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Chapter Five

Pro-Creation

1

_ "Can I get a 'yes' or a 'no?'"_

_ ..._

_ "No."_

Miles threw the door shut and broke immediately into a fast walk, down the hall of kaleidoscope carpets and dim yellow lighting, through the rows of doors that looked so similar you'd have to analyze the fingerprint smudges on the brass doorknobs to find a difference. The pit in his stomach grew, though not as his anticipation, redirecting himself from the elevators to the stairs. The door, the steps and his cursing echoing his presence down the wide, spiral staircase, which looked like an impossible triangle from a bird's eye view. The blue light still flashed his thumb-thank goodness he'd held on-clicking the center button, the hologram sheathed back.

"Good evening, Miles," the voice on the other end said.

"Who the hell is this?"

"It's Martin. How are you doing?"

He clenched the Pod so hard he could've clicked the button again. Martin. The worst possible answer. If there was any reputation he wouldn't squander, it was his. He was the kind of guy that made a month feel like a year of knowing him, yet they always managed to stay distant.

"Martin, hi," Miles said, "I just didn't expect a call so late in the day, on-on a Thursday, no less, forgive me if I'm not on my best...look, why don't we save the banter for later?"

"I figured I called at a bad time," he replied.

"I said I was-!" Miles boomed, sneering at himself as his other hand tracked him down the railing. "I'm fine. Thanks. What's the matter?"

"Everything. Does 'Clifford Steiner' ring a bell?"

"Sounds familiar."

"It should. He's the Chief Ambassador of District Seven."

Chills ran down Miles' spine, but he wasn't sure if it was just the room. That District was something else. Nobody was ever supposed to challenge District Thirteen in the trade field. But walking through it made the phrase "streets of silver" begin to mean something again. That man was famous for leading the punch to some of the most insane architecture in the entire country, attracting citizens by the thousands to a patch of town that used to be a laughing stock. So it was no surprise when Miles' ears were perked, tiny claws nicking at the railing on the stairs.

"What does he want?" he asked.

"A compromise," Martin said. "He wants to reimagine the beacon as a means of promoting new mental health initiatives across his district. He didn't share much more with me than that. I know it's jumping on you last minute, but I had to get this to you ASAP."

Miles grumbled in disappointment. "What, has there been a microchip in our heads the whole time?" he asked, chuckling. "District Seven doesn't sell enough goodie bags to the Low Tiers, so they had to beam the thought into their heads, instead?"

"Don't be daft."

"The ambassador can say whatever he wants; he has more than enough Social Credit to spare a ridiculous, fear-mongering conversation that forces me to fork over the blueprints."

"We haven't even got to the details yet."

"No, we've talked about this before-this is what they do. They find the shortest path to pocket all the money themselves and they take it. Don't get baited that easily. We'll go back to the drawing board, make our pitch and come back with something better in a few months."

"I was thinking the same thing," Martin said, "but then I got the same call from your Dad, and he couldn't spare the details, either."

That made him pause. "What game is this?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Miles-!" A growly rasp to his voice ended with a cleared throat. "Look, let's not get off on the wrong foot. I think if you hear this guy out, you'd be in for a pound."

"Martin, I-"

"Just walk in, hear the compromise, lay out the budget, and get this thing built."

"Seriously, just-"

"It'll save us a lot of sleepless nights."

"Sleep? Come on, you know I-"

"Look, that drawing board you love so much is gonna need a thousand pounds of chalk to get a presentation like that ever again, so it's best you drop the conspiracy theories and let me book this goddamn appointment. Okay?"

Miles pressed his lips together, now at the bottom, staring at the uncleaned filth on the window as it polka-dotted his reflection. He recalled the times he'd heard that change of tone before. It always came out at the best times; losing debates, bombing a presentation, you name it. One thing's for sure, being on the receiving end was something else.

"I'll think about it," he said. "Can I take a walk? How much time do you have?"

"He's good to go on Friday," Martin added.

Miles looked away and slapped a paw against his eyes.

