In the Shadow of Humanity A Novel
N. John Williams
Copyright © 2022 N. John Williams
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher
To Lee, Emmanuel, John, and our unnamed.
CHAPTER ONE
“What a waste of time,” the heavyset man grumbled as he led Nat down the glossy corporate hallway, not looking back. “How long have you been waiting?”
“About three hours,” Nat answered, keeping pace behind.
“Yeah. The screening process doesn’t usually take this long.” Nat’s guide, named McCarthy, projected the words back over his shoulder as he walked. He looked about thirty years old and dressed like a department store mannequin, the spitting image of a young, prosperous engineer who wanted to boldly declare his freedom from worldly norms and expectations and yet was so entrenched within the mainstream that he would vanish in a crowd. “Shouldn’t take much longer. Your results were flagged for human review.”
Nat’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced a smile. “Is something wrong?”
Reaching a door at the end of the hallway, McCarthy laid his hand on the handle but paused to look at Nat before turning it.
“We’ll see. Your ratings were crazy high. You topped out two of the scales. That’s not supposed to happen, so they’re double checking. The system was trained on humans. It wasn’t designed for —you.” He changed the course of his words at the last moment and pushed the door open with an exaggerated movement to camouflage a sudden frown. Propping the door with his body, McCarthy made a gesture with his hand indicating Nat should enter “We’ll hang out here for a while. The Company has been burned in the past, trusting the automated screeners too blindly. Worst-case scenario, you’ll need to be tested again.”
That’s not the worst-case scenario, Nat thought, avoiding eye contact.
If they found out the truth, things would get a lot worse. Nat had already lost so much—perhaps more than he could bear. If they saw through his deception now, everything he lost would be gone forever. His sacrifices, meaningless. His future, erased.
Can’t turn back. He grinned at McCarthy and nodded. Just find out what he knows.
Nat squeezed through the doorway past McCarthy and stepped into a small, well-appointed waiting room with plush furniture and frosted glass walls outlined in blue neon. He lowered himself onto the edge of a low sofa, leaving McCarthy to choose between a pair of colorfully upholstered armchairs.
Fashionable, and totally impractical, he thought. The room must have been generated from a template. It had the kind of furniture selected by interior designers who never intended to use it themselves.
McCarthy entered and let the door drift to a close behind him on silent hinges, the latch clicking mechanically as it shut. Instantly, the door faded away into the frosted glass of the wall. This was the new style: spaces with unbroken boundaries, with no predefined entrances or exits. McCarthy looked back at the wall and nodded in appreciation, then sidled around a circular coffee table to stand before one of the padded armchairs. He swiped his hand through the air, and the upholstery of the chair cycled through a series of colors and patterns until finally landing on a solid green. Apparently satisfied, McCarthy sat.
“Feel free to make any adjustments you’d like,” McCarthy said, patting an armrest. “The room is ad hoc. It’ll just be torn down after we leave.”
“Then why change it?”
McCarthy shrugged.
“I think I’ll survive another hour of office park chic.”
McCarthy took some time settling into his chair, wiggling his hips as far back as he could, resting one elbow on an armrest and then switching to the other, trying to get comfortable.
Nat leaned back into the sofa and stretched his arm out along the back, crossing his legs so that one ankle rested on top of the other knee.
Relax. Get him talking.
Nat glanced over the two-dimensional profile suspended over McCarthy’s shoulder.
“So,” Nat observed, “I see your peer rating is eighty-five percent. That’s pretty good. But your system reputation is only sixty-eight.”
“You’re using annotations?”
Nat nodded and tried not to smirk at the improbable cover photo showing the markedly unathletic man posing bravely in immaculate hiking gear.
McCarthy gestured to turn on annotations for his own heads-up display. He looked over Nat’s shoulder, and his eyes popped.
“Ninety-four?”
“You shouldn’t broadcast the eighty-five,” Nat said, ignoring the other man’s surprise. “Sure, it’s high. But it’s peer-sourced. Everyone knows it’s curated. People don’t take those seriously, and it makes the sixty-eight look even worse. You’re grasping.”
“I guess that makes sense. Maybe I should take it down.”
Be nicer. You’re losing him.
“But the photo is great. You look very sporty.”
“Oh!” McCarthy said, brightening a bit. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He decided against peeking at McCarthy’s Aura. Public annotations were one thing, but reading the man’s Aura would be unprofessional. For now, Nat needed to plumb McCarthy’s character the old-fashioned way.
“What do you do here, Mr. McCarthy?”
“You can call me Liam.” The man glanced around the room as if searching. “Well, I’m with Cognitive Sciences and Engineering.” He spread out his hands helplessly, embarrassed to be stating the obvious. “Like everyone else you’ve met today, I guess. I’m a Staff Engineer in Bodily Self-Perception.”
Nat raised his eyebrows. So they imagine he’s some kind of genius. Fine. Keep him talking.
“Impressive,” Nat said, nodding. He dutifully petted the man’s ego but at the same time felt a twinge of envy. “BSP is very interdisciplinary. Very subtle. Are you also a medical doctor?”
“No,” McCarthy lifted his chin. “I’m not a doctor. But I do have to deal with them a lot—I mean, it’s a good thing—legally we have to. Everyone’s so concerned about our experiments passing ethical
muster. Informed consent, ‘do no harm,’ and so forth. Which is really important, of course. But it makes the work a lot slower.”
“How tiresome. And have you been with BSP for a while?” Nat continued throwing softballs, for now.
