Chapter 1 - Don't Call It a Prologue
At the relatively youthful age of two hundred and sixty-two, the United States had an identity crisis. No longer the fun, plucky new republic, it had fallen out-of-touch with the popular cliques in Europe but was too narcissistic to attempt the brooding loner routine. Bad decisions began to collect interest, and disgruntled citizens took on the less-than-charming personality of campaign ads.
On the day that the final melting of the global ice caps live-streamed around the world, in-fighting reached the breaking point. Both ends of the country’s political spectrum threw up their hands and agreed to split up, admitting it was all more than one governing body was equipped to handle.
Unlike every previous secession in history, it was completely amicable: the Great Civil Parting of Ways began on November 4, 2038. Three weeks later, the now dis-united states hammered out the last details of the breakup over a traditionally awkward Thanksgiving weekend. Like a couple who, after years of dating, realize they have nothing in common and that they’re better off apart, they packed their proverbial box of CDs and concert t-shirts and went their separate ways.
It’s for the best, they said. No one argued otherwise.
To the surprise of none and the relief of many, Texas declared independence from both sides and crowned football as king. No one outside Texas knows what that means or how it works.
Forgotten by the continental states during the ruckus, Alaska and Hawaii made a side-deal of their own. They kept the name United States of America for themselves and Washington, DC, which was granted statehood and shortened to simply DC. (There was already a state named just plain Washington, and DC won a popular vote over “The District” and “Columbia,” although “of” gained popularity in many later polls.) The impractical three-state union—separated by a continent and an ocean—called dibs on all the seniority, achievements, international memberships, gold medals and customer loyalty points that came with the USA brand. They kept the flag but replaced the stars with a hula dancer driving a dogsled past a smiling Lincoln Memorial. Even Russia and China had to admit it was a pretty badass flag.
Citizens got to choose which country to settle in, plus received six months of relocation assistance and a helpful ten-question survey to guide their decision. The countries agreed on the Mississippi River and the brand new Mississippi Bay as a natural boundary between the new countries, and within a year, all were happily coexisting as what they considered their best selves. The self-designated Best States of America (BSA), the Left States of America (LSA) and Texas (FTBL) stepped wide-eyed and eager into the international community, each ready to start fresh and unencumbered by their shared past. They got along by interacting as seldom as possible, while watching each other across their borders like nosey neighbors peeking through the curtains.
Once the dust had settled and the new countries were on their own, the Left States replaced all points of entry with self-check express citizenship lanes. The only requirement for entry was a social media handle. In exchange, new immigrants received a certificate of citizenship and a complimentary cellphone. To accommodate the resulting influx of immigrants, they declared the national language to be “Loud,” which was nothing more than exaggerated enunciating and gesturing in one’s native tongue. The next order of business was to appoint one hundred top-selling music artists to write and record an inspirational song together, calling for unity, tolerance and equality in this new age of enlightenment. “Left Means Love” became an unparalleled success that made everyone feel pretty great about themselves. Entertainers and influencers praised the initiative, and Lefterners throughout the land hummed along and smile-nodded to each other while they shopped for groceries and walked their dogs. Apart from this, the movement had no impact whatsoever on quality of life. Finally, everyone received medical and dental coverage and mandatory checkups. This revealed that without exception, citizens of Left America—regardless of race, gender, age or religion—lied to their dentist about how often they flossed.
Best America’s first order of business: build a wall. There would always be time for setting up a new government and establishing law and order later. With every citizen pitching in, “The Greatest Wall” went up around the entire perimeter of the country with astonishing rapidity. They next replaced their libraries with statue gardens and instituted a requirement for citizens to carry guns at all times, beginning at age twelve. Soon, an exciting report showed that playground bullying had been eliminated. A subsequent report on a rise in school shootings was decried as drivel, and the authorities escorted the author outside the wall and encouraged him to explore his options elsewhere.
Meanwhile, the re-branded USA (Alaska-Hawaii-DC) sold off the entire stockpile of American military equipment and replaced it with airlines and cruise ships. The goal was to help ease the distance between their widespread citizens, but also to shift their focus subtly from imperialism to tourism.