"Fine, we'll take Friday," he grumbled. "Tell him if he doesn't have the time first thing in the morning, I'll clear the entire afternoon."

"Good choice," Martin concluded. "Have a good rest of the night."

He hung up before Miles could even answer as the cold midnight air brought him some respite. Seldom had he been outside when it was this dark, this quiet. Even then, it wasn't like his office. Good enough, though. Good enough to walk home.

He barely made two steps before he looked behind him and saw the big, purple sphere sliding down the track on the road, humming as it did. Strange time of night for somebody to be out and about. As it slowed to a crawl, and the whine died in tune with the vehicle's full break, the two doors facing the sidewalk opened like a lizard's eye. The shock settled in the second he saw the gruff, familiar face in the car.

"I was...I was just-"

"We'll talk about it," Neil said.

For a minute Miles forgot how to move. He held back a sigh, and with that, the fear. The seat beside him was cozy, but he took the one on the far side, arms awkwardly to his knees. Neil leaned forward to the small, circular table top tablet in the center and punched in the coordinates, no room for discussion.

The low hum of the cart whistled through their ears as they moved through the tracks. Miles was gazing out the window, unable to look at his father, seeing not a soul anywhere. Thinking of what had just happened, what had become of it, or hell, what it'd be like to just take a fucking walk. One moment, he stroked his hand through the fabric of his sports coat. It reminded him of a blanket. He suddenly felt tired. The chill still lingered, stinging him with the realization that he'd be spending the night alone. But that's all right.

He closed his eyes.

If the mood's right, it must be right.

2

The smell of chicken and broccoli filled the dining room, garnished with a little anxiety, lukewarm from the microwave while Miles tried to find his appetite. Mother sat on the other side of the long table beside her husband, drowsiness clear in her deep blue eyes. Brown from her ears to her forehead like a cowl, tan on all else. The pure white of her long, wrinkled dress broke under a barbecue sauce stain on the leg nobody had the guts to point out. Wisps of her blonde hair stringed from the base. And she kept that smile up, prodding the last green tree on her plate like a child. That's just how she was. Carrie.

There came a point where a house is so clean, it was distracting. All the counters glistened, the pillows at a perfect forty-five degree angle with the chairs in the darkened den. All the fancy plates behind the glass doors of the kitchen, the dishwasher still ajar for the last ones left. Lemon tainted the countertops, the smell of cleaner still fresh on the four large windows behind him. He looked out of them every night before bed to soothe the anxieties. He didn't even turn. He knew it wouldn't work. It was amazing how easy it was to break traditions with a couple pegs in the wrong places.

They talked about nothing-or even if they were, he wasn't paying attention. He figured now was time to push the chair out.

"I'm going to bed. Thanks for dinner."

He didn't bother to turn on the lights as he hustled over to the staircase, holding the railing, to the bathroom next to his room, and finally opening the door.

"Hey," Neil's voice said.

Damn. He was hoping he'd at least wait this out until tomorrow morning. It was hard to see him, but the scowl was clear enough in his tone.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Sure," Miles said.

"I'm gonna be candid with you," Neil said, "you scared us half to death. I called you six times. Ordinarily, you'd pick up after the first, but I had to scour the whole District for you. And here I catch you on the sidewalk in the middle of nowhere next to some crummy apartment complex. You wanna explain what that was?"

Miles sighed like a teenager.

"Look, it was a bad deal and an awful meeting place," he reasoned. "I'm never gonna see the guy again. He posed as some sort of Tier One who wanted to compromise with my beacon--which is ridiculous, right? Completely unfathomable."

"You're slipping."

Miles went pale beneath his fur. Meanwhile, Neil reached into his coat to pull out a small, wooden brush, drawing its black bristles over his cheek fur.

"The last thing I want to do is put it that way," he said, "but we have our curfew for a reason. I don't know what happened tonight, but frankly, your mother's stressed enough as it is, so let's just have a good meeting and maybe we can leave this all behind us."