“Well, I’ve worked here in the Bridge for eight years. I’ve been with BSP for, well, I guess almost five.” He said the last with some reluctance, recognizing five years as a shamefully long time to be in the same place, a sign of professional stagnation.
Maybe he used to be a genius. Now he’s just comfortable.
“Are you interested in joining BSP?” McCarthy asked, likely trying to recover a position of dominance in the conversation. “It would be a nice pay bump for you. Your supervisors have given you high marks. Your coworkers, too. Now that your probationary period is over, where were you hoping to land?”
“BSP would be incredible. Is that even possible for me?”
“Well, no, not at first. But if this little mess gets straightened out, maybe we can keep in touch. There are still some things you wouldn’t be allowed to work on, since you’re . . . because you’re . . . But maybe we can keep in touch.”
Nat nodded.
Work on his pride. Get his ego ahead of his brain. He’ll let something slip.
Using what he now knew about McCarthy, he compiled a list of subjects the man would find alluring, that might draw him out from behind any defenses.
“So, you must have plenty to say about the rumors coming out of China. The idea that they’ve scaled back investment in BSP? They think it’s a waste of resources.”
McCarthy rolled his eyes, and his face finally opened up.
Bullseye, Nat thought. Here we go.
“Craziest thing I’ve ever heard! And I’m not just saying that.” The man shook his head. “They’re doomed. Seriously. If it’s true, we’ll look back in twenty years, and we’ll recognize this as the beginning of the end for them.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Absolutely. BSP, I mean . . . Intelligence doesn’t just require embodiment. That’s only part of it. Real, human-level intelligence requires a sense of bodily composition. Bodily processes and reactions. Without that, the best they’ll ever get are . . . robots. Think about it: we even give BSP to Drones! Right? Maintenance Drones, and waiters, and servants. It helps them integrate into human society. It makes them so much more versatile—so much more useful.”
Nat offered him a curious look, and McCarthy continued.
“Well think about it: When someone gets nervous, or angry, or frightened, they don’t just ‘know’ it, they ‘feel’ it. They feel it in their stomach, in their breathing, in their lungs. They feel their heart pounding in their chest. Those physiological factors, and how they’re perceived by the subject, are critical inputs to an intelligent system. Well, if the system is meant to be ‘social’ in any way. If the Chinese are abandoning BSP, they’re abandoning the entire project of social intelligence. They’re going backwards.” McCarthy stopped for a breath. Something occurred to him, and he squinted at Nat. “You must have your own thoughts about it. Someone with—with your perspective.” He finished awkwardly and lowered his gaze.
“Don’t you think you might be underestimating them? I’ve heard the Party plays the long game. They’re disciplined enough to aim decades ahead, if not centuries. To shape markets, not chase them. If they’re redirecting funding, it’s not because they’re being shortsighted. Maybe they see something you don’t.”
McCarthy filled his round cheeks with air, then let it out slowly through puckered lips.
He’s loosening up, Nat thought. Faster than I expected. He silently reordered the list of topics he intended to raise, moving the more sensitive ones closer to the front.
“The thing is,” McCarthy said, “I bet they never really believed in BSP. Look at their history. We’ve had BSP from the start. You’ve heard of Adam Lee, right? The founder of CSE like, thirty years ago? He recognized the importance of BSP early on. A total visionary. The Department of Defense swooped in after his first breakthroughs and
basically annexed CSE, so we might as well be part of the Administration now—but no one dared to tamper with Lee’s vision.
“Most people didn’t understand why he did it at first, when he laid the groundwork for BSP. The Administration just dumped cash wherever Adam Lee pointed. And a few years later, the Chinese copied him.”
Nat grunted.
“They never understood why, I think, or believed in the value of it. We’re probably seeing the fallout from that now. They have different commitments.” He looked down into his lap, and some of the energy drained from his face. “The loss of Adam Lee hit the Company hard. I met him, you know? A weird guy. Private. No interest in fame, stayed out of the press, mostly. But I met him. It was only once, but I’ll never forget it. That’s why I remember so perfectly what ‘nervous’ feels like in the stomach,” he confided with a sad smile. “He was a genius. The good kind. The kind the world needs.”
Don’t let him become too introspective.
“Have you heard anything about the Chinese reaction to the new law?” Nat asked, taking one step closer to the question that could blow up in his face.
“It’s the same problem,” McCarthy said, breaking out of his thoughtfulness, but not with the same level of energetic abandon he had shown just moments ago.
You’re losing him again.
“The same problem?”
“Yeah, they’re not as progressive as we are. They don’t want to be. Like I said: different commitments.”
Nat nodded slowly, as if just barely keeping up.
“I mean,” McCarthy explained, “if the Chinese don’t see the value in BSP, there’s no way they’re going to accept something like the HELP Act. Giving Shades the same rights as humans? Letting them take human jobs? A pathway to Naturalization? The Chinese must think we’re out of our minds. But they’ll see. It’s just another way we’ll blow right past them. Leave them behind.”
Now is the time. Now or never. Nat consciously refrained from taking a deep breath.
“So, has the Company finally solved the verification problem? I know that’s the biggest bottleneck when it comes to implementing HELP and integrating Shades.”
McCarthy looked surprised at the question and hesitated to answer. His hesitation broke the collegial rhythm of the conversation and once again his eyes darted around the room, settling on nothing. He opened his mouth, committed to responding without knowing exactly what he would say. His eyes rolled up and to the left.
Perfect.