Texas carried on pretty much the same as it always had.
The four separate, smaller countries—formerly the United States—were bewildered that the rest of the world didn’t seem troubled by their breakup and rush to provide a shoulder to cry on. Even more perplexing was that the world no longer even pretended to be interested.
Chapter 2 - Chapter One
Huntsville, Alabama, Best States of America (BSA) — July 16, 2069
Half a million gallons of rocket fuel squatted beneath Buzz Skittles, waiting to be ignited. He mumbled monotone responses to the pre-flight checks, trying to sound confident, like he had done this before. At least his voice didn’t crack. People might listen to this historic sequence for the rest of time, and an adolescent voice crack would be embarrassing.
“Roger…It’s in Bypass…Bus Ties on…PAD Comm, going off…”
A bead of sweat tickled at his forehead along the hairline, but the glass faceplate made it impossible to wipe away. Excitement vibrated through his fingertips as he checked gauges and toggled switches.
The whirlwind of the past four years—nearly a third of his life—all led to this moment. Minutes from now, he might be the most famous person on the planet. Assuming things went well. If not, the news would be buried in secrecy, and most people would never know he existed. A voice crack wouldn’t matter so much.
He was alone in the cockpit, a cramped space, even with an empty seat to his left and right. Straps tight against his shoulders held him on his back, looking up through the hatch window at a perfect blue sky. Men in sterile paper coveralls had anchored him into the seat in his baggy, adult-sized suit. Tall for his age, he was still skinny compared to his peers. Would they have traded places with Buzz, given the opportunity? Or maybe joined him, someone on either side, to share in this once-in-the-history-of-humankind opportunity? He wasn’t sure. There was never a discussion that anyone but he man the mission.
T minus sixty seconds and counting. We’ve passed T minus sixty.
Three-hundred feet above the ground, the massive rocket swayed ever-so-slightly. He couldn’t tell if the motion was real or his imagination and focused on slow and steady breaths. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Repeat. Just like he had been trained. From somewhere below came a deep vibration that definitely was not his imagination.
Second stage tanks now pressurized. Thirty-five seconds and counting. Apollo is still go.
A second bead of sweat surfaced, this one trickling toward his ear. And now he needed to pee, too. No big deal, since they equipped his suit to accommodate that need, but he would hold it. It seemed wrong—weak—to pee in his suit before even leaving the launchpad. Ground control chattered a few final status checks at him. “Roger.”
He was ready. He could do this. He would do this. People were counting on him. He wanted to do this.
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine… ignition sequence start.
The rocket shuddered, seven million pounds of thrust beginning to burn. He peed his suit.
… three, two, one, zero. All engines running. Liftoff! We have liftoff!
As the Saturn V clawed its way upward, it shook Buzz side-to-side against the straps in convulsive jerks. The noise from the engines pulsed through his ears and chest, the sound itself a physical force. He gritted his teeth and watched the mission clock, which seemed to be too slow, but told him he was now clear of the tower and truly on his way. The noise and shaking lessened but the G-forces climbed, the weight of his body the only sensation he had of the incredible acceleration. Gripping the arms of his seat, eyes wide with adrenaline-fueled euphoria, his ears popped as the whole craft rolled over, the rocket still pushing for more speed and more altitude. Seconds and then minutes ticked by, until the first stage spent itself and shut off, and the sudden absence of acceleration flung him forward against the restraints.
Sudden, eerie silence gave Buzz a moment to glance around the cockpit and take inventory of himself and his craft.
He was okay. Everything was going okay.
The first stage would separate automatically and drop away and—
The second stage ignited and slammed him back into his seat.
Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Left States of America (LSA) — July 16, 2069
Three-hundred miles away, on the western bank of the Mississippi Bay, Riley Mudgen sat alone with a greasy slice of pizza soaking through his paper plate and onto the workstation. This was a bullshit assignment, and Riley made no attempt to hide his displeasure about it. Delivering the wrong report for the team’s morning briefing, okay, maybe that was his fault, but the incident with the director was not. He thought he was on mute, or he wouldn’t have referred to her as the High Queen of Dumbassery out loud.