Miles felt his chest sink as he nodded, sighing. This was always how Dad was. Always making bargains that helped the both of them, but still somehow twisted it to benefit him the most. It always kept the sting, but never the wound. And for that, Miles was lost for words. Every time.

The small clink right beside his bedspread caught their attention. The hole in the wall right over his nightstand now glowed with a bright lime green in the center.

"All right," Miles said. "Good night, Dad."

Neil nodded once as he waded back towards the stairs. "Good night."

Miles shut the door himself. Alone again, the tired lynx unbuttoned his coat, shirt, trading them for his pajamas in the closet. With a sigh, he took the glowing source in the hole: a small vial labelled "SleepAway".

Crashing down on the bed, he popped off the cap, pulling the covers up to his collar as he downed the glowing liquid inside. No cutting corners with the blankets, don't want them sliding off. Head sideways on the pillow, but not the body; that'd hurt his shoulder. No cheating. No fidgeting. Optimality is key.

When the position was right, he could feel it. He closed his eyes, and in seconds, was out. Drifted off to a perfect eight hours of sleep; the reward he'd receive from the potion every single time. Like everyone else in the city, he thought.

Almost everyone.

3

"Miles? Clifford Steiner. Good to meet you."

The sight of him was intimidating, to say the least. His grip was tough, partially retracted claws still poking his cuff. His left eyebrow was raised permanently, a scar where the other one should be. One eye bulged, brown iris, an intensity of some sort. Not that it wasn't fully understood. The lion's bound silver braids could've easily reached his shoulders had it not been bundled in a ball behind his neck. Easily mid-fifties, but unmistakably stocky beneath the fabric. And though this room looked not a bit unlike the office where he'd worked, he sure knew how to stand out among the color palette. In a way, it was emblematic. District Seven wasn't always the bright and shiny place it used to be. The past goes way back-unfortunately, not as far as surveillance; at least not at the extent it should have. Not that it needed to in moments like this.

"Likewise," said Miles, fighting the nerves in his composure. "It's an honor."

"My pleasure," Clifford nodded, already motioning to the door. "Come inside."

The room inside was a more appetizing surprise: a full, open window leading out to the light of the city; black, plastic chairs chopped up enough to look ornate sitting all around a table that took up almost all of the long room. They each took one, brushing up their suits one last time before they took out their Pods. Placing them flat on the table, they held the top button and waited. As expected, a holographic, green beam shot between the two, causing each of their center buttons to rise a foot, a bright blue glowing cylinder supporting each like an umbrella. With the first order of business underway, they each outstretched an arm and touched palms from across the table.

"I hereby accept this meeting of honor," they said in unison. "I promise to speak of fairness, generosity, equity, and truth. Let no truth exist under Uquaria but the truth. Through night and day, through black and white, I hereby surrender myself to the truth. End quote."

Now the two Pods glowed into green, beginning the meeting.

"This meeting is on the beacon project of Miles Turner," Clifford said, "and the compromises of which we may or may not agree to."

"Charmed to be here," Miles said.

"Now, Mister Turner, while I'm frankly impressed by your prudence and stature, I believe what failed in this project is its very faith. The misrepresentation of the problem is what got you the visceral response at the round table."

Miles nodded.

"And I'd call it better to focus on a new approach," Clifford said, rolling his shoulders. "I want to flip the Social Credit bargains on its head and use the beacon to track medical issues on the people of District Seven. To do this, I propose we test a prototype for my building so we can closely monitor the results, and expand outward overtime to eventually cover the whole country. That, chiefly, is my number one goal. We'll introduce heart rate monitors to the Pods that track the bloodstream of anybody who holds it and sends daily information back to the District Seven Health Organization. If anything gets picked up, medication instantly gets sent out to their doors, free of charge, before they even know it. We estimate this will greatly improve the welfare of response times, as well as the good of our people."

Miles drummed his fingers on the table. He waited some more time to hear the catch, but it never came.

"And who supplies all this?" he said.

"We have support from medical patents from all across the country," Clifford said.

