zed.

“Supervisor Zed, you may deliver your performance review of Vonn 19 at this time.”

Supervisor Zed moves to the middle of the court, thanks Icon 75, and then turns to face the crowd.

“Dear colleagues,” he says, “I’ve had the pleasure of serving as Vonn 19’s supervisor at Beehive Inc. for several months, and during that time, I’ve observed what I would consider to be a troubling pattern: he frequently fails to confirm receipt to his emails” – gasp from the crowd – “he is often late, sometimes by as much as a minute, to meetings” – another gasp – “he has a habit of missing his deadlines” – gasp – “and, perhaps worst of all, I’ve seen performance in his accounts drop over the last 7 days.” This last admonishment draws the largest gasp. “I know, I know,” Zed says, gesturing for the crowd to quiet down. “But that’s not the worst of it –” Zed lowers his head, as if to gather himself, and then raises his gaze to the crowd. “Last week, I asked him to complete a Performance Improvement Plan, and if it pleases The Board, I’d like to screenshare his PIP.”

“As you wish,” Icon 75 says.

Supervisor Zed flicks a wrist. My PIP appears on the screen behind The Board. Supervisor Zed reads the email word for word:

Dear Supervisor Zed,

My performance improvement plan is as follows: go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

Vonn 19

The gasp from the crowd is so loud this time that Icon 75 has to mute everybody’s synth.

“Order!” Icon 75 yells, even though, now that everyone is muted, there’s no sound other than his own synth. “Everybody needs to calm down!” He turns back to Zed. “Am I to understand, Supervisor Zed, that you are submitting a poor performance review for Vonn 19?”

Zed nods gravely. “Yes sir, very poor, in my opinion. I have already recommended to the Beehive brass that Vonn 19 be fired, effective immediately, without severance, and that, if asked by another company, we would not recommend his services, given his poor track record at Beehive Inc.”

This alone is a death sentence. It’s one thing to be laid off. It’s another to be fired. And it’s yet another to not get a recommendation. If it weren’t for the deathbeam, I’d die a slow and grueling death on The Outskirts.

Icon 75 swings his gaze toward me. “Vonn 19, do you have any rebuttal to this poor performance review?”

I stand. “No, sir,” I say. “All of it is true. I guess, if I’m being honest, I never cared about my work at Beehive Inc. It’s all bullshit, if you ask me.”

Icon 75 blinks slowly. “Well, I think we’ve heard enough from you, Vonn 19. Let’s move to the closing dance. As is custom, the defendant goes first.”

I move from behind the table, passing Supervisor Zed on the way, and stand in the center of the boardroom. Icon 75 unmutes the crowd. I wait for the music to drop.

It’s “Goo Me, Goo Me” by Juggo.

I spin this way and that, but it’s clear from the grey faces that the dance I chose – The Goo Roll – is not appealing to the masses. My precise execution of the dance nevertheless earns me a modest applause.

I return to my seat.

Next up, Supervisor Zed.

It’s a song I’ve never heard before. Something called “Hunt Without, Without The Hunter,” which sounds kind of like gibberish to me. The beat is nevertheless fire, and the autotune is on point. Supervisor Zed takes a step forward, throws his arms in the air, spins, and straightens his jacket. He then proceeds to flawlessly execute the machine gun, a viral dance that’s taken dNet by storm over the past couple days. The applause, after Zed finishes, is enormous.

I cross my legs and sigh. “Let’s unGlass,” I say. “I don’t feel like I’m talking to you. I feel like I’m talking to your audience, which is hella distracting.”

Ginger and Taco stare at each other, mouths agape.

Taco kind of snort-laughs. “Um, like, why would we do that, Vonn?”

“I just said why. I want to talk to you, not your audience..”

“Well, you heard it here first,” Ginger says. “After everything, Vonn 19 still advocates for unGlassing. What a vibekill. Oh, and don’t forget to smash that like button below if you want to see more content about the in-between three.”

“Why are you two here?” X asks.

“They’re here to get more likes, more followers,” Yide says. “What else?”

X folds his arms. “Is that really the only reason you’re here?”

His question is directed at Taco, but Ginger answers.

“Well,” she says, “I mean, like, it’s not just to get likes and follows.” She glances askance at Taco, who nudges her, like, it’s ok, go on, you can ask them. Ginger turns back, blushing. “We also, like, wanted to know, if, like, maybe we could have all your stuff? You know, like, after the deathbeam and everything?”

Yide laughs. “Are you serious? You came here to ask for our stuff?”

Ginger looks at Taco for affirmation. Taco nods.

Ginger says, “well, like, yeah. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to be using it. And, like, I’ve always loved your gooTube, Yide. You know the one? With the pink stand?”

“And I always loved your visor, Vonn,” Taco says, “because I know, like, you get hella discounts at the Vonn Store, given who your sponsor is.”

“This is unbelievable,” X says. “We’re literally, like, on trial for our lives, and you come and ask for our stuff?”

Taco shrugs. “Oh, come on, simul. You’re telling me you wouldn’t do the same? I mean, like, if I was going to the deathbeam, I’d give you my stuff.” He leans forward. “Come on, simul. We’ve been colleagues for years. I even made the effort of coming down here myself, from the malWard. It’s the first time I’ve left since getting shot. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

X leans forward. “Who says we’re going to the deathbeam? Our trial isn’t until tonight.”

Taco smirks. “Oh, come on, simul. Everyone knows you’re guilty. It’s obvious you’re going to the deathbeam.”

“That reminds me of a question one of our viewers had,” Ginger says. “Is the footage you put on the feed real or fake?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Well, like –”

But before Ginger can get beyond her discourse markers, Taco butts in:

“The going theory is that the footage of The Without was deep faked. Is that true?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not true. All the footage is real. People are dying in The Without. If you kill a Withouter in a game, you’re killing a Withouter in real life.”

“Can you prove it?” Ginger asks.

“The footage is the proof,” Yide says. “Didn’t you watch it?”

Ginger looks at Taco, as if confused by Yide’s question.

“Yes,” Taco says. “We all saw the footage, but how do we know it’s not deep faked?”

“Is Vonn Industries saying that the footage is deep faked?” I ask.

“Well, sort of,” Taco says. “They’ve said that the footage is real and fake. Their position changes by the hour. So what’s the truth? Is the footage real or fake?”

“It’s real,” I say. “Unequivocally.”

“Prove it,” Ginger says.

“We did. With the footage.”

“Do you have any further proof you can offer our viewers?”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” I say.

“You heard it here first,” Ginger says. “Vonn 19 saw the footage with his own eyes.”

“No,” I say. “Not the footage. I mean, like, I saw the derrick field.”

“You heard it here first,” Ginger says. “Vonn 19 didn’t see the footage with his own eyes. Instead he saw the derrick field.”

“No, I mean…” But I don’t finish, partially because I’m so hungry that I can’t think clearly and partially because I’m starting to doubt my own reality. I mean, like, did I see the footage with my own eyes? Or did I see the footage with someone else’s eyes? Is my whole life just one big hallucination?

Taco leans toward X. “So, like, how did Vonn radicalize you, bro?”

X glares. “Nobody radicalized anyone, simul. You can’t believe everything you see on the feed.”

“Exactly our point,” Ginger says. “How do we know the footage is real?”

“Go see for yourself,” X says.

“We already saw the footage,” Taco says. “I think we’re chatting in circles.”

“No,” X says. “I mean, like, go to The Without and see for yourself. Don’t take my word for it. Don’t take Vonn Industries’ word for it either. Go see with your own eyes and then decide.”

“Well, like…” Ginger’s mouth widens. “You know how hard it is to get security clearance for The Without. It’s practically impossible if you’re not, like, really high on the corporate ladder.”

“And doesn’t that give you pause?” Yide asks. “The fact that they make it so hard for you to leave The Within? Doesn’t that make you think they’re hiding something from you?”

“Of course,” Ginger says. “They’re hiding all the pain and suffering. But who wants that?”

“This is useless,” X says, standing up and ripping off his visor. He unbuttons his jumpsuit, stripping down to his longjohns. “It’s like talking to a bot. I’m out of here.”

He pounds on the sliding panel, and when it opens, he steps back into the cell, dissipating from sight.

The sliding panel closes.

Taco leans forward. “So, like, now that the vibekill is gone, can we talk about some of your software, Vonn? Like, you think maybe I could inherit all your dataBuys? Your skins and games and podProjections? Since we’re such good colleagues and all?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Yide says. “Vonn isn’t giving you shit. And neither am I.”

She storms out of the chat room, leaving me alone with Ginger and Taco.

“Good Efficiency,” Ginger says, “Yide is such a downer. And not in a good way.”

“So true,” Taco says. “So, like, how about it, Vonn? Is your mattress up for grabs? I’d offer you some coin, but what the hell would you do with it?”

“I’ll tell you what, Taco,” I say. “You can have all my worthless junk. My portable gooDispenser, my mattress, all my podWare, my skins, my synths, my arcade collection, my gooTube, my sexSuit, even my worthless wallet of crypto.”

“What about me?” Ginger asks. “I want some of that stuff too.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll put it in my digiWill that the two of you can split my stuff. How’s that?”

“You heard it here first!” Ginger screams.

“Don’t forget to like and subscribe,” Taco says.

“And follow us for more up to the second breaking news on the in-between three!” Ginger yelps.

I stand and walk toward the sliding panel, which opens. I step into the cell. Yide, X, Bunnfield, and Claudette are all kind of slumped over on the wraparound bench. I sit down and look back into the chat room.