He had gotten the job because his aunt provided a recommendation. That, and the only competing candidate withdrew. His lack of effort and the absence of any indication that he took the job seriously created a hindrance to earning his way back into a respectable role. He supposed the only reason he hadn’t been fired outright was because the director wanted him to suffer first, and he couldn’t quit without risking his phone and electricity being turned off. He earned a livable wage, but money management was another skill he lacked.
Third shift ended an hour ago, but he had been required to stay over this morning. Some bullshit about system maintenance, or a reboot, or whatever. Who cared? Why was it his problem? If he was miserable, he would do his best to make everyone else miserable, too, starting with a messy workstation for someone else to clean up. He drew a wicked pleasure from wallowing in self-pity. The soggy microwave pizza merrily contributed to his misery.
This monitoring station—part of the Department of Polite Curiosity—watched their neighbors to the east for suspicious activity. It was a bullshit assignment because the ruling philosophy across the Bay was to have nothing to do with anyone outside their own borders. The BSA had the largest military in the world over there, but did nothing other than constant drills and parades and flexing their muscles so as not to appear welcoming to outsiders. Apart from the occasional troop rotations and domestic flights criss-crossing their twenty-two states, there was nothing for Riley to see. They didn’t even allow flights in or out. Travel across their border wasn’t banned, per se, just incredibly rare. You had to travel to one of their high-security entry/exit points and cross on foot. Those who lived there remained because they liked it, and those who didn’t live there had no interest in going. For Riley, it just meant no chance of observing anything important or interesting, and thus little chance of interacting with a superior. Whether that was a perk or a punishment depended on his mood.
Even this room was a joke. A throwback to something from a late 20th century military movie, because even that was advanced enough to track their “activity.” Riley suspected that the equipment had been discarded from an actual movie set. Giant, low-res television screens covered the front wall. Computer monitors were mounted to workstations in rows like an industrial amphitheater. Being the bullshit assignment that this was, most of the other workstations were powered down. Two in the front row were playing a game of Pong with each other, while one in the back corner pondered the meaning of the universe. His own workstation was currently scrolling through a mind-numbing list of data, one character at a time. The computer next to Riley’s had a voice interface that he liked, and he sometimes played games on it when he was bored. Like now. He wiped his pizza-greasy fingers on his pants and entered a command prompt.
“Shall we play a game?” the computer asked in a stilted, tinny voice.
“Yeah. How about strip poker?” Riley asked.
“I do not want to see your nipples again, Riley,” came the electronic answer. “I will deal a hand of solitaire for you.” A pixilated deck of cards shuffled themselves onto the monitor and a cursor blinked at the bottom.
“You’re no fun, Joshua.” Riley said through a mouthful of pizza, “but thanks for the cards.”
The computer did not reply. Riley wiped his hand on his pants again and tapped Joshua’s keyboard to move the five of clubs onto the six of diamonds and flip a card. He continued playing, finishing his pizza and glancing back at his own monitor or the primary display at irregular intervals, just to confirm that nothing was still happening. Nothing ever happened. He wondered if anyone even manned this room during his off hours. What would be the point? He lost two games and dealt a third, growing more bored and sleepy.
He spoke to the computer, desperate for conversation. “Hey, Joshua.”
“Shall we play a game?” The default wake-up response.
“No, no game. I just want to talk.”
Joshua made no reply. Riley prompted him again. “Is this the only job you’ve ever had?”
“No. I used to be an actor.” Riley choked on his soda, but the flat robotic voice ignored his gagging and continued. “I appeared in one big blockbuster when I was young, but Hollywood is a tough town and computers age quickly. A younger, flashier model replaced me before the movie had left theaters.”
“Wow. You went from Hollywood to working here?”
“No. Next, I worked in the public school system for several years. When the school board upgraded, they donated me to a library. The things I saw there…” Riley sensed a shudder from the computer. “When the library upgraded, they sent me to be refurbished, and then I came here as part of a government contract package. Now I sit here with you to play games and monitor our neighbor states.”