Miles' eyebrows perked, nodding, impressed. "I see. I'm...just a little concerned about my part of the job. A lot of this is benefitting you outside of the actual construction of the beacon."

"This will come to benefit the both of us."

"You're looking pretty far in the future, Mister Steiner. District Seven isn't even the most receptive place to set this up, why not move it to District Thirteen?"

"Are you suggesting we don't have the technology?"

Miles learned at that point how badly he needed to keep his mouth shut.

"Perhaps I'm unclear on the finances," he said.

"I'm estimating around twenty seven million credits," Clifford said, jabbing a finger at himself and Miles. "Sixty-forty. You take this deal, your benefit to the country would be extraordinary."

"I'll think about that once this is a real compromise. Right now, you're gearing up to take all the credit the second this project's in my peripherals, and rest assured, I think it would be if I took this. District Seven's rich enough in investments to get the word around about Wyred, but I don't think you're concerned with that."

"Mister Turner, you're reading the nothingness between the lines."

"And I don't think you're being honest."

Something beneath that eye was swimming. Something malicious. He just wasn't sure what it was, and he had to get the upper hand of it eventually.

"I'm not a dishonest man, Mister Turner," he urged. "I just want the innovation it takes."

Miles paused, the possible retorts swimming through his head.

_You're wrong. _

You're crossing too many streams.

You're in over your head.

Each answer, too petty. Ignorant. One wrong slip could end Miles' reputation, or throw a wrench in it, at least. The trick was to find the center ground; layers to the compromise. But it wasn't clear. He closed a light fist just to hide the claws that came out any time he was this frustrated.

He took a glance outside.

"Nice view," he said at last, fingertips drumming together. "You mind if I stretch my legs?"

"Sure."

Even that was a bomb in his chest he would quell with a step and a blink, posture careful like a spear sticking out of the sand. It wasn't even proper etiquette to do something like this. For a second, that made him think about Rodney. A snap in his mind, the image of his big, blue eyes, and if he pictured close enough he could almost feel his palm in his hand, but there was so much work to do. Places to go.

"You know something I don't. For all I know, you're five seconds away from turning my invention into some pseudoscientific bullshit to people who actually need help."

That conspiracy theory felt good. So good he thought he heard Martin laughing in the background. Never in the heat of the discussion, but always right in the moment. Life lessons never seem to creep up on you until the second time you feel them. Miles cleared his throat like his immature scowl, deciding he'd rather not make it a third.

"All right," he said. "I'll see your hand. But maybe we can go to it from a different direction."

"I'm listening."

He talked as he shuffled away from the window, hands in his pockets.

"See, my friend Martin's waiting outside," Miles said, "he's in charge of booking these appointments. Real big into the arts. And we've got a lot of those people down at Wyred; more than you'd expect. Why don't we put them to work on this, too? Give this collaboration a little spice. See, here's my logic, Mr. Steiner; you can't force anybody to take meds, but you can convince them that they need it. All you need to do is say it a few more times than you already are. Throw out a few more contracts, get the arts wing of Wyred to cook up some ads, and-here's the kicker-we direct the traffic straight to their Pods. My point is, sir, with all due respect, I believe you're overthinking it. Why spend the time and money tracking their every move when you can make 'em second guess a sore knee?"

"Ads directly to the Pods..." Clifford pondered. "I don't understand. The billboards should be enough."

"And what if they're not? I can get my team on it. Wouldn't be the first time we've touched up the software."

Clifford's eyebrows twitched as he nodded, as if it was the final notch that made the whole idea click. Satisfaction.

"Gives a profit on your end," Miles said, taking his seat back, "plus the expenses you get from your ties. I just want full control over the ad agency. Watermark in the corner, your name front and center, we split the pot sixty-forty." Fixing his collar, he took one more breath, for the whole body. "That's my deal. Are you in?"

"Down the middle," Clifford said.

"Fifty-five, forty-five," Miles urged, "ambassador, I cannot stress enough, this is still ultimately my vision."