“That’s an area of ongoing research,” McCarthy said carefully, buying himself another breath and two more seconds to think. “It’s not something I can discuss openly. But I can say that verification is still a challenge. HELP is a law, not a piece of software. Not yet. Figuring out who qualifies under HELP is still a manual process. Well,” he jerked his eyes in Nat’s direction, “you’re familiar with it. Your probation is just ending, right? So it’s only been ninety days since you were hired. You had to go through it all.”
“Ok, so nothing’s changed?” Despite himself, a note of relief slipped into Nat’s voice. Before McCarthy could notice, he added quickly, “I’m surprised you go to all the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. The Company is fully committed to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion,” McCarthy assured him. “Our standards are very high—the highest, as you’ve seen, but if any other Shades can make it through—.” He cut himself off and grimaced at the words “other Shades.” Then, smiling as if to show Nat they were on the same side, he began again. “Anyone who can make it through the screening gauntlet would be considered a valuable candidate, and well worth the Company’s time.” He leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied.
Nat allowed the silence to expand, waiting to see if the pressure of expectation would squeeze any last drops of information from his malleable host.
Could it be? They really don’t know.
McCarthy, looking disoriented by this unusually long pause, began searching for something to add. He opened his mouth again,
committed to filling the silence before being quite sure of his next words.
At that moment, a gentle chime sounded. Nat and McCarthy looked into each other’s eyes involuntarily, confirming that the other also heard the delicate tinkling. Then, in the same way that the door had faded into the frosted glass of the wall, the space above the vacant armchair beside McCarthy faded into a man, seated with legs crossed at the knees and with hands clasped, fingers interlaced. This new figure sat with motionless repose, as if he had been seated there for quite some time.
Nat uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the sofa.
Finally, someone interesting. How long has he been there?
The man’s appearance in this way was highly unusual. Although this world did not require the use of doors—or hallways, or stairs, or any other device of spatial transition—such devices were still commonly used. Most humans were still comforted by a sense of continuity as they navigated through the world. Walking down hallways, climbing stairs, and passing through doorways helped to develop an internal map of their environment, fulfilling a psychological need that was still hard-wired into the human brain.
Humanity changed so much slower than the world around them, and so conventions of spatial continuity and transition still saturated this new world which had no need for them. The use of doors was one such convention rarely omitted in polite society. Among peers, the sudden appearance of this newcomer would be considered highly disrespectful. This man clearly did not consider Nat and McCarthy to be his peers.
At least he took the time to chime, Nat mused.
The newcomer sat silently, apparently feeling no need to introduce himself or explain his presence. He knew Nat and McCarthy would wait for him, and he took his time. His manner and appearance were incongruous with the relaxed, trendy atmosphere that had been too carefully imposed on this space. He wore a fine suit that—judging by its textures and the way light played off its delicate fibers, and by the way it conformed to the position of his limbs—was tailor-made and full-priced.
No catalog skins here.
He broadcasted no identity markers and no annotations, so Nat had little to go on but his outward appearance. He looked in his late thirties or early forties. Brown hair swept back and to the side, stiff with gel that made it appear almost black. Dark, straight eyebrows and prominent cheekbones gave him a stern look.
The newcomer’s eyes focused on the empty space about an arm’s length before him, most likely reviewing something in Nat’s record. Whatever it was, Nat did not have permission to see it.
Nat’s gut tightened. They know.
Can McCarthy see it? He searched McCarthy’s face for an answer, but found none. Instead, McCarthy sank into his chair and watched the newcomer with wide eyes, stiff and motionless, apparently not wanting to draw attention to himself.
When the newcomer finally spoke, he addressed Nat alone.
“Nathaniel Lee,” the man articulated Nat’s full name slowly, his voice like loose gravel crunching under a boot. Nat half expected him to cough or clear his throat. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out? You should know that by the time you get this far” —he unclasped his hands, turning his palms upward— “we’ve already learned everything important there is to know about you.”
Nat’s breathing quickened. He resolved not to speak, refusing to show his cards.
The man studied Nat’s face as if looking for something hidden. Nat became aware of his own face and body, felt the nakedness of his newly-shaven jaw, the tension of his shirt stretching around the muscles of his back as he leaned forward on the sofa. He imagined himself from the newcomer’s point of view: his short, fuzzy brown hair; his prominent forehead and pale brown eyes; his wide jaw and pointed chin. His features were boyish, a fact that led most humans to treat him as younger than his twenty-six years, but he knew that he was also very attractive, and that made him formidable. He imagined that he looked tense—perhaps more than he would have liked—but also confident.
The silence lasted over a minute.
Nat wrestled to maintain control of the situation. The technical and personality examinations that had kicked off today’s “gauntlet,” as McCarthy had called it, went as well as he could have dreamed. In fact, the diagnostic instruments used by the Company were even simpler and more transparent than those he had created for himself as practice. He was well prepared for everything that had happened so far. But he did not expect this.
Nat tightened the small muscles around his eyes as if to grab hold of the newcomer, to pin him down under the microscope of his attention. Nat could see everything—at least, everything he was allowed to see. He knew that this unexpected interview was a break from script, and he silently dissected the man across from him, searching for answers to questions he dared not ask aloud.
The man obviously enjoyed power. His sudden, impolite entrance; his expensive, dominant attire and impeccable appearance; his utter disregard for McCarthy’s presence; and his omission of simple introductions. And now he sat staring at Nat, letting him simmer in suspense. He seemed to relish the feeling of secret knowledge and the leverage it afforded. Nat also saw the deliberate caution in the man’s expression; a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, as if weighing whether Nat would become an ally or an enemy.