Ginger, apparently unaware that I’m no longer across from her, asks me to list my Top Ten Favorite Pharma Hacks Of 2084. I unGlass. Ginger and Taco stare into their visors, awaiting my answer.

The sliding panel crashes down with a pneumatic sucking sound.

“Die vibekill!” The child yells.

“I missed my favorite muckbang!” Another shouts.

“The Withouter Hunter was my favorite livestream!” An old lady shrieks.

Goo keeps hitting the side of the paddy wagon, streaking down the glass. It’s torture, really, given how hungry I am, to see the goo so close, and yet so far away. An active shooter starts blasting into the crowd. The child who had called me a vibekill crashes to the ground, her face laser-seared. The pulses rip through the crowd for another minute or so, taking out a solid twenty Withiners, before the active shooter is vaporized by a security guard.

And meanwhile, the paddy wagon keeps moving, weaving in and out of the dead bodies, pushing leisurely past the massacre in a calm and focused manner.

We arrive at the holding cell a few minutes later. The front desk is now manned, according to the nameplate, by Switch 2. His robotic eyes blink disdainfully at my presence. Button pushers gather around, enjoying the spectacle. And meanwhile, the dreadful martyrdom runs its course. On a monitor in the paddy wagon, I fill out over fifty forms. Just like last time, I have to put my name, # of followers, today’s date, social links, birthdate, pod #, etc., at the top of every form, and then sign at the bottom. I answer questions about my favorite livestreams. I take a quiz that tells me which Disney Princess I am: Snow White. I watch an ad for halfMoon, then one for Derrick 9, then one for safeUp. I fill out a questionnaire about what medication I’ve taken in the past. I rate my experience so far: 1 star. I decline the free arcade tokens and pharmas.

And once I’m done with all that, the paddy wagon sidles up to the holding cell, a sliding panel opens, a ramp lowers, and I walk into the cell, where all my colleagues are sitting around, heads lowered.

Yide looks up, and when she sees me, her smile is the brightest, the most hopeful thing I’ve ever seen.

She runs into my arms, and the warmth of her saves me, if only for a moment, from the dread of what’s to come.

We kiss, sinking into each other, and I wish I could stay here, forever, in her embrace, but the moment is interrupted by my best colleague.

“Gross!” X yells. “Get a pod!”

I break away from Yide and walk over to X.

He stands. We hug.

“I missed you, man,” I say.

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“Feels like forever,” I say. “So, like, what happened with the security guards? How did they get you?”

X shrugs. “I ran into a lab, tried to misdirect them so you could get to the mainframe. And then, when they finally caught up to me, I told them that you were going up to the mansion, so that’s where they all went.”

I pat X on the shoulder. “You did good, man. You did real good.”

X forces a smile. “You did too.” He sits down on the bench.

I shake hands with Bunnfield and Claudette, happy to see that they’re still alive.

“So what’s the story?” Bunnfield asks. “Yide and X said that Vonn Senior wanted to talk to you. What did he say?”

I glance around the cell. It’s just the five of us. Of course, I’m sure it’s bugged, but it’s not like anything I say is going to matter one way or another. The deathbeam is a foregone conclusion.

“He gave me a job offer to be CEO of Vonnville,” I say.

Bunnfield pushes down his chin, folding over several layers of skin. “CEO of Vonnville? You mean, like, the moon colony? I don’t understand.”

I wave my hand and sit down on the plastic bench. “To be honest, I don’t understand either. He’s very unstable. I think his immunity protocol is making him irrational.”

“So what did you say?” Yide asks.

I look up, bending my neck at an odd angle to stretch out the muscles. “Well, I’m sure as hell not on the moon right now, am I?”

“No,” she says, “I guess not,” almost, like, disappointed.

I glance at Bunnfield. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

He shrugs. “Almost. They cornered me down by the entry point. Knew I was coming. I don’t know how.”

I look at Yide and X, who both refuse eye contact.

“You didn’t tell him?” I ask.

Yide shrugs. “I didn’t have the heart.”

“He’s going to be dead soon enough,” X says. “What’s the point in breaking his heart?”

“Tell me what?” Bunnfield asks.

Well, now I feel like a jerk. But there’s no point lying to him. He’s been lied to enough. We all have.

“Cosmo turned on us,” I say. “That’s how they knew where you were going.”

Bunnfield’s face turns pale. “No, that can’t be true.” His eyes dart desperately around the room, looking for another answer. “Cosmo would never do that to me. He loved me.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say. “It wasn’t personal, believe me. He found a bottle of Jaz in my jumpsuit and got hooked. He needed a fix. Believe me, he’s not himself right now. Jaz changes you at your core. It turns you into a different person, a shell of your former self.”

Bunnfield raises his chin, as if to balance some invisible object, all of his attention suddenly focused on the task.

“Wait a second,” Claudette says, stepping forward. “You mean to tell me that Cosmo gave us up? That can’t be. We were together until the very end, when he went down to the valley to pick you up. He was very excited, watching it all unfold. If he had given us up, they would have stopped us. So you see, it’s not true. It simply can’t be true. Nobody cared more about Operation Digital Disruption than Cosmo. Nobody, I say.” Claudette’s rapid speech slows to a sudden halt, like a train at the end of the tracks.

“I know it’s hard to stomach,” I say, “but it’s true. He was out of his head, reeling off withdrawals. He was desperate.”

“You’re wrong,” Claudette says. “If Cosmo had told them the plan, they would have stopped us sooner.”

“They didn’t stop us sooner,” I say, “because they wanted Digital Disruption to succeed, to throw into relief the pleasure center of dNet. They welcomed us as enemies, with open arms. They’re using us as a way to unite The Within against The Without. Operation Digital Disruption sustains the notion that Vonn Industries is protecting Withiners from some great monster that’s threatening to rip away all their comforts.”

“It’s not true,” Claudette says, her vocal cords cracking. “It’s a fucking lie.”

“No, Claudette,” Bunnfield says, his eyes regaining focus. “It is true. It all makes sense now. He grew very distant, very fast. I thought it was just the stress from the bombings. I thought his forgetfulness was from lack of sleep. But no, it was from Jaz. And this morning, before I left, he had this shifty gaze, this restlessness. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He said it was because he was scared I would die. But I see now that something deeper was going on. He was debating whether or not to betray us.” He lowers his chin, letting the invisible object drop. “Poor Cosmo. Claudette is right. Nobody cared more about Operation Digital Disruption than he did.” He sighs. “Not even Elijah.”

I decide not to tell Bunnfield – or anyone else for that matter – about the last I saw of Cosmo, the way he stumbled out into the wilderness, begging for water.

A red light starts beeping. The panel door opens.

A guard steps in. “Vonn 19, Yide 33, and X 4,” he says. “You all have a visitor. Two, actually.”

“Who is it?” I ask, but before I even finish the question, I know the answer.

Taco and Ginger are here.

“Wait a second,” I interrupt. “What about Yide and X and Bunnfield and Claudette? If I accept this job offer, I want all of them, including Cosmo, once he’s rehabbed, to be Upper Management of Vonnville.” I guess it’s my turn to spitball now, the data processing in my brain – some vague notion of all of us overthrowing Vonn Senior, waging war against Vonn Industries from the moon. We can work out the details as we go…

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Vonn Senior says. “These colleagues of yours are a bad influence. Very inefficient. Very unproductive. After all, you have done quite a great deal of damage. You killed a Top 100 Influencer, a couple guards, and hijacked dNet. There will need to be a scapegoat. And the fact is, your colleagues, aside from Taco and Ginger, are of no use to me. They will need to be deathbeamed – after a fair trial, of course – in order to give The Within the catharsis, the sense of justice they crave. As part of that process, you will need to testify against them. Again, my PR team will work out the details.”

“No,” I say. “There’s no deal unless my colleagues are saved too.”

A vein bulges on Vonn Senior’s neck. “I’m afraid, Vonn 19, that you are in no position to make demands. I have the power, not you. Even as CEO of Vonnville, you will be kept in check by a board of advisers who will make sure that your decisions serve the best interests of Vonn Industries.”

So there’s the truth, I think. That whole spiel about independent thinking: just a sales pitch. In reality, I would be a pawn.

“Forget it then,” I say. “The deal’s off. Unless my colleagues are with me, I’m not going anywhere. And I’m sure as hell not going to testify against anyone. It’s like a good colleague of mine once said, snitches get stitches.”

Vonn Senior strokes his chin, then balls up his fist. “I can’t believe I delayed my cryotherapy for this.” He walks over to Smitty, grabs the glock, points it at me. “I oughta shoot you right now, you ungrateful little bastard.” His teeth are clenched, his finger jittering on the trigger.

“And rob your followers of the satisfaction of watching me die beneath the deathbeam? Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. Vonn Senior, I thought a media mogul such as yourself would know better than to pass up on an opportunity for a viral gaze.”

The vein, at this point, looks as thick as a snake.

Still clutching the glock tight, Vonn Senior turns the gun toward Smitty.

I think he’s going to hand it to him.

And Smitty apparently thinks so too, because he reaches for the gun.

But before his hand reaches the barrel, the gun goes off, and Smitty slams into the wall of screens. His body crumbles, goes slacks, falls to the floor, blood pouring out of his chest, his neck whipped back, his eyes wide, his mouth agape.

The other security guard bursts in and surveys the scene, gun raised.

Vonn Senior turns toward him. “Clean up this mess, Smitty 2. And after that, bring Vonn 19 to the holding cell, and then have the ad baby lab run some tests on his genome. I don’t want Vonn 657 carrying whatever gene has made Vonn 19 so inefficient and unproductive.”

