Don’t crush it! Carefully, I manipulate the controls guiding my airpliers, watching on screen as the camera in the tip of the pliers brings the microscopic gear into view. With minuscule adjustments, I angle the airpliers to grip the precious gear without damaging it, then ease it from the workspace to the waiting robotic hand.
While nanites can repair most injuries, even reattach severed limbs with a 99.23743% success rate, they can’t recreate them. At least, not yet. Limbs devoured by feral creatures (supposedly roaming the tunnels under our city), lost to explosions, or obliterated by other accidents equal a body which can’t be made whole again.
It’s my job to change that. When Cygnus (Cirrian Conglomerate’s Director, and my benefactor and boss) assigned this current project, he requested I invent something linking a robotic limb to the patient’s residual neural tissue. My answer? These tiny intelligent gears. Once inserted and activated, fiberoptic tendrils unfurl, seeking the body’s nerves, then smart-connecting to transmit signals between robotic limb and brain. Voilà! Integration facilitating movement.
I purse my lips in concentration as I maneuver the gear for placement. Almost there. Then Director Cygnus (as I’m allowed to call him) will use his vast power to arrange a visit with my family. Maybe even work his magic to wrangle a call with the one I haven’t spoken to in over a decade.
“Chiara!”
I startle so violently I drop the gear. It tumbles onto the workspace, and my gaze dashes after it, worried it will disappear. Only when I’m sure it’s settled on the workbench, safe, where I can reach it again, do I turn and glare at Sarissa. “What?”
Sarissa grimaces, the action highlighting perfectly accented cherry-red lips. “Sorry.”
My best friend looks so contrite I have to smile. “You’re forgiven.” I wag a finger at her. “But only because I didn’t lose my gear. What’s so important you had to interrupt?”
“The director wants to see you.”
The director. Much as he has a soft spot for me, he’s still the single most powerful man on the planet—and not someone to trifle with. Also, someone who seldom asks for me mid-project. Have I done something wrong?
Dread leadens my bone marrow, turning my legs into gelatinous goo. My hands shake so much they knock over a nearby sample tray. I fumble for a rag, dabbing at the spilled liquids, the action an excuse for time to compose myself.
Being the friend she has become, Sarissa would recognize my trepidation if I looked at her. Evidently, she doesn’t need eye contact to know how I feel. She places a hand on my arm and gives an encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine. He’s not going to eat you.”
“Are you sure? I’ve heard his teeth are pretty sharp.”
Sarissa giggles. “Come on! You know he’d never use them on you.”
I wince. “So you say, but whenever he asks for me, it’s like being summoned to the headmaster’s office at the academy.”
“Aw, it’s not that bad. You know you’re not in trouble. You’ve done so well on this project!”
Still, I can’t shake the feeling this visit isn’t a good thing. “Do you know what he wants?”
“No. Only that you’ve been summoned. So you’d better get moving.”
Sarissa makes a shooing motion, and I tug my hands free of my gloves, then, reconsidering, put them back on. If I have to shake his hand—perish the thought—at least he won’t know mine is sweating. A wild grin escapes. Small victories.
Not removing the rest of my lab gear, I scurry to the elevator assigned to whisk the censured to the director’s office. If he asks, I’ll tell him I didn’t want to keep him waiting because I was removing my PPE. In truth, it’s a shield. Although my specialized lab coat won’t make me less apprehensive, I’ll have more confidence if I’m wearing it.
Why can’t Director Cygnus just leave me to play in my sandpit? I’m in my element there. After all, not every girl gets a fully stocked lab and unlimited resources to work with. But no, he had to interrupt! And when I was so close…
The elevator dings, and I step inside, tapping the button for the top floor of CC headquarters. Deliberately, I link my fingers in front of my stomach so I don’t fidget. What could Director Cygnus possibly want with me today?
An eternity seems to have passed since the day he swooped in and rescued my family. Saved us from our broken world. Traumatic as that day—and those that followed—were, it’s all in the past. While that awful day meant separation from my family, every action was for our benefit. Our lives are so much better now. All thanks to Director Cygnus.
Because of him, my family have opportunities they never could’ve dreamed of, and I have my lab (and a stellar underlying education) to invent to my heart’s content. I’m proud to say my inventions have played no small part in healing our world.
And I’m back to wondering what the director wants. Is it a new task for my R&D labs, or something to do with me, specifically?
The elevator glides to a stop. It’s time. My breaths are shallow as I exit and approach the woman anchored behind a desk squatting directly in front of the director’s door.
“Mask!” she snaps.
I fumble it off. Hag Lady inspects my face, then gives a single nod to the door behind her. “He’s expecting you.”
Incapable of speech, I round the desk, wishing I had stopped to take a sip of water before getting into the elevator. Too late now. The black-garbed guards flanking the door observe as I raise a shaky hand to knock.
“Come!”