He’s looking for a threat. Like most men who enjoyed power, then, this man was also plagued by insecurity.
Nat looked deeper. Layered beneath the thoughts and features that made up the man’s expression, Nat saw the sheen of natural oil glistening on his cheekbones, playing with the light reflected from the frosted glass and blue neon. He could see fine pores in the skin around the newcomer’s nose, fine lines near his eyes.
Nat looked deeper If it were possible, his eyes would have pierced through skin, muscle, bone, and brain to the mind of the man itself—to the person beneath this high-resolution facade. What makes him so much better than me?
Nat looked deeper. He saw the world around him in ways the newcomer and McCarthy could not. What they considered “sight” was, for Nat, an experience that emerged when he oriented his
attention to a certain scale. A human scale. Unlike the newcomer and McCarthy, Nat had direct access to all the information rendered within his visual field; he could see every detail of the room around him, down to each individual pixel. If he twisted and focused his attention in the right way, he ceased to see the room at all, instead seeing only a dazzling universe of technicolor stars, packed together like sand, edge-to-edge and top-to-bottom. The wooden disk of the coffee table in front of him was actually a million brilliant points of brown, red, purple, and grey. The table sat motionless in the room, and yet the cluster of pixels shifted, swirled, and pulsed as the angle of Nat’s head subtly rose and fell with each breath. That was no table—it was a galaxy.
Nat looked into the man across from him. He could see the sharp, jagged boundaries between every shade of color that made up the contours and complexion of the newcomer’s face, the flowing streams of pixels woven together into the fabric of his clothing. Nat could see every detail of everything there was to see. Everything that was publicly accessible, at least. But what Nat could not see was the private material suspended in the space before the newcomer’s eyes. And try though he might, he could not quite see the newcomer’s thoughts. Does he know, or not?
Finally, the man spoke. As if reading Nat’s mind—or perhaps his eyes—he seemed to address Nat’s unspoken question.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” the newcomer asked after the long silence, and for the second time. “You are the Shade of the firstborn son of Adam G. Lee.” He punctuated the statement with a nod of his head, as if still coming to terms with it himself. “You’re the Shade of Jonathan’s older brother. Why conceal this from us? Why are you really here?”
McCarthy, moving for the first time since the newcomer’s unexpected appearance, lifted his head enough to gape at Nat. Nat remained silent.
“Your father was a hero, young man. Your brother is a rising star. I dare say, your family is like royalty in the eyes of many.” A hint of contempt flashed across the newcomer’s face, but passed in an
instant. “Did you think,” the man paused. “Did you think the fact you’re a Shade would change something?”
Nat kept his face calm, the glassy surface of a still pond. But deep beneath the surface, his thoughts swirled and shimmered. He said “Shade.” Not “Drone,” not “NPC,” not “Tick.”
He doesn’t know. Then it worked?
But who is he?
Nat had researched all the power players across the sprawling organization, scouring Company directories, press releases, and social media. He dared not call up his notes now; the Company had access to his visual logs throughout the interview process, to safeguard against cheating. But from the way the man had said Jon’s name—comfortably, and without adding the surname “Lee”— Nat suspected the man knew his brother personally. If so, that would narrow down his identity. He dug through the names he could remember, finally uncovering one that seemed to fit.
This is Lawrence Miller! It must be. Married, no children. Vice President of Product Strategy for CSE. This is the spear-fishing guy. He remembered running across a particularly garish photo of Miller with a beautiful young woman, presumably his wife, standing in pastel shorts on the bow of a brilliant white yacht, smiling against the sun, spear gun in hand. That’s fitting. What else did I know about him?
Though Nat’s vision was literally perfect, his memory was not. Data storage, while cheap, still had a cost. A typical Shade could remain in service for eighty years—or even longer, depending on continued sponsorship—and storing a lifetime of experience as raw data would be inefficient and expensive. Instead, just as in a human mind, Nat’s mind applied semantic models and heuristics to his sensory inputs and stored the results in a highly connected graph. This architecture preserved only a tiny fraction of sensory data. Most memories were just ideas, paths of meaning that could only be articulated as Nat walked down them. Eventually, background processes garbage-collected the least connected and least accessed memories, reclaiming storage space for the cloud.
But Nat should have remembered a serious player like Miller. Nat should have remembered his face the moment he appeared.
I live in the worst of both worlds, he thought for the tenthousandth time. If I were a Daemon, I would have recognized him instantly. If I were a human, I would already be his boss. Instead, I get all their limitations, but none of their privileges.
“The fact you’re a Shade changes nothing,” Miller continued. “CSE is a staunch advocate of HDRU civil rights,” he used the politically correct term for Shades, “HDRU,” with impressive dignity. “We helped craft the language of the HELP Act. I’m sure you, of all people, understand the vital role we’ve played in lifting up the HDRU community. Everything your father stood for, everything he worked so hard for. He was a pioneer, and we follow in his footsteps.” Miller tilted his head to one side, as if the words of this impromptu speech had carried him to an unexpected idea. “Rather than hurting your position here, the fact that you’re an HDRU, and your father’s son, could bring valuable perspective to our work. Credibility to our message. An authentic voice.” His expression softened, and his eyes turned down and to the side, silently pursuing a train of thought.
Nat needed to say something, if for no other reason than to show that this man did not intimidate him. He consciously resisted using Miller’s name.