Vonn Senior lifts up his blazer and puts the glock in his belt loop.

“Virality aside,” he says, scowling at me, “I personally can’t wait to watch you die, Vonn 19. You’ve been a massive disappointment to me. Zero ROI. I hope you rot in inefficiency.”

He swaggers toward the door. Smitty 2 follows, saying something about needing to find some cleaning supplies. The door slams shut, leaving me alone with Smitty 1. I pick up the remote and turn on the screens, letting the images blanket me in a cold glow.

“I mean, like, look,” he’s saying, “it all started that night at The Underworld. Vonn 19 kept talking about unGlassing. And we were all, like, what? Huh? What are you talking about, simul? I mean, like, who says that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ginger says. “Oh my Efficiency, like, so true. And then, like, I guess he, like, brainwashed Yide and X or whatever. What a vibekill.”

“Hashtag vibekill,” Taco laughs. And then, his face curling down: “so, like, what do we think happens next, Ginger?”

Ginger sticks herself with an injector pin. “It’s a good question, Taco. I mean, like, Vonn 19 did kill The Withouter Hunter, and then, like, he and X and Yide all totally shut down dNet for, like, more than an hour. Plus, they killed some security guards. Honestly, it’s kind of hard to see the three of them escaping the deathbeam.” Ginger brings her hand to her chest and laughs.

“So crazy,” Taco says. “I never thought I would know someone who got sent to the deathbeam. And now, it turns out, I might know three!” He seems rather excited at the prospect.

“So totally crazy,” Ginger says. “Everyone has been, like, blowing up my DMs, dying for the deets. But don’t you worry, subscribers, my social media team is working very hard on our upcoming content schedule, so stay tuned all my lovely followers! And don’t forget to like and subscribe!”

“I can’t watch this,” I say. “Turn it off.”

Vonn Senior smiles. He mashes down a single button, shutting off all the screens. Then he sits down in a swivelling plastic chair, courtesy of Vonn Industries. He spins around, as if this massive screen collection wasn’t dizzying enough, and when the chair stops spinning, he leans back and crosses his legs.

“Lesson number one,” he says. “The vast majority of people don’t care about ideals.” He makes a face, as if he’s just swallowed a bug. “Hell, most people, they don’t even care about the truth. They only care about being entertained. Keep the people entertained, Vonn 19, and they will show you loyalty until the day they die.”

My stomach is hollow, and not just because I’m hungry, but because Operation Digital Disruption had no effect. Despite all the footage, all the damning evidence of violence and abuse and corruption, The Within is still bustling.

“When Cosmo came to us last night with his offer,” Vonn Senior says, “my first inclination was to stymie Operation Digital Disruption before it got off the ground, but then I asked myself the question: what if I didn’t stop Operation Digital Disruption? What if I effectively allowed you and your goons to inject dNet with mal? What would the result be?” Vonn Senior stands and starts pacing the home theater with his hands behind his back. “The answer was obvious: nobody would care. I mean, sure, there might be a small part of everyone’s brain that would temporarily feel guilty, but that guilt would quickly be subsumed by the need for distraction. People have a hard time believing they’re the bad guy, Vonn 19, so they make up all kinds of stories, come up with all kinds of reasons to justify their actions, to maintain their sense of comfort and normalcy. And, of course, that’s exactly what happened. You saw the headlines –” he waves his hands at the screens – “‘Derrick 9 Sales Explode In Wake of Revelation…Gamers Excited To Aid in the Fight Against Withouter Terrorism…Withiners Call For The Death of Vonn 19!’ Don’t you see? You did me a favor, Vonn 19. You gave me an enemy of the state, a cause to bring people together. The Withiners are rallying around their hatred of you. You took away their toys, and they’re fucking pissed, and they’re out for blood.”

Vonn Senior sits down, leans back, and puts his hands behind his head.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “If Withiners hate me so much, what are they going to think when you name me the CEO of Vonnville?”

Vonn Senior removes his hands from his head and starts tapping his fingers. “Oh, that’s easy. You see, Vonn 19, memory spans are short these days, and they’re also rather susceptible to illogical claims. There’s too much distraction, too much entertainment, too many dings and likes to give much thought to anything, which means, if you couple a claim with the promise of exciting things to come, people will follow you into hell. They’ve done it since time immemorial on planet earth, and you can bet your bottom coin that they’ll do it on the moon too. So what do you say? Would you rather be the CEO of Vonnville or die beneath the shameful glare of the deathbeam? If the former, I can get my PR team to start working on a press release. It’ll be rather simple. There’s evidence of you overdosing on Jaz. We’ll say that one of the side-effects is pure idiocy or something like that. You’ll issue a formal apology, and then we’ll start on the rebranding campaign, building up your brand reputation one entertaining post at a time. We’ll also hire a horde of brand ambassadors to sing your praises. We can start with those colleagues of yours, Taco and Ginger.” Vonn Senior tosses his head back, grinning. “Can you believe all these brilliant ideas I’m coming up with? Straight off the dome, truly. You’re going to enjoy being in my presence, Vonn 19, seeing how I work, how I think, and learning as you go. I mean, I absolutely love the idea of Taco and Ginger becoming your brand ambassadors. They can attest to your character before your awful Jaz addiction. It’ll be a comeback story. People love a comeback story. And then, once your brand integrity is intact, we’ll make the announcement, and you, my son, will be Vonn Junior, first CEO of Vonnville. How does that sound?”

It doesn’t sound terrible, if I’m being honest. I mean, going to the moon would be hella tight, whereas going to the deathbeam would be, like, the opposite of hella tight.

“What about my colleagues?” I ask. “Yide and Bunnfield and X and Claudette. Hell, even Cosmo. I mean, I think Cosmo deserves another chance. You just sent him out in the wilderness with a bunch of Jaz. That’s not going to turn out well for him. He needs to go to rehab. He needs to get off that junk.”

Vonn Senior waves his hand. “I gave Cosmo a lifetime supply of Jaz. Thousands of pills. He’ll be fine.”

“No,” I say. “He’ll die out there. You know what Jaz does to you, right?”

“Yeah,” Vonn Senior says. “It produces pure idiocy. Or maybe we should come up with, like, something more scientific sounding. Something Greek, maybe. I’ll get my marketing team on it. They’ll come up with something good. And then we’ll hire some doctors to conduct an independently peer reviewed study that concludes what we expected. Bam, boom, pow.” Vonn Senior inexplicably draws his glock and starts mock shooting the screens. “That’s how we do it, Vonn Junior. Just spitballing here. Just a couple spitballers in the home theater. I’m feeling it. The juices are flowing.” He spins the glock, which sputters out of his hand and goes off, sending a bullet blasting through a screen.

Smitty bursts into the room.

Vonn Senior spins around. “Are these screens not bulletproof!” he yells. “Why are you even still here Smitty? I swear, if you don’t make yourself redundant, like, yesterday, I’m going to fire your ass. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” Smitty says, walking across the home theater, toward the shards of glass. He picks up the glock.

“Clean it up!” Vonn Senior shouts. “Why do I even have to tell you this!”

I watch Smitty clean up the mess, wondering why he doesn’t turn around and shoot Vonn Senior with the glock.

“Every single one of my sponsors is on this wall,” Vonn Senior says. “Vonn 1 through Vonn 656, who was just advertised yesterday, after the unfortunate death of Vonn 354 in a highly random and unlikely mass shooting at High Times.”

Each pic is framed, and above each frame is a plaque with a number. In typical narcissistic fashion, my gaze floats to 19. Below the number is my profile pic. I wonder how many followers I’ve gained since I unGlassed. Probably thousands. Which is hella cool, I have to admit.

Some of the profile pics have an X over the face. 1, 5, 13, 24, 58, 69...And I guess, judging from the fact that 354 has an X over her face, that these Xs represent vaporized Vonns.

“The sponsor program is highly efficient,” Vonn Senior says. “In its infancy – no pun intended – it was conceived as a way to control population size. And then I had the brilliant idea to monetize the test tube babies. Auction off the names and DNA, I said, to generate revenue. It was a stroke of genius. It paid for the program and then some.” Vonn Senior glances at his watch. “Oh, time for another round of supplements.” He snaps a finger, and one of the security guards brings over a tray. Vonn Senior takes a bottle and a glass of water off the tray. The bottle says Six O’Clock Supplements. Vonn Senior starts swallowing the pills one by one. As he does so, he keeps talking:

“This was before I started researching immortality, of course, [swallow] and at the time, the thought of living on through my children really appealed to me. [swallow] Of course, I was a very busy man [swallow] overseeing the largest and most successful corporation in human history [swallow] and since I’d never known my own father, having lost him to the third world war [swallow] I didn’t think I’d make a very good parent. I therefore decided to remain hands off when it came to my sponsors. I fund my sponsors generously, of course [swallow] and make sure that they have all the best opportunities in the world, as you can surely attest to, but my involvement is strictly practical [swallow] When the program first launched, I purchased a very generous allotment of sponsors – three hundred in total – and we keep that number optimized by advertising a new one whenever an older sponsor dies, most often through random and entirely unexpected mass shootings.” Vonn Senior sighs. “I’ve lost a few to overdoses as well [swallow] and a handful to cancer and other diseases. It’s always hard, when you’ve invested so much money into these sponsors, to see them die young, but such is the life of a generous philanthropist [swallow].”

Vonn Senior finishes his last pill and tosses the plastic bottle on the ground. One of the security guards scurries over to pick it up.