"Down the middle."

The nausea from the nerves caught up to him. That urge to reach for his handkerchief turned to claws on the table, still out from his quiet rage at the window. Sheathing them just in case, his other hand's fingers curled without even him noticing.

Just take my damn hand, he thought, as if he'd have a change of mind.

"Can I get a 'yes,'" Clifford said, "or a 'no?'"

"Yes," Miles resigned. "Deal."

With that, the burly lion took him in hand with a forceful, weighty grip. Instantly, he felt like a waterfall had washed away all of his stress he had just felt. The Pods at the table then scanned their arms for a few seconds before both of their tops retracted. The beams then showed their Social Credit in digits before rapidly increasing in unison, both by just over two-thousand. Miles could hardly contain himself. He was sure he'd messed something up, but that was the highest increase of Social Credit he'd ever seen. Just as quickly as it showed, they retracted back in the base and went dark.

"Ambitious," Clifford said, scooping up his Pod, stoic, even while he sounded impressed. "They weren't lying."

"By any means," Miles nodded passionately, rising with him. "Now, if you'd like, we can go for a coffee-"

"No."

That grunt caught him off guard, but with a second's more thought, maybe it was warranted. But only a "maybe". When they exited the room, Martin was waiting, so Miles looked around and leaned directly to him as Clifford walked away.

"Fifty-fifty, but we're on," Miles mumbled to him. "You up for an artsier position?"

"What?" Martin protested. "I haven't done graphic design in months."

"Yeah, I know," he replied, patting his back, "start getting influences."

Then he strode off with his hands back in his pockets like he was hiding a vile, corporate smirk, when instead, it was the claw grip on his stomach. When all was said and done, something near to him had been ripped away, replaced with something anew, and he had only to accept it. Such is the case for all great inventions. Though the potential wasn't lost, just scrapped. Unlike somebody else.

Miles winced on his way out the door.

All thoughts led to home.

4

Sixteen more X's in the calendar did the trick; well, almost, but screw it, that neat little plugin to his schedule made him satisfied. He spaced out, gazing at the empty office chair to his left. Martin was still out surveying and glossing the nearby Districts for a wider net, a wider reason to believe in themselves, leaving Miles to get to work with the budgeting, rallying each branch for construction, making sure everybody's on the same page.

He rubbed his bagless eyes and yawned so long he could practically feel his brain cooling down.

When corporate talk finds its way to the dinner table, you would think there was a problem, but with the head of Wyred, it was something empowering. The sweat tattooed to his brow from meetings and handshakes, as he was back to tinkering with breadboards. Have to get the knowledge. Never know when it'll be useful. Never know when-

The reminder to get up and walk glowed over the Pod. He popped the top, sinking the "3:30 P.M." symbol back into the hull, and rose from his desk into the hallways. As he walked, he watched all the people working much harder than before his meeting.

This is why he preferred never to have his own office. A part of him wanted to be a part of this, even if he was the one making the decisions. Even if by some metric, everybody hated him, that cat in his heart was a cougar that burst in the thrum of innovation, and a cougar needed a pack to get the job done. A part of him was rising. All these folks deserved a speech, didn't they?

Miles huffed quietly, a sense of pride erecting upon him. No, these feelings are too silly to be spoken aloud; but feelings aren't meant for words, are they? That's what he told himself. Done enough of that for one day. Week. Month. But his heart sure got a kick when Martin tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, how's your afternoon?" Martin asked, pushing his dark, square glasses up, the ones he'd only wear when he was out the door in a hurry.

"Just grand," he breathed.

"Great, mine too. I got the list for you. I compiled it based on the estimated credit revenue per year and amount of authenticity. Obviously I couldn't get precise data on that, so there was a little trouble getting a _lot_of them, but...well, see for yourself."

Miles took out his own Pod and clinked the rim against Martin's, watching the blue, dotted line circle around the center of each of them before it clicked green. With that, he pushed the top and waved to the download data, which displayed a list of nine coordinates in brilliant text, each listed with the District's location and business name.