He hasn’t introduced himself yet.
“The HELP Act doesn’t require me to list any sponsors,” Nat said. “So I omitted them. I’m free to pursue employment and Naturalization on my own, so I have. I have nothing to hide.” Now he leaned back, draping his arm along the back of the sofa once again. “I didn’t mention my family because I think of our reputation like a fine suit. Perhaps a Canali. Or a Brioni?”
Miller nodded and raised one eyebrow
“Yes, well,” Nat continued, “I wouldn’t wear one to a probationary review.”
“Why not?” Miller smirked. “They’re terribly comfortable.”
“Because it would be a distraction,” Nat answered sharply. “You shouldn’t retain me for my family name any more than I should respect you for your Brioni.”
“Then why should I retain you?”
“You have my performance reviews. You’ve seen my work. I assume your people have finished reviewing my scores? Yes, well, then you already know why. You are creating a new universe. You need people like me—true natives—to help you discover its full potential. Allow me to help. Allow me to Naturalize. I was made for this.”
Miller started to say, “What does Jonathan think—”
“My brother Jonathan is a good man,” Nat said with conviction, pride, and considerable warmth. “He is a worthy heir and successor to our father’s legacy. But I won’t cower in his shadow. I don’t need his permission. And I don’t want his help.”
Weighing Nat’s words and appearing to factor them into some hidden calculation, Miller thought for a moment before trying to speak again.
“I respect your position,” he said finally, watching Nat’s face. “Your test results do indeed speak for themselves, Nathaniel. We’ve verified them. You were a top performer last quarter, and you’ve been strongly recommended for a permanent position. Regardless of who your family is, or whether you’re a Shade or a human, I’d be a fool not to keep you on.”
Miller hesitated, and Nat sensed a “but.” He was right.
“But,” Miller exhaled loudly, “not for this position.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not for something so . . . invisible. Pointless. We’ll find something else. Something better. I respect the integrity of your position. A man should forge his own path.”
Miller pressed his palms down on the armrests of his chair and stood. Nat rose as well and leaned forward to shake Miller’s outstretched hand when the latter offered it, reaching out over the low coffee table between them.
“You’ll get a new offer from us soon. I want you in CSE, with me. Who knows? We might even get you up to the top floor.” He smiled for the first time.
That’s the spearfishing smile, Nat thought.
“We have big things ahead of us, young man. Big things. Now please, excuse me.” Miller seemed about to leave, but then his eyes
darted up to meet Nat’s gaze once more, as if remembering something. “I’ll let you share the good news with Jonathan, if and when you choose. And we’ll keep your family ties out of the official record for now, if that’s what you want.”
Nat thanked him, and again the chime sounded as he faded away.
McCarthy, still seated, stared up at Nat with wide eyes. Nat looked around the room to regain his bearings, but did not see anything in particular.
“That was Lawrence Keller. He’s a VP,” McCarthy explained. He said something else, but Nat had ceased paying attention.
Keller, not Miller! Good thing I didn’t use his name.
Nat remained standing and straightened his shirt. He turned to face the spot in the wall where they had entered, and where the door had disappeared; it was time to leave.
McCarthy stood. “Yes. No, no need to wait around at this point, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Mr. Keller seems very interested in you—of course he is! No one moves directly into CSE. Congratulations. Really.” He lifted his arm toward the frosted glass wall, and the door materialized just in time for the cylindrical metal handle to meet his hand. He pulled the door open and propped it with his body, just as he had done when they first entered the room. In contrast to Keller’s sudden entrance and exit, Nat found a new appreciation for the social cues and signals made possible by the presence of the door. He scanned it from top to bottom and smiled.
McCarthy explained that Nat would likely receive notice from Human Resources in a day or two with next steps. Then, after a handshake that lasted slightly too long—he’s thinking about my father—Nat stepped across the threshold.
When they had first come to the waiting room just a quarter of an hour ago, they had passed through a bright hallway decked in a form of internal marketing that companies only inflict on their own employees, designed to enhance morale and reaffirm corporate identity. On passing through the doorway now, Nat stepped immediately into the entryway of the small, one-bedroom apartment where he had lived alone for the past few months. The door shut
behind him and locked automatically, as it was configured to do. It did not disappear. Looking back at the closed door, Nat chuckled. He took a deep breath, blinked his eyes several times, and leaned back against the wall of the entryway. He felt the coolness of the wall against his back through the fabric of his shirt. The events of the morning raced through his mind. Vague traces of all the faces, places, formalities, tests, questions, explanations, introductions, challenges, and observations came flooding back, disconnected and out of order. He had only a moment to examine each memory as it passed, but nothing stood out as problematic or alarming. He had done well.
How am I going to explain this to Jon? Nat relaxed his legs and let his back slide down the wall until he sat on the polished, rockhard tile floor.
They had not spoken in months. Jon called weekly, and the sour tinge of guilt from avoiding him was now a constant taste in the back of Nat’s throat. But he could not allow himself to bring his younger brother into the plan that was unfolding. Not yet.
But it’s working!
At this excited thought, Nat forced himself to draw a single long, deep breath before releasing it slowly. The Company had discovered the secret of his family ties, the secret he omitted from his original paperwork, but which he knew they would find. And, just as he planned, the discovery of his first secret distracted them from his second—the real secret that, if uncovered, would condemn him.
Jon will be happy for me, when it’s over. I’m fixing a loophole. Correcting an oversight. He will see that.
The past year had been hard on them both, and Nat knew that Jon called so often because he worried.