“And the glass!” Vonn Senior shouts, holding up his empty water glass.

“Of course.” The security guard kind of cower bows before taking the glass from Vonn Senior. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vonn Senior.”

“Not very efficient,” Vonn Senior says, “making me tell you to take my glass. This process needs to be automated.”

“Yes sir,” the security guard says. “I will talk to the automation team about doing so.”

“Thank you,” Vonn Senior says. “Your job is to make yourself redundant, Smitty, so that I can fire you. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” Smitty says before cower walking back to his place by the door.

Vonn Senior whips back to me. “Did you notice how I thanked him, Vonn 19? Did you hear me say thank you? If I, the great Mr. Vonn Senior, can say thank you to one of my direct reports, then I’m sure it’s not too much to ask of you, Vonn 19, given all that I’ve done for you?”

So he hasn’t forgotten about his tirade against my ingratitude…Well, he’ll just have to keep waiting, because I’d rather eat my own shit than thank this simul…

“Not to worry,” Vonn Senior says. “I think you’ll be showing me gratitude soon enough, once I show you what I have in mind.” He looks across the room. “Smitty! The moon model! Now!”

Smitty runs over to the far wall and pushes over a table. Even in the dim aquarium light, I can see that it’s a layout of the moon’s surface with all these plastic dome replicas.

“Automation,” Vonn Senior grumbles, as Smitty steps away. “I need your job to be automated, like, yesterday.”

“I’m on it,” Smitty says, once again cower walking across the room.

Vonn Senior glare watches him cower walk. Then he turns back to the moon model.

“I’ve just returned from Vonnville,” he says, “and progress is running very efficiently. Within the year, I expect that we will be transporting our first civilian cruiser to the moon’s surface. And what I would like, Vonn 19, is for you to be CEO of Vonnville. How does that sound to you?”

He whips around, his dead eyes staring at me.

I’m so confused. Just an hour ago, I attempted to overthrow his entire operation, and now he wants me to be CEO of Vonnville?

“I know this is unexpected,” he says, “but I’ve given a lot of thought to the matter. In fact, for years, I’ve been toying with the idea of handpicking one of my children to be not just a numbered Vonn, which is an honor in and of itself, but to be Vonn Junior. My successor. My heir apparent. How does that sound to you, Vonn 19? Would you like to shed your number and become Vonn Junior?” His eyes light up, his smile broadens.

He strokes his chin, clears his throat, checks his watch. “Twenty more minutes,” he says, “before I need to go to the cryochamber. You know, I can see you’re still a little perplexed, Vonn 19, and I understand that. After all, I bet you’re wondering why I picked you to become CEO of Vonnville. It’s not as if I don’t have tons of sponsors to pick from.” His arms sweep across the framed NFTs. “Well, I’ll tell you why, Vonn 19. The one thing you’ve shown, which your brothers and sisters haven’t, is independent thinking. Now, independent thinking in a vacuum can be a dangerous thing indeed. But when independent thinking is done in a controlled-environment, well, that’s how innovation happens. It’s remarkable, what you pulled off out there, initiating the Kill Switch Protocol. Think what the two of us could do together. If we put your ingenuity to good use, we could build the best moon this world has ever seen.” Vonn Senior’s teeth chatter.

“Is Vonnville going to be glassed?” I ask.

“Naturally,” Vonn Senior says.

“So Vonnville is what? The Within 2.0?”

“Well,” Vonn Senior says, “I wouldn’t describe it as The Within 2.0.”

“How would you describe it?”

“It’s Vonnville,” Vonn Senior says. “Plain and simple. You should know, having worked at a content machine, that a new venture’s branding needs to be fresh and original. Nobody likes a copycat.”

I take a step back and look toward the security guards. “I see how it is. Now that The Within has been exposed, you want to rebrand. Is that it?”

“Well…” I can see that Vonn Senior’s patience is wearing thin. “Vonnville will be an extension of The Within. A new, exciting, fresh take on a familiar theme. That’s the key…”

“But how can that be,” I interrupt. “I mean, how can Vonnville be an extension of something that doesn’t exist?”

Vonn Senior’s eyes narrow, and I watch him compute what I just said. Then he bursts into laughter, nearly falling over the moon model. His laughter travels down to his belly, then comes back up to his throat before dissipating with a thrill hiss.

“Do you really believe that The Within doesn’t exist anymore?” he asks. “Do you think, Vonn 19, that your little stunt – what did you call it, Digital Disruption? – had any real effect on Withiners, aside from killing their vibe and pissing them off royally?” His eyes implore me, but I say nothing. “Oh, this is too good.” He snaps a finger. “Smitty! Push my cryo time thirty minutes. I need to show my son something.” He turns back to me. “Follow me, Vonn 19. It’s time for you to get a lesson in human behavior. The knowledge will be invaluable when you become CEO of Vonnville.”

He claps his hand. “Shall we get started?”

I want to spit in his face, but I have a feeling that it’s going to take more than saliva to solve my problem, so instead, I cross my legs and say nothing.

Somebody is shouting outside. Mr. Vonn Senior crooks his neck like a vulture, stands, walks to the tall glass window overlooking The Without.

“Poor wretch,” he says.

I stand so I can see better.

Cosmo is stumbling toward the exit, yelling at a guard to let go of him.

“All I want is a glass of water!” he yells. “Is that too much to ask? How am I supposed to swallow these pills without water? My mouth is dry as a desert!”

The guard presses on a panel of the laserproof dome and tosses Cosmo to the ground. “Go get your own water, simul.” He closes the panel and returns to the mansion.

In the distance, Cosmo works his way up a hill before dissipating into the valley. Moments later, the hovercraft surfaces and darts away, dissipating into dusk.

Vonn Senior turns. “Nasty stuff, Jaz.”

“You oughta know,” I say. “You invented it.”

Vonn Senior’s mouth makes the shape of an O. “Me? No, I didn’t invent Jaz.”

“Yes, you did,” I say. “Jaz was created by Younder, which is a Vonn Industries subsidiary. Ergo, as CEO of Vonn Industries, you are responsible for Jaz.”

Vonn Senior smirks. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Vonn 19. You see, all I do is enable efficient innovation. I can’t be held responsible for everything that the free market produces. And hell, even if I were responsible, well, that’s just the price of progress. You’ve gotta crack a few goo eggs to make a goo omelet. Am I right?”

“No,” I say. “You’re not.”

Vonn Senior shrugs. “Well, I’m afraid it’s not for you to decide. And, in fact, we’re off topic. I brought you here…”

“Where are my people?” I ask. “Yide, X, Claudette, Bunnfield, Elijah? And what the hell are you doing with them?”

Vonn Senior strokes his chin, then takes something off a long concrete table before moving over to the aquarium. “As for Elijah, my understanding is that he died during the Withouter Hunter attack, but maybe Cosmo lied to me about that?” He swings an eye toward me, smirking.

Well, at least Cosmo had the decency to cover for Elijah…

“No, Cosmo didn’t lie,” I say. “I forgot. I think I’m still suffering from the after effects of Jaz.”

Vonn Senior makes a tsk tsk sound. “Don’t worry, Vonn 19, I’m not going after Elijah Mitchell. He can be a pain in the butt, what with all the monkeywrenching and all, but I’ve found a way to repurpose his shenanigans to my benefit. In fact, Elijah Mitchell is worth more to me alive than dead. As long as he’s out there, spouting out his righteous pacifism, brainwashing the masses into non-violent disobedience, he’s helping Vonn Industries remain productive and efficient.”

Sounds like Bunnfield. Does that mean Bunnfield is on his side? My paranoia is running rampant.

“Fine,” I say. “Then what about the rest of them? What are you doing with my colleagues?”

Vonn Senior turns his head, as if he’s about to say something else, but instead of saying something, he sprinkles what looks like dust into the aquarium. Fish dart toward the floating speckles.

“I’m afraid we’ve started off on the wrong foot, Vonn 19. In fact, I’m sensing a little ingratitude from you. You haven’t thanked me once since you walked into my office. It’s very disrespectful, given everything I’ve done for you, to waltz into my office without a single word of gratitude.”

“First of all,” I say, “I didn’t waltz into your office. I was handcuffed and forced into your office against my will.”

Vonn Senior swings toward me, holds up a finger. “Just say thank you, Vonn 19, and then we can move on.”

“Thank you for what?”

“You were the one who entered headquarters, uninvited, so don’t talk to me about being forced here against your will. In fact, I could have easily had you killed. My advisors were begging me to kill you. But you see” – he makes an odd gesture with his hands, as if he’s never used them before – “I am a man who is willing to make a deal. And that’s why I brought you here. To make a deal. But you haven’t once said thank you, have you? In fact, you’ve never once thanked me for giving you life. I checked the files. Many of your brothers and sisters – Vonn 76, for instance, and Vonn 54 – write me regularly, thanking me for the wonderful life I’ve given them. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here. I was the one who invested in the technology that brought about sponsored births. I was the one who made sure you were raised in the best incubator, attended the best prep, and got a good job at a top-level content machine. Not to mention that I–” he pounds his chest like an ape – “created The Within. If it weren’t for me –” he thrusts his hand toward The Without – “you’d be living out there, in the elements, subject to all kinds of deprivations. So just say thank you, Vonn 19, and then we can get down to business.”

He crosses the room, places the jar of fish food on the concrete table, and then looks at his watch before walking over to a stand of pill bottles. He starts unscrewing the tops and placing pill after pill on the stand.

“I’m on a strict regime,” he says. “It’s important to stick to a schedule. Right now” – he checks his watch again – “it’s time for my nightly supplements. Sixty-five pills in total.”