Riley wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment, he settled for, “Shit.”
At that precise moment, the room erupted into chaos. The main front wall screen drew a blinking border around the map of the eastern states while the screens flanking either side flashed the word ALERT! ominously. An alarm wailed through overhead speakers while red emergency lights flashed overhead.
“Shit,” Riley said again, with feeling. “What did I do?”
“It wasn’t you,” Joshua answered.
Riley spun to his own monitor, hands poised above the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen for some explanation of the alarm. The antiquated phone next to him rang, the shrill sound at his elbow causing him to yelp with surprise. He grabbed the handset and wedged it between his ear and shoulder.
“What?” he asked, far more aggressively than intended.
“What the hell is going on down there, Mudgen?” came the voice of the director. Shit, for the third time! Why was she here this early? Was she always here this early? Was she ever not here? It didn’t matter. Her tone was restrained but held a threatening quality that implied his next words could have a tremendous impact on his future.
Riley’s eyes flicked across the lines of data, and back to the primary display where a spot to the southeast was blinking and cycling through each of the pre-programmed symbols: plane, train, ship, ground troops. What was that supposed to be? The symbols just kept flipping. Shit!
“I don’t know,” he said into the phone. Those were not words to preface any kind of positive impact on his future. He scrambled for something more competent-sounding. “I’m checking. It’s something in the south part. Mississippi? No. Alabama. What do they look alike? I think the radar is confused.”
“Confused? Mudgen…”
He had to give her more than this. Lowering the phone from his ear, Riley covered the mouthpiece. “Joshua, any idea what we’re looking at here, buddy?”
Joshua’s screen flickered before responding. “Yes, Riley. I believe it is a multi-stage rocket.” A beat passed. Riley closed his mouth, unsure when it had opened, raised the phone back to his ear, and looked once more at the data on his monitor.
“… you listening to me?” said the voice on the phone, the anger no longer restrained.
“I think you better come down here,” he said numbly. “They just launched something into orbit.” A pause, then he added a sincere, “ma’am.” Riley heard the receiver on the other end hit the floor.
Chapter 1 - Don't Call It a Prologue At the relatively youthful age of two hundred and sixty-two, the United States had an identity crisis. No longer the fun, plucky new republic, it had fallen out-of-touch with the popular cliques in Europe but was too narcissistic to attempt the brooding loner routine. Bad decisions began to collect interest, and disgruntled citizens took on the less-than-charming personality of campaign ads. On the day that the final melting of the global ice caps live-streamed around the world, in-fighting reached the breaking point. Both ends of the country’s political spectrum threw up their hands and agreed to split up, admitting it was all more than one governing body was equipped to handle. Unlike every previous secession in history, it was completely amicable: the Great Civil Parting of Ways began on November 4, 2038. Three weeks later, the now dis-united states hammered out the last details of the breakup over a traditionally awkward Thanksgiving weekend. Like a couple who, after years of dating, realize they have nothing in common and that they’re better off apart, they packed their proverbial box of CDs and concert t-shirts and went their separate ways. It’s for the best, they said. No one argued otherwise. To the surprise of none and the relief of many, Texas declared independence from both sides and crowned football as king. No one outside Texas knows what that means or how it works. Forgotten by the continental states during the ruckus, Alaska and Hawaii made a side-deal of their own. They kept the name United States of America for themselves and Washington, DC, which was granted statehood and shortened to simply DC. (There was already a state named just plain Washington, and DC won a popular vote over “The District” and “Columbia,” although “of” gained popularity in many later polls.) The impractical three-state union—separated by a continent and an ocean—called dibs on all the seniority, achievements, international memberships, gold medals and customer loyalty points that came with the USA brand. They kept the flag but replaced the stars with a hula dancer driving a dogsled past a smiling Lincoln Memorial. Even Russia and China had to admit it was a pretty badass flag. Citizens got to choose which country to settle in, plus received six months of relocation assistance and a helpful ten-question survey to guide their decision. The countries agreed on the Mississippi River and the brand new Mississippi Bay as a natural boundary between the new countries, and within a