A wave of grief swelled in Nat’s chest, forcing him to catch his breath. His vision grew blurry, eyes welling with unshed tears.
The memory of his mother’s face flashed before him. Young and with a healthy glow—the way she looked when Nat was a child. He heard the rumble of his father’s baritone laugh—the surprised, affectionate laugh that erupted from deep in his belly. They were gone now. Nat and Jon were alone.
They loved me, too. So why did I lose so much more?
He had asked himself that question countless times. But he knew the answer.
Grief turned to bitterness, and hot tears trailed down his cheeks as he squeezed shut his stinging eyes. He let his head fall back against the wall, then repeated the motion several times, knocking his head against the hard surface, driving home a point he knew too well. He cursed himself, cursed what he was.
Maybe Jon is the one who was left alone. What am I, to him? Am I his brother? Was I a son?
He knew that he was neither of those things—not really.
He was a Shade.
The first Nathaniel—the flesh-and-blood Nathaniel, born to Adam and Penelope Lee over twenty-six years ago—had died as an infant. In their grief, his parents rendered Nat soon after as a replacement. An experiment. Shades were not usually created from such immature sources; it takes years of data from the life of a human to train and calibrate a faithful replica. Infant Shades were unheard of. But that did not stop Adam G. Lee.
Father was a “pioneer,” after all. Nat laughed, recalling Keller’s words.
Nat had been initialized with the genetic profile and physiology of the deceased infant. A mosaic of cognitive and personality factors derived from the father and mother served as a substitute for the infant’s own non-existent recordings—and that was it.
Then I was wound up and let loose. Like a toy.
He remembered his mother’s face, her tender eyes. When she had looked at him with those eyes and that warm, accepting smile, had she been comforting him? Or had she been comforting herself, for her own loss?
I wonder if the experiment worked. He snorted, shaking his head.
Jon was born two years later. As long as their parents lived, the charade of Nat’s freedom and equal participation in the family’s life had continued, perpetuated by their kindness and careful protection. Jon, too, never seemed to question their bond of brotherhood. But all
the generosity and good will in the world did not make Nat and Jon truly equal.
He survived, Nat thought. I died, and became . . . this.
But for the first time, he might have the chance to become something more. Laws were changing, and public behavior and popular psychology would eventually follow. The HELP Act promised to be a turning point, offering Shades a pathway to Naturalization for the first time in history And as long as his real secret remained hidden—even forgotten, one day—he would have a future.
I’ll be a free man. Jon and I will truly be brothers again. Equals. Like we were at home.
Would they be proud of me?
It’s working!
He fixed his mind on that simple thought like a beacon, a lighthouse on the horizon, the guiding light for a vessel long at sea.
It’s working.
He laughed and wiped the tears from his face. He fought the invisible current of memory, the surge of despair. He longed for his final secret to recede below the horizon behind him, out of sight forever. Until then, he locked eyes on that beacon, that lighthouse, beckoning him onward to the new world and life ahead.
CHAPTER TWO
“Will I see the fire from here?” Jon asked.
“Well sir, you’ll see the smoke. That much is certain. But we’ll lay the blackline over that ridge, there. You see it?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“The boys will lay down some smaller fires back over that ridge, downwind. That’s the blackline. It’ll tie up the main burn, keep it from mounting and spreading. You’ll see plenty of smoke. No fire, though. That’ll stay behind the ridge.”
Jon nodded, peering out through the windows of his father’s old study.
Behind him, the interior of the study was immaculate, free from clutter and spotless as it had been while Jon’s father still lived. A broad desktop floated in the middle of the room, flanked by two low armchairs on one side and Jon’s ergonomic office chair on the other —his only upgrade upon occupying the space.
Perched on the northern edge of the Arbordell estate house, the study jutted out over a downward-sloping hill, standing tall on dozens of delicate stilts sinking deep into the bedrock. Floor-to-ceiling windows comprised three of the study’s four walls, presenting a panoramic view of the valley below, with its wooded streams and verdant fields. Of all the rooms on the estate, this one offered the best outlook of the surrounding territory.
It was a sprawling property, including several thousand acres of forested hills. To the west he could see Lake Vibrant, fed by fastflowing streams of snowmelt pouring down from towering granite peaks to the east. The life and creative energy of the scene felt old, even primal. With fertile woodlands spreading out beneath his feet and the deep blue sky arching over it all, curving down into the distance and wrapping around the horizon, Jon felt at once unlimited and yet grounded. It was this sensation, he suspected, that had caused his father to spend so much time here.
The new Woodsman in charge of the grounds, named Cedrick, stood beside Jon and watched the landscape through the glass. Jon liked him. He was a Drone, but he had a hardy, self-reliant manner that commanded an automatic respect. It was an illusion, of course, but a pleasant one.
“You know,” Jon said, “this was my father’s favorite room in the house.”
“It’s easy to see why, sir.”
“Why didn’t he ever need to do this?” Jon asked, turning from the window to look at the Woodsman. “Why is this the first time?”
“I hear your father was a man of great intellect, sir, and who am I to dispute it? But I daresay he had something to learn about managing a property the likes of this.”
“So we should have been doing controlled burns all this time?”
“More likely it’s the weather, sir. Your father made it too mild. It’s out of balance. When was the last time you had a real storm? No storms, no lightning. No lightning, no fire. No fire . . . well.”
“So we should adjust the weather, then? Mix in a few storms.”