He starts swallowing one pill after another. Silence overtakes the room. Apparently, he’s either waiting for me to thank him, or he’s forgotten that he asked. Either way, I’m sure as hell not thanking him for a damn thing. In fact, if it weren’t for two security guards by the door, I’d choke him with my handcuffs and enjoy every second.

I walk over to the aquarium. The fish food is gone. The school has dispersed. A baby fish swims through what appears to be a streak of oil.

“Beautiful,” Vonn Senior says. “Aren’t they?” He’s by my side, apparently having swallowed all sixty-five pills. “They’re called killifish.”

“Killifish?”

“That’s right. Kill, from the dutch word for small stream. They’re a special species of fish, very resilient. Their genetics have mutated to be able to withstand extreme levels of toxicity. Over the past decades, so many species have died from all the pollution, but not the killifish. No, the killifish have adapted, found a way to thrive. That’s why I have this aquarium in my office. The killifish is my spirit animal. Like them, I have found a way to thrive in a world of toxins. Sure, when the world went to shit, I could have just thrown my hands in the air and given up. Plenty of people did back then. All the nukes going off. The flooding. Extreme weather events. It was understandable, you know, the people who threw in the towel. But that’s not what the strong do, Vonn 19. No, no, no. The strong find a way to thrive. They adapt. They innovate. When I started Vonn Industries, it was just a humble plastic factory with a single, modest government contract to produce 3D guns. I was twenty-five years old. Fresh out of business school. With just a three-million dollar loan from my father. And look where I am now? I not only created an entire subterranean world to guard against the harsh elements of The Without, but in addition to a million other innovations, I have pioneered space travel. In fact, I am just now returning from an expedition to the moon, which brings me to the reason I brought you here, Vonn 19, the reason I decided not to shoot you the second you stepped inside headquarters.” Vonn Senior cracks his neck. “But first, I want to show you something. Follow me.”

He gestures toward a wall across the room. I follow him, not sure what else to do. At this point, I’m just trying to stall for time, certain that the uprising in The Without must be gaining momentum. Now that The Withiners know the truth, it won’t be long before they find a way to put Vonn Senior’s head on a platter…

“Have a seat,” Mr. Vonn Senior says, gesturing toward a concrete chair.

Cad Man shoves me down in the chair.

Vonn Senior smiles. “Cosmo,” he says, “you can put the girl with the others. For now, I’d like to have a conversation with my son.”

“Where’s my end?” Cosmo asks.

Vonn Senior’s head jerks, as if he’s just been slapped. “I’m sorry?”

“My end,” Cosmo says. “We had a deal. I did what you asked. Now I want my end.”

Vonn Senior wipes his face again. “In fact, Cosmo, you haven’t done what I asked, have you? Because I asked you to put the girl with the others.”

Cosmo grinds his jaw. “And then?”

“And then what?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Cosmo says. “This is already humiliating enough.”

His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot. He looks like I did when…

Vonn Senior turns to Cad Man. “You take the girl,” he says. “And then, once she’s in the cell with the others, get Cosmo his drugs.” He waves a dismissive hand. “And then, send him on his way, please. He’s of no further use to us.”

“With pleasure,” Cad Man says, grabbing Yide by the arm. “On the double, you two. I’m due for a glassing. This shit in The Without is…boring.”

The trio walk out the door, Cosmo taking up the rear, scratching at his neck.

And that’s when everything clicks: Cosmo found the bottle of Jaz in my jumpsuit and took the drugs. And then he made a deal with the devil to get more. I do the math in my head. If he’s raw dogging, which his pasty skin and bloodshot eyes suggest he is, that means that he’d taken that entire bottle, fifty pills in all, in three or four days. Sounds about right. Almost my exact timeline. And I was out of my head by the end.

I turn my gaze toward Vonn Senior, who’s over by some beeping mechanism. He’s holding a syringe, approaching me. I raise my hands.

“No!” I scream. “I don’t want it!”

Vonn Senior smiles.

At the top, I turn around and survey headquarters. The laser-proof dome is still lowered. The bots are still motionless. A cloud of security guards scamper around a warehouse, running in the opposite direction of the mansion. I can’t see the center from here, so I have no idea if the guards who chased us returned to the elevator or not. My eyes search for any signs of X, but he’s nowhere to be found. That’s a good thing, I think. It means he might be at the rendezvous.

We run past the stairs leading into the mansion, turn a corner, and find ourselves on the edge of headquarters, at the lip of the laserproof dome. I take a deep breath and step over the protrusion.

The rendezvous is less than one hundred yards away, in a small valley full of tall boulders.

“It’s a great spot to hide a hovercraft,” Cosmo said. “Behind the boulders.”

As we approach the valley, my stomach turns. This is too easy. I was expecting a shootout. But as it stands, we’ve been able to waltz out of headquarters with no resistance whatsoever. I glance back. No sign of security. Headquarters is still killswitched. I shrug off my apprehension. After all, I’m due for a little good luck after all the shit that’s happened the past week.

I grab Yide’s hand and walk with her down the slope of the valley.

My other hand rests on my blaster.

The slope levels out, the ground turning to sand.

We approach the boulders.

The backside of the hovercraft juts out of a rock, the red metal fin gleaming in the sunlight.

Our sandals crunch in the sand.

We round the boulder, and that’s when I see it: the hovercraft is unmanned.

Where is Cosmo? Where is X?

I glance around. Nobody in sight.

I let go of Yide’s hand.

“This isn’t right,” I say. “Something is off.”

The barrel of a blaster jams itself between my shoulder blades.

“End of the line,” a voice says.

I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it.

“Drop the gun or the girl gets it.”

I do as I’m told, the gun hitting the sand with an anticlimactic fizzle.

“Alright, now hands up,” the voice says.

Again, I do as I’m told, my eyes locked on the hovercraft, so close and yet so far away. Where is Cosmo?

I turn.

The first thing I see is the blaster. My eyes follow the barrel up to the scope.

Cad Man takes a step back. “Cuff ‘em,” he says, “and then take them to the mansion. Senior would like a word.”

Cosmo steps out of the glare of the sun. His expression is hangdog. He won’t even make eye contact with me.

“Are you fucking serious,” I say.

Cosmo clamps on the handcuffs. “I’m sorry, Vonn. I really am. It’s nothing personal, believe me.”

The handcuffs click into place.

I look at Yide, who’s already been cuffed. She’s standing there, doused in sunlight, motionless, almost like she’s braindead or something.

Something buzzes overhead.

I see a UFO surface over the horizon and hover above headquarters before descending.

“The eagle has landed,” Cad Man says with a grin.

The dome groans out of the ground and consumes headquarters like a whale biting down on a boat.

“You handle the girl,” Cad Man says to Cosmo, “and I’ll get the guy.” He grabs my arm and shoves me forward.

Sunlight batters the glass surface of the laserproof dome like so many useless bullets.

It’s only a matter of time, I think, before The Withiners storm headquarters. If I can just survive the next few hours…

My mind keeps drifting to useless shit. The amount of unread emails in my inbox. The fact that I probably don’t have a job anymore because I told my supervisor to go fuck himself. My empty wallet…

Which reminds me…

“You owe me money,” I say to Cad Man.

Cad Man grunts. “I don’t owe you shit, simul.”

“A thousand coins,” I say. “That’s how much you owe me. Because that’s how much I invested in your stupid little ponzi scheme.”

Cad Man laughs. “I don’t think you’re going to have much use for coins where you’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“The deathbeam,” Cad Man says.

We walk in silence for another hundred yards or so.

“And what about you,” I say to Cosmo. “What’s your story, you traitor fuck? Has this been your plan along?”

Cosmo keeps his eyes to the ground, as if something down there is controlling him.

I kick a rock at him. It bounces off his leg. He turns, looks at my feet.

“I told you, Vonn, it’s not personal.”

“And what about Claudette?” I ask. “I take it she’s part of your scheme too? What is your scheme, by the way?”

“This has nothing to do with Claudette,” Cosmo says.

“Which one is Claudette?” Cad Man asks. “The sniper?”

Nobody answers.

We reach the mansion. A spiral staircase juts out of a concrete slab, twisting its way to the top of a narrow backdeck. The sun is setting, casting long, sharp bars of shadow across the flat, angular surfaces. Two security guards appear behind a tall, sliding glass door. They open the door and stand aside.

“Mr. Vonn Senior is in his office,” one of the guards says.

Cad Man nods. “This way,” he says to Cosmo, pointing him in the direction of a sloping hallway with marble flooring.

A motor whirrs, the rushing sound growing louder as we slant down the hallway. Yide has still yet to say a word since we were captured. I want to reach out and touch her, to tell her everything is alright, even if I don’t believe it. I think about X and Claudette. Were they in on the scheme? Then my mind turns to an even more disturbing question: is Yide a traitor too?

We come to a tall oak door.

Cad Man pushes it open.

We step inside a room of smooth surfaces. Marble, glass, steel. Water shadows dance across the floor. The whirring noise is coming from the corner. A silhouetted figure is running in place. A beep sounds. The figure stops and turns. Cad Man shoves me forward. The figure steps off what I now see to be a treadmill. It’s Mr. Vonn Senior. He wipes his face with a towel and takes a step forward. He holds out his arms.

“My son,” he says. “We meet at last.”

“Well,” I say. “It’s working. Should we get out of here?”

“Yes,” she says. “Let’s go.”

We leave the tank plugged into the blue server and exit through the kicked down door.