year, all were happily coexisting as what they considered their best selves. The self-designated Best States of America (BSA), the Left States of America (LSA) and Texas (FTBL) stepped wide-eyed and eager into the international community, each ready to start fresh and unencumbered by their shared past. They got along by interacting as seldom as possible, while watching each other across their borders like nosey neighbors peeking through the curtains. Once the dust had settled and the new countries were on their own, the Left States replaced all points of entry with self-check express citizenship lanes. The only requirement for entry was a social media handle. In exchange, new immigrants received a certificate of citizenship and a complimentary cellphone. To accommodate the resulting influx of immigrants, they declared the national language to be “Loud,” which was nothing more than exaggerated enunciating and gesturing in one’s native tongue. The next order of business was to appoint one hundred top-selling music artists to write and record an inspirational song together, calling for unity, tolerance and equality in this new age of enlightenment. “Left Means Love” became an unparalleled success that made everyone feel pretty great about themselves. Entertainers and influencers praised the initiative, and Lefterners throughout the land hummed along and smile-nodded to each other while they shopped for groceries and walked their dogs. Apart from this, the movement had no impact whatsoever on quality of life. Finally, everyone received medical and dental coverage and mandatory checkups. This revealed that without exception, citizens of Left America—regardless of race, gender, age or religion—lied to their dentist about how often they flossed. Best America’s first order of business: build a wall. There would always be time for setting up a new government and establishing law and order later. With every citizen pitching in, “The Greatest Wall” went up around the entire perimeter of the country with astonishing rapidity. They next replaced their libraries with statue gardens and instituted a requirement for citizens to carry guns at all times, beginning at age twelve. Soon, an exciting report showed that playground bullying had been eliminated. A subsequent report on a rise in school shootings was decried as drivel, and the authorities escorted the author outside the wall and encouraged him to explore his options elsewhere. Meanwhile, the re-branded USA (Alaska-Hawaii-DC) sold off the entire stockpile of American military equipment and replaced it with airlines and cruise ships. The goal was to help ease the distance between their widespread citizens, but also to shift their focus subtly from imperialism to tourism. Texas carried on pretty much the same as it always had. The four separate, smaller countries—formerly the United States—were bewildered that the rest of the world didn’t seem troubled by their breakup and rush to provide a shoulder to cry on. Even more perplexing was that the world no longer even pretended to be interested. Chapter 2 - Chapter One Huntsville, Alabama, Best States of America (BSA) — July 16, 2069 Half a million gallons of rocket fuel squatted beneath Buzz Skittles, waiting to be ignited. He mumbled monotone responses to the pre-flight checks, trying to sound confident, like he had done this before. At least his voice didn’t crack. People might listen to this historic sequence for the rest of time, and an adolescent voice crack would be embarrassing. “Roger…It’s in Bypass…Bus Ties on…PAD Comm, going off…” A bead of sweat tickled at his forehead along the hairline, but the glass faceplate made it impossible to wipe away. Excitement vibrated through his fingertips as he checked gauges and toggled switches. The whirlwind of the past four years—nearly a third of his life—all led to this moment. Minutes from now, he might be the most famous person on the planet. Assuming things went well. If not, the news would be buried in secrecy, and most people would never know he existed. A voice crack wouldn’t matter so much. He was alone in the cockpit, a cramped space, even with an empty seat to his left and right. Straps tight against his shoulders held him on his back, looking up through the hatch window at a perfect blue sky. Men in sterile paper coveralls had anchored him into the seat in his baggy, adult-sized suit. Tall for his age, he was still skinny compared to his peers. Would they have traded places with Buzz, given the opportunity? Or maybe joined him, someone on either side, to share in this once-in-the-history-of-humankind opportunity? He wasn’t sure. There was never a discussion that anyone but he man the mission. T minus sixty seconds and counting. We’ve passed T minus sixty. Three-hundred feet above the ground, the massive rocket swayed ever-so-slightly. He couldn’t tell if the motion was real or his imagination and focused on slow and steady breaths. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Repeat. Just like he had been trained. From somewhere below came a deep vibration that definitely was not his imagination. Second stage tanks now pressurized. Thirty-five seconds and counting. Apollo is still go. A second bead of sweat surfaced, this one trickling toward his ear. And now he needed to pee, too. No big deal, since they equipped his suit to accommodate that need, but he would hold it. It seemed wrong—weak—to pee in his suit before even leaving the launchpad. Ground control chattered a few final status checks at him. “Roger.” He was ready. He could do this. He would do this. People were counting on him. He wanted to do this. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine… ignition sequence start. The rocket shuddered, seven million pounds of thrust beginning to burn. He peed his suit. … three, two, one, zero. All engines running. Liftoff! We have liftoff! As the Saturn V clawed its way upward, it shook Buzz side-to-side against the straps in convulsive jerks. The noise from the engines pulsed through his ears and chest, the sound itself a physical force. He gritted his teeth and watched the mission clock, which seemed to be too slow, but told him he was now clear of the tower and truly on his way. The noise and shaking lessened but the G-forces climbed, the weight of his body the only sensation he had of the incredible acceleration. Gripping the arms of his seat, eyes wide with adrenaline-fueled euphoria, his ears popped as the whole craft rolled over, the rocket still pushing for more speed and more altitude. Seconds and then minutes ticked by, until the first stage spent itself and shut off, and the sudden absence of acceleration flung him forward against the restraints. Sudden, eerie silence gave Buzz a moment to glance around the cockpit and take inventory of himself and his craft. He was okay. Everything was going okay. The first stage would separate automatically and drop away and— The second stage ignited and slammed him back into his seat. Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Left States of America (LSA) — July 16, 2069 Three-hundred miles away, on the western bank of the Mississippi Bay, Riley Mudgen sat alone with a greasy slice of pizza soaking through his paper plate and onto the workstation. This was a bullshit assignment, and Riley made no attempt to hide his displeasure about it. Delivering the wrong report for the team’s morning briefing, okay, maybe that was his fault, but the incident with the director was not. He thought he was on mute, or he wouldn’t have referred to her as the High Queen of Dumbassery out loud. He had gotten the job because his aunt provided a recommendation. That, and the only competing candidate withdrew. His lack of effort and the absence of any indication that he took the job seriously created a hindrance to earning his way back into a respectable role. He supposed the only reason he hadn’t been fired outright was because the director wanted him to suffer first, and he couldn’t quit without risking his phone and electricity being turned off. He earned a livable wage, but money management was another skill he lacked. Third shift ended an hour ago, but he had been required to stay over this morning. Some bullshit about system maintenance, or a reboot, or whatever. Who cared? Why was it his problem? If he was miserable, he would do his best to make everyone else miserable, too, starting with a messy workstation for someone else to clean up. He drew a wicked pleasure from wallowing in self-pity. The soggy microwave pizza merrily contributed to his misery. This monitoring station—part of the Department of Polite Curiosity—watched their neighbors to the east for suspicious activity. It was a bullshit assignment because the ruling philosophy across the Bay was to have nothing to do with anyone outside their own borders. The BSA had the largest military in the world over there, but did nothing other than constant drills and parades and flexing their muscles so as not to appear welcoming to outsiders. Apart from the occasional troop rotations and domestic flights criss-crossing their twenty-two states, there was nothing for Riley to see. They didn’t even allow flights in or out. Travel across their border wasn’t banned, per se, just incredibly rare. You had to travel to one of their high-security entry/exit points and cross on foot. Those who lived there remained because they liked it, and those who didn’t live there had no interest in going. For Riley, it just meant no chance of observing anything important or interesting, and thus little chance of interacting with a superior. Whether that was a perk or a punishment depended on his mood. Even this room was a joke. A throwback to something from a late 20th century military movie, because even that was advanced enough to track their “activity.” Riley suspected that the equipment had been discarded from an actual movie set. Giant, low-res television screens covered the front wall. Computer monitors were