“It won’t do, sir Not yet. If lightning strikes the wrong place now, the whole thing goes up. Let me have a season with her, and then we’ll talk about the weather.”
Jon turned back to the view. “My father said Arbordell was modeled after the Sierra Nevada. I wonder what the weather’s like there.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“He said the likeness to the original Sierra Nevada was uncanny. I’ve never seen them—just pictures. Movies. Magazines. Hard to believe, isn’t it? It’s stunning.”
“That’s the truth, sir,” Cedrick nodded, eyes steady on the woods below. “I’ve never seen her equal.”
“Ha!” Jon barked.
“What’s that, sir?”
“You’re only four months old.”
Cedrick pursed his lips in a frown. “Well, be that as it may, sir, I stand by it.”
“I used to think my father was making them up. The Sierra Nevada, I mean.”
“Why would he do that, sir?”
Jon shrugged.
As a child, he had suspected his father of lying to him, of trying to kindle the imagination of a child whose sole exposure to the physical world was limited to the sterile life of their secure urban cloister in a Santa Monica high rise.
“Yeah, right,” Jon had often thought as a boy as he peered through the pane of a reinforced porthole down at the motionless grid of concrete structures and empty streets. “Anything is possible in the Metaverse, but nothing like Arbordell exists out here in the real world.”
Such a confluence of color, sound, majesty, and power could never exist in the natural world, undesigned, as if by accident. So he had thought. But now, as an adult, he knew better. He understood the relationship between the Metaverse and the natural world better, now.
The Metaverse teemed with exotic worlds built with exotic rules, with alternate physics, with extravagant and impossible environments and experiences. Such exotic worlds could be found in abundance, and multiplied daily. But this particular world—called “the Bridge,” where Arbordell resided—was modeled after the real world. The Bridge was something special. It served as, in fact, what its name suggested: a bridge, connecting the digital universe and the natural one. The Bridge simulated the natural universe, was almost an extension of the natural into the digital, so that the fabric of human society could be held together across the natural-digital boundary.
As he now understood, if a marvel like Arbordell existed here in the Bridge, then something like it probably did exist in the natural world; the two realities were so similar. Though he would never see the Sierra Nevada in person, he now understood that his father had not been deceiving him.
“Well, all right, Cedrick,” Jon sighed. “Start the burn. But make sure you warn Mrs. Owens about the smoke, or you’ll scare her to
death.” Mrs. Owens, the only human employed at the estate, managed the household. Hired by Jon’s parents sometime before his birth, Mrs. Owens was now in her seventies, and had stayed on with the family well beyond her tour of mandatory service. Feisty and short, with grey hair and skin like a bleached raisin, she was indispensable to Jon, a source of continuity between his old life as “son” and his new life as “master.”
Cedrick grinned. “Tell Mrs. Owens? Pardon me, sir, but I told her first.”
“Thank you, Cedrick. Oh—wait a minute. How’s the new pointer?”
The man’s eyes brightened. “She’s a fine specimen, sir! German shorthaired. Long legs. Strong. She’ll run like the wind, and—ho!— she’s got a nose on her. I swear it, she could track a shadow.”
“Let’s take her out tomorrow.”
“Her first hunt? With all the smoke?” Cedrick shook his head gravely.
“Bad idea?”
“Wait a week or so, sir.”
“Ah, I see. Ok then.”
“And she needs a name, sir.”
“Hmm. Bring her inside later, I’d like to see her first.”
“In here, sir?”
“Well, why not?”
“Yes sir.”
“Thank you, Cedrick.”
The Woodsman left through the single door connecting the study to the rest of the house, and Jon turned back to the window. He watched as a current of wind passed through the valley below. Pine trees hugged the contours of the land, swaying as if stroked by an immense, invisible hand. It passed, and all grew still again.
A bluebird chirped her familiar call, then fluttered out from under the floor by his feet and disappeared into the woods further down the hillside. For a moment he envied the small bird, who could feel the air of that place—maybe even smell it.
He raised a console and issued a few commands, then crouched down to sweep his hand over the floor where the bluebird had emerged. The texture and color faded away as the floor of the study became transparent, revealing joists and stilts plunging down to the sloping terrain below. Tucked among the joists was a small nest the size of a breakfast saucer, woven of dried grass and pine needles. Four powder blue eggs lay in the nest, each the size of Jon’s thumb from knuckle to tip.
“Still waiting, hmm?”
He restored the floor and stood up, sighing heavily through his nose.
“Focus, man,” he muttered to himself.
He had work to do, but not here. Arbordell had been thrust upon him unexpectedly. Not only Arbordell, but his family’s entire estate, the reputation of their name and all the expectations and responsibilities that came with it. But now, he must focus on his work at the Company. Not on Arbordell’s forests, not on hunting dogs, and not on bluebirds. The Company’s mission was his father’s true legacy. Jon’s true inheritance.
He paused at the memory of his father. He could almost feel his father’s presence there in the study. His animation and passion, his active imagination and his hungry mind. Adam Lee was never as open or enthusiastic as when teaching and guiding his sons—often right here, in this room—and the investment had not been in vain. It was Jon’s turn now, and he was ready.
He looked out the window again, but then adjusted the focus of his eyes until his own reflection became clear in the glass.
“You’re his spitting image,” Mrs. Owens said from the doorway.
Jon glanced in her direction with a shy laugh, then turned back to his reflection and raised fingers to his fleshy cheek. The whiskers covering his strong jawline, the straight bridge of his nose, made him look like a younger version of his dad. His shaggy hair curled at the tips, just like his father’s had.