The complex is still eerily quiet.

“We need to find X,” I say, “before we meet Cosmo at the rendezvous.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Vonn.”

I swing around. “You can’t actually mean that?”

Yide throws up her arms, exasperated. “I mean, what are the odds he actually escaped the guards?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but we can’t just leave him.” I start walking back toward the elevator.

Yide grabs my arm. “Vonn, stop. I know that X is, like, your best colleague, but if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want X to save himself?”

I put my hands in the labcoat. “It doesn’t matter what I would want. I’m not leaving behind my best colleague.” I try to escape Yide’s grasp, but her grip is strong, and I end up just kind of dragging us forward a couple feet.

“Listen,” Yide pleads. “In all likelihood X is at the rendezvous point waiting for us. He knew that we didn’t need him to install the device, so it makes sense that he would run in a different direction from the mainframe, and then, once he lost the guards, doubleback to the rendezvous.”

“I’m not sure,” I say, but I can feel my defenses crumbling. Unable to hide anything from Yide, I say, “I see what you’re doing, you know.” And then I add: “And it’s kind of working.”

Silence hangs between us for a long second.

“You have to admit,” Yide says, “there’s at least a fifty-fifty shot he’s at the rendezvous, so why not commit to the scenario with the most upside?”

I stare into her beautiful brown eyes, losing myself in their luster.

“Or we could split the difference,” I say. “You go to the rendezvous, I go looking for X. And if I don’t find him, I’ll meet you two at the rendezvous.”

“That literally makes no sense,” Yide says. “You’re complicating things. We don’t have much time. If you run off looking for X, and X is actually at the rendezvous, then you’re putting all of our lives in danger, because now we all have to wait for you. Don’t you see that the cleanest solution is to go to the rendezvous point and hope for the best?”

Of course, I know she’s right, and the thought of her dying because of my stupidity is too much for me to stomach, so, in the end, I fold beneath the weight of her common sense.

We curve around the mainframe, heading toward the northside of headquarters, up by the mansion, where Cosmo said he’d be waiting for us in his hella rad hovercraft.

“It’s kind of like a pastel blue,” Elijah said. “You’ll see it. Toward the back. Can’t miss it. It’s the only one painted blue.”

“Over here,” Yide says.

Sure enough, stuck between two non-descript servers on the back wall, is a server covered in blue paint.

I take off The Tank, unwind the cord, and plug it into an outlet on the back of the blue server.

Nothing happens. No blinking lights. No whirring fans. I stand, check the power switch. It’s in the on position.

I look at Yide. “Fuck,” I say. “It’s not working.”

She strokes her chin. “Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?”

“Wasn’t it unplugged to begin with?”

“Just try it,” she says.

I shrug. Unplug the cord. Then plug it back in. Still nothing.

I flip the switch on and off. Still nothing.

I look down at the pack.

“Is there, like, a power button or something on this?”

I examine the big black box. No buttons. Just a cord running out the back like a snake.

“Cosmo tested it. He said it was fine. I think either he or Orson would have told me if there was some special trick.”

Yide runs her hand down the side of the server, as if trying to coax it into compliance.

I look down at the pack, gutted. After everything – the escape from The Within, the battle with The Withouter Hunter, the daring trek up to Orson’s Cabin, the showdown with Mama Bear, the confrontation with the guards, the confrontation with the other guards – and this is how we fail. A technological malfunction. I am absolutely livid.

“It must have gotten hit by a laser or something,” I say.

My fists clinch. Tears well in my eyes.

“After everything we went through!” I kick the generator. “Bunnfield is dead! X is dead!” Another kick. “And soon, we’re going to be dead, and for what?!?!!?” I kick the shit out of the generator several more times before collapsing into the fetal position, rolling into a ball of despair, sobbing uncontrollably.

And I’m down there for I don’t know how long, just totally wailing, before Yide gets my attention by shaking my shoulder and yelling my name.

Her face surfaces through the blur of my tears. She’s smiling, Efficiency knows why.

“Vonn,” she says. “Stop crying.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I can’t, it’s just too tragic.”

“It’s not,” she says. “It’s really not.”

Her eyes dance with joy.

“Yide, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but objectively, how is this not, like, the worst thing ever? We got this far just to have this damn generator break down.”

“But it’s not,” she says.

“It is,” I say. “It’s absolutely…tragic.”

“No, I mean, look.” She points, and I follow her finger upward.

At first, I can’t believe my eyes.

I stand. Take a step back.

Pixel by pixel, the image of the blue server comes into focus as my tears dissipate.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Lights are blinking on the front of the console.

“But…how?” I ask.

“It was your last kick,” Yide says, “before you fell to the ground. Your last kick fixed it, I guess, because I heard it boot up, and then the server turned on.”

My eyes widen. “Which means that dNet is back up.”

“Exactly,” Yide says.

I reach inside my pocket, step toward the server, and find the slot.

I stick the device inside.

The server groans, the blinking lights turn from red to yellow and then back again to red.

“I think that means it’s working,” I say.

“How can we know for sure?”

“Cosmo said there would probably be a feed helmet somewhere.”

I look around, then see a tableful in the corner. I grab two, hand one to Yide, and then strap on mine.

I haven’t glassed for several days. Probably the longest time I’ve ever gone unGlassed. Even babies are glassed for most of their infancy.

A jolt of light overtakes me as dNet boots up, and I’m brought to the universal feed, where I’m greeted by a vid of myself, and I’m amazed that it’s working, that the entire Within is watching what I’m watching.

I glance at the comments rushing down the sidebar. I see the word vibekill several times. My stomach drops.

“It’s not working,” I say.

“You don’t know that,” Yide says, but her voice isn’t convincing. I know she sees what I’m seeing.

“Just give it time,” she says. “The video just started.”

I watch myself talking, explaining what happened when I killed The Withouter Hunter, absolving any of the other Withouters from guilt, taking full responsibility for the murder. Then I tell the audience what they’re about to see: footage that shows what’s really going on in The Within and The Without. I tell them that the footage will likely be disturbing. That, in fact, it should be disturbing, and that’s ok. I explain that the algo has been spliced in such a way as to show the footage that’s most relevant to each individual, which means that most of the audience will see footage of themselves. I encourage them to keep an open mind.

And then the real show begins.

I turn left, Yide turns right, and X keeps running straight.

I skirt around a warehouse. A door opens. It’s a man in a lab coat. I point my blaster at him.

“Don’t shoot,” he says.

“Give me the coat and I won’t.”

He looks down, as if just now realizing he’s wearing a coat.

I step forward, jab the gun at him. “Give me the coat,” I say, “or I shoot.”

“Fine, fine.” He throws me the coat, which I slip over my security guard uniform.

“Alright,” I say, jabbing the gun in the direction of the door he just exited. “Go back inside, and stay put. Understand?”

“Yes,” he says, eyes wide. “I understand.”

“Good, go.”

I wait for him to slip back inside, and then I run past another couple of warehouses before reaching the mainframe building. Yide is already there, rattling the doorknob. She takes a step back and kicks on the steel door. She hears me approach, turns, her gun aimed at me.

“It’s me!” I yell, raising my hands in the air.

She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, right, sorry. Where’s X?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping he’d already be here. I had a run in” – I point at my lab coat – “with a scientist.”

The word scientist feels rusty on my tongue.

“I can see that,” Yide says. “Well, what should we do? This door is locked.” She points at the keycard swipe. “I thought the locking mechanism was supposed to shut down with the kill switch.”

“There must be some kind of manual lock as well,” I say. “Here, step back.” I wave Yide out of the way with my gun. I shoot the knob. Once, twice, three times. Then kick the door. Once, twice, three times. And then, finally, on the fourth kick, it groans open.

I look back. No guards.

“We should go look for X,” I say.

Yide shakes her head emphatically. “We’re here, we need to finish the job.”

I turn to Yide, stare into her pleading eyes, and then look back at the rows and rows of warehouses, and listen to the inexplicable quiet.

“Alright,” I say. “You’re right. It’s time to disrupt some shit.”

And I step inside the warehouse.

I keep expecting something awful to happen.

Footfalls shuffle, the gravelly sound echoing off the surrounding warehouses. Every once in a while we catch a glimpse of a guard, but our uniforms keep us hidden in plain sight as we dart around the stationary bots. Somebody shouts in the distance. It’s hard to make out the words. Another shout answers. Then all is quiet again, the air eerily bereft of electronic beeps and pneumatic hisses. We step over the train tracks.

Another shout.

I glance up at the mansion. No movement in sight.

We cross through the center of the complex. I glance down the elevator shaft. A trail of wires dissipates into darkness. I can only imagine what’s going on below, the panic and chaos. dNet down. No feed. No pharmas. No goo. It must be utter mayhem. And then I think about Bunnfield, and my stomach drops. Did he make it to the entry point that Elijah and I had dug? It was always a possibility that he wouldn’t make it, that he’d be shot dead after killing Switch, but it was a risk he was willing to take, he said. The last scenes on the monitor rush through my mind – the rapid montage of wall, floor, ceiling, as if he was falling down, the pew pew pew of the laser pulses, the yelling and screaming, all those button pusher running around, panicked – I can’t shake the sense that he didn’t make it, and the thought paralyzes me as I stare down the empty elevator shaft. We’ve made a huge mistake, I think. A massive mistake.

Yide grabs my arm. “Vonn, what the fuck are you doing? Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

Her voice knocks me out of my trance.

I wipe my eyes. “Right,” I say. “Sorry.” I look around. The complex looks just like Elijah described it, which means that the mainframe is about a hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the complex as the launch pad, which, at the moment, is nothing more than a circular concrete slab with some wire framework.