The command comes: imperious, cold, demanding. So like him. Or rather, how he behaves with other people. Reminding myself my fear is unfounded, I nevertheless stiffen my spine and lift my chin as I enter his sanctuary. A lamb to the slaughter. I stifle the urge to giggle. Where is my head at today?
Upon entering the room, I halt just inside the doorway, slapping my right hand palm down over left hand palm up, keeping my elbows elevated and straight out to the side. Then I slide my hands apart until my fingers catch at the ends, curling them up into a squashed delta symbol and drawing my hands together again. “All for one and work for all!”
“Chiara! So good to see you.” Voice significantly warmer than when he bade me enter, Director Cygnus lounges behind his enormous hewn wood desk, rocking back in his (yes, real leather!) executive chair as greets me. Intense hazel eyes follow me into the room, but he makes no move to rise, so no handshake required. Small mercies!
“Thank you, Director. Likewise.”
His laugh is jovial, but I never know how he manages it, considering his thin lips barely stretch enough to reveal his perfect teeth. “I am pleased to hear it. How is your project coming along?”
For a fraction of a second, I tense again. Did I miss a deadline? No, impossible. Even though I’m known for losing myself in my projects, it took only one failed deadline to make a point of setting several alarms, so I never repeated the error. Director Cygnus isn’t very nice when I’ve vexed him. “On schedule, thank you, Director. I’m close. It’s a matter of fine-tuning the link now. I should have a functional prototype soon.”
Cygnus beams and claps his hands. The sharp, unexpected sound tenses my muscles as I repress the urge to jump. “Excellent! How do you feel knowing you will improve the lives of countless citizens?”
I relax, taking in his evident excitement, basking in his approval. I allow the smile I’ve repressed to surface. “Incredible! Thank you, Director Cygnus, for the opportunity to help these people. I can’t wait to see the wonder on the first person’s face when they use their new interactive limb!”
Glittering eyes study me. Did he notice my earlier apprehension? I hope not because it irks him when I’m afraid. The director has told me repeatedly I have nothing to worry about from him. Or is he just taking in my tumbled dark hair (a mess, since I haven’t been home in days), the dark circles under my topaz eyes, or my waifish frame?
Uncomfortable under the director’s continued scrutiny, I subdue the shiver as sweat trickles down my spine, surreptitiously moderating my breathing until a modicum of calm returns. “May I go, Director?”
With an audible huff, Cygnus rises from his chair and stalks around his desk toward me. I try not to cringe. Remaining where I am takes all my willpower. At only five foot five, it’s difficult not to feel inadequate with him looming over me.
When he stops before reaching me, my breathing stutters back to normal. He perches on the corner of his desk. Not that it diminishes him. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “Sit, Chiara.”
Wooden legs dump my body into the chair behind me. He hovers over me, his six-foot-one height seeming more than it is.
“I want you to assign your current project to someone else.”
“What? I mean… pardon? But… I… my family—” The words stammer out before I can stop them. Before I remember who I’m talking to. Director Cygnus may be gracious where I’m concerned, but how many times do I have to remind myself he’s still the director?
Cygnus waves an impatient hand. “Yes, yes, I’ve pulled some strings so you can still celebrate your achievement with your family. In fact, I’ve even managed to set up that meeting tomorrow.”
Stunned, my mouth opens and closes, but no words emerge. This has never happened before. As Director Cygnus has often apologized for, rearranging my family’s (equally hectic) schedules so they can spare time from their own dreams to meet with me is nearly impossible. If we all want to be our best, we should focus on finishing current tasks before rewarding ourselves for partial ones. As a result, I never get to see my family until I finish a project. Successfully. Why, then, would Cygnus allow me to see them now, with the project incomplete?
My brain races until I realize he’s waiting. How could I forget? “Thank you, Director Cygnus. You are most generous.”
The words stick. While Director Cygnus may be charitable towards me, this is out of character. There must be another reason. Has something happened to someone in my family? My thoughts arrow to the one missing member. The one I regret never saying goodbye to. Is there news?
Cygnus’s face gives no hint of an answer. Instead, he ignores the thanks he typically adores and presses on. “I have a new project for you.”
An answer. Not the one I was hoping for, but an explanation. To warrant such an unprecedented move on his part, this new assignment is either incredibly important or time-sensitive. Curiosity jabs me. “Certainly, Director. What do you need me to do?”
“Create a cold fusion energy source.”
I blink, mouth gaping wide. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be swallowing flies in front of Director Cygnus. But did he just say, “cold fusion energy source?” Clearing my throat doesn’t quell the squeakiness when I speak. I don’t care. “Excuse me, Director?”
His mouth thins into obscurity, displeasure creasing deep grooves into the corners. “You heard. A cold fusion energy source. I know I don’t need to explain the concept to you.”
I’m having trouble breathing. Someone has shoved a gigantic ball into my throat, blocking my airways. My lungs want to explode. How can he give me a project which seemingly defies the laws of physics? More importantly, if I can’t do what the director asks, how can I keep my family safe?