His gaze slipped from his hair up to the multi-faceted emerald suspended above his head, and he flinched, twisting his face away from the reflection. His badge of dishonor; an ever-present reminder
to everyone in the Bridge that he wore a false appearance. Had he almost forgotten?
“Oh, don’t you give that a second thought, dear,” Mrs. Owens rebuked him, seeing his agitation. “We’ve been fixing up nature since time began. That’s what your father said. No one pays attention to those things.”
He smiled at her with just one side of his mouth, his eyes aimed down at her feet. She widened her stance and put fists on her hips, her shriveled body wrapped in a spotless white apron taking on the posture of an angry general. Jon’s smile widened and he lifted his eyes to look into her face.
“Ok, ok,” he submitted.
She lowered her hands and stuffed them into the pockets of her apron.
“Mr. Jonathan.” Her tone shifted from tender to matter-of-fact. Now that he was paying attention, it was time for business. “Mr. Jonathan, Timothy is still waiting for you to go offline for a bit. Your nutrient line needs refreshing. It can't be helped,” she added with a hint of admonition. She had been reminding him for several days.
“Thank you, Mrs. Owens. I keep forgetting,” he lied, ducking slightly. Mrs. Owens obviously saw straight through the lie; she knew exactly how he felt on the matter. He offered her a conspiratorial smile, which she rejected. She tightened her lips and the lines around her mouth deepened.
“Oh, did you know?” he said, changing the subject. “A new cloister was finally recommended for me.”
She threw her hands up and looked away.
“No, really. It’s the perfect size for three. Or even four.”
When she looked back at him, her face was stern at first. Then it slackened.
“Four?” She leaned forward. “You’ve been approved? How? Oh! Don’t just sit there like a lump! You tell me, this minute.” Her eyes glistened.
Jon beamed. “Which means,” he said, trying to look very serious, “we need to start converting Bridge Coin right away. The accounts here are flush, but we’ve been neglecting the offline
accounts. We need to double our dollar reserves for medical, nutrient feeds, network and security subscriptions—everything. All of our offline expenses.”
“When did you find out? And you didn’t say a word!”
“Mrs. Owens, listen,” he tried to hold in a laugh, but gave up. “Ok! I just found out. Benjamin Karz pulled some strings. I shouldn’t have said anything yet. It’s not final. There’s still a long way to go.”
“Oh, cruel child I was wrong. Nothing at all like your father,” she murmured, waddling over to give him a strong squeeze, pinning his arms against his sides. Her body shook.
After giving him another squeeze, she stepped back and turned away quickly, hiding her face. He continued his instructions, pretending not to notice.
“We’ll need to file paperwork with the Administration for offline travel, which means fees. The new cloister needs some upgrades, too. New body rigs, new electrical. We shouldn’t need to touch mom and dad’s Trust, I’ve saved enough here in the Bridge to cover everything. But we need to convert Coin to dollars.”
“Why all the fuss?” She turned back to face him, her questioning eyes bleary, but dry. Practical considerations always focused her mind. “Why waste all that money on upgrades? Just move into a new one.”
“The engine scored this place a ninety-eight,” he answered, shaking his head. “That never happens. We need to jump on it. Can you get the transfers started for me? I’m busy with a presentation. A big one. It’s for Karz.”
“Before that, you need to disconnect and let Timothy have a look at you.”
Jon ignored the comment. “I’d have Sarah handle the transfers, but she’s being upgraded to this new model everyone’s talking about. Called ‘Mr. Poole?’ Not sure how long it’ll take.”
“Young man, I’m not doing a thing until you get your nutrient line refreshed.”
Jon smirked, sensing imminent defeat.
“You know,” he said pointedly, “Mom and Dad endowed a separate Trust just for you, for your retirement. Most households in
the Bridge are managed by Drones these days. You could find a nice, exotic world—”
“Oh, don’t be nasty,” she interrupted, flapping a hand at him. “I’m not here for the Coin any more than you. Why don’t you find yourself a nice, exotic world? Too much to do here. Come, Timothy’ll make quick work of you. And take some solid food while you’re out there. It’s good for your gut to work on something solid for a change.”
Jon sighed in submission, and tapped the fingers of his right hand against the palm of his left in a sequence preconfigured to initiate a disconnect. Before he could finish the sequence, however, he noticed a small red light blinking in the bottom-left corner of his heads-up display. He focused on the small red indicator, and as he did, it grew and expanded into the name of his brother, “Nat.”
Jon swung his head to look at Mrs. Owens with wide eyes and an open mouth. Nat’s name still floated in the bottom-left corner of his Heads-Up Display, and although Mrs. Owens could not see the indicator, her expression said she already suspected the cause of Jon’s sudden, childlike energy.
“Nat’s calling,” he said.
“Well, answer it,” she prodded before turning to leave the study. “Just don’t forget Timothy’s waiting. He needs to look at that nutrient line!”
Jon accepted the call.
“Hey man! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for months.”
“I’m returning your call,” Nat said tentatively. Jon raised an eyebrow at the magnitude of the understatement.
“Well, why a voice call? Come over to the house, I’m at Arbordell.” He mentally shifted his schedule for the rest of the day, delighted at the prospect of forgetting about his nutrient line again. “I have so much news! Is everything ok?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, why don't you come over? Mrs. Owens just finished a new garden. A memorial garden for mom and dad. We can go for a walk and catch up. It’s a perfect day.” He turned his gaze out to the brilliant blue sky.