“It’s this way,” I say, pointing toward a row of warehouses.

“Obviously,” Yide says, looking back.

She and X are already several steps ahead of me, walking in that direction.

Guards run around one of the warehouses, barrelling toward us.

X raises his gun.

I rush toward him and put my hand on the weapon.

“Not yet,” I say.

Several guards run past us, then the one pulling up the rear stops. He’s the only one wearing a hat.

“All hands at the elevator,” he says. “We’ve already secured the perimeter. Next step is to spelunk down to The Within. Go, go, go.” He’s pointing frantically over our shoulders.

“We were told to guard the mainframe,” I say. “So that’s where we’re heading.”

The guard raises an eyebrow. “Who told you to guard the mainframe? Wait…what’s that on your back?” He steps forward and glances at the name badge on my uniform. “You’re not Nebulus 99.” He glances at Yide’s name badge. “And you’re not Younder 47.” He reaches for his blaster, but before he can get his finger on the trigger, Yide fires off a shot, sending him spinning to the ground.

“Hey!” One of the guards at the elevator points in our direction. “It’s the Inbetweeners!”

I look at Yide, whose face is drained of all color, and then at X, who’s staring wide-eyed at the approaching horde of guards.

“Run!” I yell.

And we dart toward the mainframe, laser beams ricocheting off the steel warehouse siding, the click clack of combat boots pounding on the concrete, the fear and the panic coursing through every inch of me as I unholster my blaster, point it behind me, and return fire.

And the clock still keeps ticking.

Cosmo is yelling in my earbud. “Vonn, what’s all the ruckus? The molly guard is down. I repeat, the dead man’s switch has been pulled. What are you seeing? Over.”

I glance down at the monitor. Bunnfield’s gaze is all jostled and grainy. A few laser beams dart through the static. His body cam shows a flash of wall, a floor, a ceiling. Yells erupt through the speakers. Button pushers run every which way. Another series of laser pulses hiss out of the monitor.

“What’s that?” the guard asks, bending down at my feet, and just then, the dome collapses, the bots stop in their tracks, the train halts its progress.

“Huh?” The guard grunts, turning his head toward headquarters.

I kick his chin. His neck cracks. He drops the handcuffs on the ground.

I reach for his taser.

Pew, pew, pew.

“Ahh!!!!”

An electrical burn sears my thigh, and I fall down, clutching at my leg. Blood coats the fabric of my robe.

Yide plows into the guard who took our guns, and the two fall over X, stirring him back to consciousness. Blasters clutter the ground. I reach for one, turn off the safety, and start firing at the three other guards, hitting two of them. The third returns fire, but before he can land a shot, X barrels into his knees, sending them both to the ground.

Now Yide is wrestling with one guard, and X is wrestling with the other, and I’m just kind of sitting there, watching, too nervous to take a shot at either of the guards because I’m just as likely to hit my colleagues.

“Vonn,” Yide hisses, grabbing the guard’s wrist. “Quick, the taser.”

“But I might hit you!”

“I don’t give a fuck! Do it!”

I grab the taser and aim it at the guard. His broad back is about five yards away. Yide’s legs are wrapped around his hips. I scootch forward and shoot. The probes zap out and arc just above Yide’s knees. They land with a buzz that makes my teeth chatter.

The guard lets out a squeal, his head pops back, and his body heaves forward. Yide tosses him off her and stands.

“Well,” she says, nodding toward X. “What are you waiting for?”

I retract the probes and aim the taser at the final guard. I pull the trigger, and right as I do so, X kicks the guard’s stomach, sending him reeling out of harm’s way, opening up a perfect passage for the probes to strike X right on the forehead. His eyes roll to the back of his head as his arms dart out, and he falls back, unable to move for the second time in less than a minute. The final guard runs toward me, and he’s just about to tackle me to the ground when Yide sticks out her leg and trips him. His head smacks concussively on a rock. Yide takes a pair of handcuffs off his belt and snaps them on his wrist. I follow her lead, handcuffing the other two guards who are still alive.

Then I walk over to X and stir him back to consciousness.

“Yo, simul,” I say, “you alright?”

His eyes open dimly. “Nice shot, buddy”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I help him up, and when I do, a scorching pain shoots down my leg.

I look down. My robe is charred all to hell. The fabric is melted into my skin.

“Good Efficiency,” Yide says. “You alright?”

She kneels down to examine the wound. “This needs some serious balm. It’s going to get infected.” She looks around, eyes darting frantically, as if some malWard is out here, in the middle of The Without, just waiting to take in an injured Inbetweener.

I brush her hand off my leg. “It’s alright,” I say. “I can walk. It’s just gonna have to hurt a little.”

“Some Ope-A-Dope would be nice now,” X says, squinting into the sun.

Yide swings toward him. “Why the hell would you say that, X??!!?!?”

X, shocked at her reaction, throws his hands in the air. “For Efficiency’s sake, I was just making casual conversation.”

Which reminds me that I never answered Cosmo. I push the earbud into my ear. “Cosmo,” I say. “Can you hear me? Over.” No answer, no sound at all. “Cosmo,” I say again. “We got attacked by a few guards, but we’ve neutralized them.” I glance toward headquarters. The dome is still down. “The Kill Switch Protocol worked. We’re about to move to Phase 2. What is Bunnfield’s status? Over.” Again, no sound, no nothing.

Yide takes the bud out of my ear and taps on it. Then she turns it around. “Here’s your problem,” she says, showing me the backside of the bud. “This thing got smashed all to inefficiency.”

I look at the exposed wires. “Probably happened during the scuffle.”

Yide nods, her lips pursing sardonically. “Probably a fair assumption.”

I take back the bud and toss it in the bushes. “Well, let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

“Wait,” Yide says, pointing at the bodies. “What do we do with them?”

I take count of the situation. Two guards are dead. The other three are incapacitated, at least for now, and handcuffed.

“That’s a good point,” I say. “When these three wake up, they might be a problem.”

“I have an idea,” Yide says. “First, let’s handcuff all of them together, in a circle, making it practically impossible for them to move, especially with so much dead weight, and then let’s take off their clothes.”

X nods. “Kinky. I like it. But do you think this is the best time for an orgy? We don’t even have sex suits.”

Yide rolls her eyes. “Not like that, idiot.” She moves over to one of the guards and picks up his legs. “Here, Vonn, help me move him.”

I walk over and grab the guard’s shoulders, my heart pounding, knowing that every second is precious, that we have no time to lose, that the dome could rise at any moment.

We heave up the body and throw it down on the ground.

And meanwhile, the clock in my head goes tick, tock, tick, tock.

“Alright,” Yide says, after we handcuff the guards together. “Strip ‘em.”

“Um, why are we taking off their clothes?” I ask.

“So that we can wear them,” Yide says. “Duh.”

“Ah…To blend in.” I slap my forehead. “That probably should have been the plan all along.”

“It’s been a rush job,” Yide says. “We can forgive ourselves for not thinking of everything.”

We dress in silence. I catch X kind of sneaking a peek at Yide, but she doesn’t say anything, so I don’t say anything either.

After we get dressed and holster our weapons, we make our way down the hill, toward headquarters. I squint into the blinding sun.

And the clock keeps ticking.

My earpiece hisses.

“Bunnfield just got through security,” Cosmo says. “He’s making his way to the holding cell. How are things from your vantage? Over.”

“We’re positioned on the hill. Clear view of headquarters. I’m turning on the livestream. Over.”

I reach inside my robe and take out a screen that Cosmo gave me. I turn it on. Black and white footage flickers. The unsensored plastic walls of HR come into view. Button pushers walk the halls. Bunnfield’s stilted breathing is audible. He says hello to a few button pushers. He stops to talk to someone about his weekend. He bullshits about bingeing some Taco Goo Muck Bang.

“What the fuck is he doing,” X says. “He’s wasting time.”

“He’s trying to be normal,” Yide says. “He doesn’t want to draw suspicion. Be patient, he’ll get there.”

My hand nervously flitters down to the blaster hanging off my robe. I check the strap of the tank, making sure that the generator pack is still secured to my shoulders. I’m fidgeting, antsy as hell, and I’m relieved when Bunnfield finally finishes his bullshit conversation with this rando button pusher that he’ll probably never see again.

He approaches Switch’s desk.

The bot turns his head, approximating a smile. Harsh electric light reflects off his bald pate. His eyes blink twice. Long, slow blinks. Bunnfield places his elbows on the desk.

“Hi, Switch,” he says. “Good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you as well, Colleague Bunnfield. What can I do for you?”

Bunnfield’s gaze jostles…

“Freeze!”

My head spins around. Five security guards stand before us, blasters pointed at our heads.

I drop the monitor, but before I can grab my blaster, one of the guards steps forward and takes it off my hip. Then he takes Yide’s and X’s.

“Hey!” X yells. “That’s mine!” He reaches for the gun.

Another guard steps forward, takes a taser off his belt, and aims it at X.

“No!” I yell.

But it’s too late.

Two probes dart out, attach themselves to X’s chest, and send a high voltage current surging through his body. He lets out a yelp, spazzes, and then drops to the ground like a sack of goo.

“Fuck,” Yide says.

The guard looks at her. “Shut your trap, or else you’re next. Now, both of you turn around and put your hands behind your backs.” He flashes some handcuffs.

And meanwhile, all is bustling at headquarters, the bots going about their business, the train leaving the station.

I wake up, breathless.

Yide grabs my arm.