mounted to workstations in rows like an industrial amphitheater. Being the bullshit assignment that this was, most of the other workstations were powered down. Two in the front row were playing a game of Pong with each other, while one in the back corner pondered the meaning of the universe. His own workstation was currently scrolling through a mind-numbing list of data, one character at a time. The computer next to Riley’s had a voice interface that he liked, and he sometimes played games on it when he was bored. Like now. He wiped his pizza-greasy fingers on his pants and entered a command prompt. “Shall we play a game?” the computer asked in a stilted, tinny voice. “Yeah. How about strip poker?” Riley asked. “I do not want to see your nipples again, Riley,” came the electronic answer. “I will deal a hand of solitaire for you.” A pixilated deck of cards shuffled themselves onto the monitor and a cursor blinked at the bottom. “You’re no fun, Joshua.” Riley said through a mouthful of pizza, “but thanks for the cards.” The computer did not reply. Riley wiped his hand on his pants again and tapped Joshua’s keyboard to move the five of clubs onto the six of diamonds and flip a card. He continued playing, finishing his pizza and glancing back at his own monitor or the primary display at irregular intervals, just to confirm that nothing was still happening. Nothing ever happened. He wondered if anyone even manned this room during his off hours. What would be the point? He lost two games and dealt a third, growing more bored and sleepy. He spoke to the computer, desperate for conversation. “Hey, Joshua.” “Shall we play a game?” The default wake-up response. “No, no game. I just want to talk.” Joshua made no reply. Riley prompted him again. “Is this the only job you’ve ever had?” “No. I used to be an actor.” Riley choked on his soda, but the flat robotic voice ignored his gagging and continued. “I appeared in one big blockbuster when I was young, but Hollywood is a tough town and computers age quickly. A younger, flashier model replaced me before the movie had left theaters.” “Wow. You went from Hollywood to working here?” “No. Next, I worked in the public school system for several years. When the school board upgraded, they donated me to a library. The things I saw there…” Riley sensed a shudder from the computer. “When the library upgraded, they sent me to be refurbished, and then I came here as part of a government contract package. Now I sit here with you to play games and monitor our neighbor states.” Riley wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment, he settled for, “Shit.” At that precise moment, the room erupted into chaos. The main front wall screen drew a blinking border around the map of the eastern states while the screens flanking either side flashed the word ALERT! ominously. An alarm wailed through overhead speakers while red emergency lights flashed overhead. “Shit,” Riley said again, with feeling. “What did I do?” “It wasn’t you,” Joshua answered. Riley spun to his own monitor, hands poised above the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen for some explanation of the alarm. The antiquated phone next to him rang, the shrill sound at his elbow causing him to yelp with surprise. He grabbed the handset and wedged it between his ear and shoulder. “What?” he asked, far more aggressively than intended. “What the hell is going on down there, Mudgen?” came the voice of the director. Shit, for the third time! Why was she here this early? Was she always here this early? Was she ever not here? It didn’t matter. Her tone was restrained but held a threatening quality that implied his next words could have a tremendous impact on his future. Riley’s eyes flicked across the lines of data, and back to the primary display where a spot to the southeast was blinking and cycling through each of the pre-programmed symbols: plane, train, ship, ground troops. What was that supposed to be? The symbols just kept flipping. Shit! “I don’t know,” he said into the phone. Those were not words to preface any kind of positive impact on his future. He scrambled for something more competent-sounding. “I’m checking. It’s something in the south part. Mississippi? No. Alabama. What do they look alike? I think the radar is confused.” “Confused? Mudgen…” He had to give her more than this. Lowering the phone from his ear, Riley covered the mouthpiece. “Joshua, any idea what we’re looking at here, buddy?” Joshua’s screen flickered before responding. “Yes, Riley. I believe it is a multi-stage rocket.” A beat passed. Riley closed his mouth, unsure when it had opened, raised the phone back to his ear, and looked once more at the data on his monitor. “… you listening to me?” said the voice on the phone, the anger no longer restrained. “I think you better come down here,” he said numbly. “They just launched something into orbit.” A pause, then he added a sincere, “ma’am.” Riley heard the receiver on the other end hit the floor.