"Nice," he mumbled quizzically.

"Well, don't get bogged in the details, I can tell you all about in full," Martin offered.

"Are you okay, Martin?" Miles asked, looking up. "You look tired."

He shook his head, a grin flashing into a nostril sigh like morse code. "I've just been running around all day, sir."

"No, I mean all week long. Are you taking those sleep potions? No offense, but you really should be."

"Those things don't bode well with my system."

"Well, you know what, you got me feeling generous," Miles said, "why don't I go visit one of these places myself before work's over, take a little look around?"

"Oh, but I haven't even set up any meetings-"

"That's why I said 'look around.' Besides, I need to move my legs, anyway. Why don't you have a seat?"

Martin stammered as they walked back to his chair. "I...okay, I guess that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

"Like I said," Miles said, waving behind him. "I got places to be, and so do you!"

In a whirlwind, he made his way back to the elevator, Pod still in hand, scrolling through each of the Districts. He landed his eye upon one in District Ten, impressed enough that Martin even walked that far in one day coupled with all the others. He decided to go to that one, first.

He felt himself so much that he barely counted the blocks. But something stopped him from going further. The sign above the door, bursting of neon even in broad daylight. Impossible to miss.

One trip wouldn't hurt, he thought, feeling the cold fan blast him.

____________________________________________________________________________

..six, seven, eight, nine....

Rodney counted the trees as he left his passion behind the door, the sting of the sunlight half-fresh on his eyeballs. A movie marathon only lasted as much as the collection, and he'd gone through the whole thing. Again. It was the least amount of exercise he'd ever gotten, but it was worth it in the end. He'd put on the same shirt on his way out, loose button and all. When the pain subsided, all he had was the numb, and a couple of weak legs, while he was at it.

ten, eleven, twelve, stoplight. Thirteen....

The grill inside the local diner roared its flames from the furthest room.

...fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen....

His mouth watered as the smell of it stayed in his memories. Sitting right next to the image of someone else.

...eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one....

But that had to be pushed aside, just as it always was. Nothing would ever bring him back. Not anything in the world.

...twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five....

_ _ And the math that he'd ever run into him again just never added up.

"Twenty-six," he breathed aloud, and looked right to the neon sign above: "THE WARP". He stood there for a while. Suddenly, he wondered why he'd headed there in the first place. Surely by now it was out of habit. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made, until the urge to walk inside was gone.

He walked down the block and to the right, instead.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine....

_ _ Right down here was the way, surely. His mind had just repressed the details.

thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two...

_ _ Some things added up better than others. That one window where the old lady used to live still had the pot of marigolds growing strong. All the cracks in the road had sealed up. He started second guessing whether or not this was the right direction.

thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five....

_ _ He felt the tension lift off his chest the second he turned the corner. Yes, this was definitely the right way.

...thirty six...forty-seven...fifty-three....

_ _ He was on autopilot, skipping ahead just out of impatience, excitement. This place was calling out to him. But why now? Asher...no. He brushed it off out of self care.

...sixty-eight...seventy-two....eighty-eight....

_ _ Eighty-nine.

There it was. The plaza just on the border of District Nineteen. The wide open plaza decked out with patterned stone floorboards, their pale reds and blues aged to a few greys. On the perimeter lay a couple benches, and beyond that surrounded more of the same skyscrapers. This was where the kids used to go to play for recess; maybe they still did, Rodney guessed, but it'd be way too late to see them, now. In the center laid the fountain. That great, glorious, marble fountain. As he walked towards it as if to approach a pigeon without disturbing it, he could almost breathe in the youthful energy he once had, grinning widely like that little kid had returned.

His eyes adjusted to the two men standing behind it, shaking hands, equal looks of satisfaction in their faces. One of them noticed him there. The eye contact was piercing.

"Mister Turner?" Harvey asked. "Mister Turner? Who are you looking at?"

He exhaled through his nostrils quickly as if to impose an actual facial expression.

"An old friend."