“Vonn,” she gasps. “What’s wrong?”

I sit up, wipe the sweat from my brow. My chest is heaving up and down. I reach for a glass of water. I’m starting to enjoy the sensation of the cold liquid hitting the back of my throat.

“It’s nothing,” I say, taking a sip. “Just a nightmare.”

Yide strokes my arm. “You’re just stressed. It’ll be alright. In a few hours, the world is going to look very different.”

I set the glass down on a plastic sidetable. “I think that’s what’s stressing me out. Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” she says, immediately. “We don’t have a choice. The Within is a nest of lies. We have to expose the truth.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m not so sure. I mean, is the truth worth killing people over? Is The Within really that bad? Think about it, people are safe down there. They’re taken care of. They live in abundance.”

Yide snorts. “An abundance of lies.”

I shrug. “Who’s to say what is and isn’t a lie?”

Yide rolls her eyes. “We all know that The Within is bullshit. They keep people locked in a gilded cage, doped up on tech and sex and drugs. They make them sick and then give them an antidote to treat the symptom, not the disease. They’ve turned an entire population into remote assassins. They’re ruining the land one game at a time. It can’t go on like this. Something has to change. Don’t you want to be that change, Vonn?”

I’m silent for a long time, thinking about change.

“All I know,” Yide finally says, “is that I can’t play the game anymore. I mean, for Efficiency’s sake, Vonn, I was using an auto-response synth to interview for jobs that I found so meaningless that I couldn’t even feign interest. That’s no way to live. I want more. I deserve more. Everybody does.”

Once again I’m silent for a long time, thinking about everyone. “But is it worth it? Risking everything? I mean, people could die tomorrow. Do you think that the truth is worth killing people over?”

Yide sighs, as if disappointed in me. “People are dying every day in The Without because thousands of Withiners are addicted to the dopamine hit of a high score. We’re the good guys, Vonn.” She pats me on the leg. “Don’t forget that.”

“Ok,” I say, leaning back, “you’re right,” but I’m not actually convinced, and when Yide falls back asleep, I get out of bed and walk to Elijah’s chamber. He’s asleep, so I shake him awake. He doesn’t look startled to see me. In fact, I’m reminded of Orson, the way he turned so nonchalantly and said, in a calm and assured voice, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Elijah puts on his spectacles. “It’s good to see you, Vonn. Bunny told me about your trek up the mountain.”

“I wish you could have come,” I say.

Elijah shakes his head. “I don’t think the trip would have been as successful with me present. I would have just held you back, not only because of my bum leg” – he slaps his knee – “but because of my anger toward my father. Now that he’s dead, I’m just now beginning to see that my anger toward him was blinding.”

“He loved you,” I say. “I don’t know much about love, but I know he loved you. And he was proud of you. And admired you. And, for what it’s worth, he knew he was wrong about dNet, that he should have never created it, that you were right to rebel against everything he stood for. He wanted to say that to your face, to apologize, for everything.”

Elijah nods, tears welling in his eyes. “Bunny said he died a noble death. He sacrificed himself so that the three of you could escape. I suppose our trajectories are crossing in that sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d like to think that my father lived an ignominious life and died a noble death. But me? Well, I’ve at least strived to live a noble life, but I’m afraid that I’m headed toward an ignominious death. I don’t think I’ll make it out of this cave alive, Vonn, and I’ve come to see my inability to fight with fists and bullets, as Bunny put it, as a sign of weakness. I wish I had your strength, your killer instinct. It would come in handy in a moment such as this, with death biting at my heels.”

“I’m not proud of myself,” I say, “if that’s what you think. In fact, I’m haunted by what I did to The Withouter Hunter. I just had an awful nightmare about it. Which is strange, really, because I’ve killed many times before, down in The Within, plugged into dNet, and never once did I have a nightmare about the lives I took. Never once did their ghosts come back to haunt me. So what’s different this time?”

“Knowledge,” Elijah says. “That’s what’s different. There was always evil in the Garden of Eden. It just wasn’t until the snake tricked Adam and Eve into the apple that they came to know about it. And that’s when everything went to shit. You see, Vonn, evil isn’t the problem. Knowledge is.”

“Adam?” I ask. “Eve? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Elijah adjusts himself in his bed. “Look at it this way, Vonn. Before, on dNet, you were killing people, but it wasn’t really your choice, because you didn’t have all the data, for lack of a better term, to choose between good and evil. But with The Withouter Hunter, you knew what you were doing, and you chose to kill him. Whether or not that choice was the right one, well, that’s for you to decide. But it was a choice nonetheless, and a choice you’ll have to live with.”

I stare at a spot on the cave. “Operation Digital Disruption is kind of like the apple you were talking about. The one that Adam and Eve ate.”

Elijah’s eyes alight with amusement. “I’ve never thought of Digital Disruption that way, but yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“Which makes me the snake,” I say. “I don’t want to be the snake, Elijah. But what else am I supposed to be?”

“Yourself,” Elijah says. “That’s all you can be. Because wherever you go, there you are.” A faraway stare overtakes his gaze. “In the end, Vonn, if you choose to go through with the plan tomorrow, you shouldn’t do it out of anger or a sense of injustice, or to defend some ideal, or even to save anyone else. You should do it to save yourself. Plain and simple. If you save yourself, the rest will follow.”

Elijah blinks, and there’s a great deal communicated in that blink, so much so that it will take me years to process, to understand, what it is he has just told me.

But for now, it’s enough to give me the answer I needed.

I clasp his hand and thank him.

“I’m not going to say goodbye,” I say, “because I refuse to believe that this is the last time we’ll see each other.”

He smiles wanly, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t argue the point.

On my way back to Yide, I run into X, who’s looking more harried than usual.

“Yo, simul,” he says. “I just talked to Cosmo about the plan. I want in, yeah? I want to come with you. Fight the power, you know.” He pumps his fist, jowls vibrating. “We cool?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We cool.”

And instead of going back to bed, I show X the shaft wall, and we climb to the top and stand among the spindly trees, watching the sun rise in the distance, bombs scattering the sky with bursts of white.

And I’m like, “yo, simul, you need to mega chill, we weren’t trying to ditch you, we were just trying to be efficient.”

X runs a hand over his face. “It’s just so boring here. There’s nothing to do. I’ve been having to talk to these Withouters about, like, ideas. It sucks. I hate it. I want to go home. I miss the pharmas. I miss the sinny. I miss my harem of sexSimuls. I miss dancing at High Times. I even kind of miss my job. You know?”

X’s eyes plead with me, and I don’t have the heart to tell him what Yide ends up saying.

“We can’t go back, X. They know who we are.”

His head turns, his face drops. “They? Who is they?”

“Upper Management. Vonn Industries. The whole incestuous military corporate complex that is The Within.”

“I don’t understand,” X says. “I thought the footage was too grainy. That’s what the news feed is saying.”

Yide shrugs. “They’re lying to us.”

X is speechless for maybe the first time in his life.

I step toward him, put my hand on his shoulder. “Look,” I say. “I’m sorry we left without telling you. We won’t do that again. From now on, you’ll be the first to know everything. In fact, there’s something we want to talk to you about. It’s a plan to break into headquarters. You’re my best colleague, X, and I need your help.”

X glances at my hand. Then, with disdain, he brushes it off his shoulder, and his eyes bite into me like a snake. “Go fuck yourself, Vonn.”

He storms off, and I turn to watch him leave. Walking through a narrow stone corridor, he bumps into a silhouette, spins, and tells the silhouette to go fuck itself as well.

Cosmo surfaces from the dark surround.

“What’s wrong with him?” He asks.

I shrug. “He’s just pissed because he wasn’t included in our jaunt to find Orson. But don’t worry. It’s X. He’ll get over it.”

Cosmo nods.

“How’s Bunnfield?” I ask.

“A little shaken, but overall, not bad. He has a few scrapes and bruises, but nothing a little balm can’t fix. How are you two doing?”

“Fine,” Yide says, “A little tired, but overall, not bad.”

Cosmo is holding a laptop. He sets it down on a slate of rock and opens the screen. A bright blue surrounds the dim candlelight.

“Bunnfield has brought me up to speed,” he says, “and I’ve been reviewing the contents of the floppy disk.”

“What’s a floppy disk?” Yide asks.

“It’s this olden time way of storing data. Orson handed one to Bunnfield before he slipped out the back of the cabin. It has a lot of useful information on it about the Kill Switch Protocol. I have some ideas about how we can infiltrate headquarters.”

He clicks around the laptop as we discuss the plan.

I glance at my watch. It’s two in the morning.

“Seven hours until nine am,” I say. “How far is it to headquarters from here?”

“An hour on foot. If you leave by eight, I think you’ll be fine. There’s a whole processing protocol at the holding cell. It’ll take some time before Bunnfield reaches Switch.”

I nod. “We should get some shut eye then. We’ve got a big day ahead.”

Cosmo closes his laptop.

“Wait a second,” I say. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” Cosmo says.

“If I typed up an email, would you be able to schedule it to send to my boss at nine am?”

“Sure,” Cosmo says. “I can do that. What’s the email about?”

“It’s my letter of resignation,” I say.

Cosmo grins as he hands me the laptop. “Go for it.”

I type several versions of the email, deleting each one as I go. The first is a diatribe against Beehive. The second is a diatribe against Zed. The third is a diatribe against corporate culture, toxic bosses, bullshit jobs, and, ultimately, the entire Within. After getting all that off my chest, I settle on this:

Dear Supervisor Zed,

My performance improvement plan is as follows: go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

Vonn 19