Author: TallTim

Neal was sitting at his workstation when the door slammed open, knocking over the remaining pile of printouts stacked on the cabinet against the concrete wall. A group of soldiers flooded the room, parting to allow a tall man wearing a dark suit. His demeanor suggested any resistance would be met with swift reprisal.

“Agent Reed. You’re Mr. Watkins, I presume?”, Reed snapped shut his identification, reflecting gold highlight from the badge briefly blinding Neal’s eyes.

Neal blinked. He slowly straightened in his chair and folded his hands.

“Yes, I’m Neal Watkins.”

“We’re taking control of this facility. You are to turn over any materials that you’ve collected in the last week.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Neal looked downward at the keyboard and smiled.

“Something funny about that?”, Reed’s voice crept up a register, daring Neal to break into a laugh.

“No, nothing funny. Just that it would’ve taken a polite request instead of bulling in here with an armed squad.”, Neal pushed up his glasses, gesturing to the workstation in front of him.

“If you need it, its here. I can’t vouch for whether its been sent upstream to the project archives. I don’t monitor the backup schedules or the servers that contain them.”

Reed stood motionless, as if considering several responses.

“Good. We’ll begin securing the site now. Please step away from the machine.”, Agent Reed motioned to the men stationed in the room. They began pulling connections and stacking printouts. Neal backed away from the machine, standing near the coffee machine as Reed directed with curt commands.

Neal was completely outnumbered. He briefly entertained dashing for the door and jumping into his car, but they were fully armed and from the sound of their arrival, had full air support as well. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The soldiers methodically boxed and carted out the contents of the office, leaving the filing cabinet drawers pulled open, like burglars with no fear of being caught. Outside, a loud diesel engine roared into the parking lot. So there had been a convoy on the way after all, Neal mused.

Neal watched as most of his life started walking out the door in rectangular storage bins, each marked with a barcode. It felt a little like dying, inside.

“So, what exactly are you looking for?”, it sounded amateurish as soon as it left his mouth, but Neal’s curiosity wouldn’t let him stay silent.

“You’ll be debriefed when I see fit. Sergeant, please escort Mr. Watkins to the conference room.”

The soldier gestured to Neal, following behind him as Neal exited the room.

Agent Reed touched his earpiece. An incoming transmission squawked in his ear, updates from central control. Nodding, Reed sat down, putting his feet up on Neal’s desk.

---

The conference room was the least used space at the facility. Dust covers were on most of the chairs except for the few clustered near the entrance. The large projection screen had been lowered into place. Neal glanced upward at the Sergeant standing guard at the door.

Not a chance of getting out of here.

Neal sat at the closest seat to the exit, sweaty palms on the burled walnut table. Hadn’t there been a speakerphone? Neal scanned the room, spotting the tri-lobed grey pod hurled into a corner, cord hastily wrapped and cut at an oblique angle.

“Thank you Sergeant, that will be all.”, Reed entered the room carrying a laptop, which he plugged into the projector patch cord. The soldier exited the frosted glass door, closing it silently behind him.

“You’ll have to excuse our methods, but this is of utmost importance.”, Reed sat down in the opposite chair, regarding Neal with a grim stare.

“So important that I have no rights? So important that you couldn’t describe what was going on when you called?”, Neal was boiling mad, some part of him pleaded restraint, but damn it, he was at his limit.

Reed shifted, leaning back in the chair.

“Mr. Watkins, I understand the frustration. What I’m going to tell you may answer some of your questions, but do not press me further than necessary. I’m not a patient man.”

Neal nodded, heartbeat slamming in his throat. Don’t let him get to you. Just act like a rational scientist and hear him out.

“Good. What you are about to see is restricted material, but given how you are involved already, I’ll just have to risk it.”, Reed invoked the projector output, lights dimming in response.

A grainy photo flipped up on the screen, a string of numbers on the left hand edge. It was an enhanced photo, spindly panels extending from a smaller cylindrical mass.

“This is — or rather was, one of our birds up in low-earth orbit. It was taken a few weeks ago.”, Reed advanced to the next slide.

“This is what is left of it now. We are sure that it wasn’t sabotage, at least not terrestrial based.”

The next shot was a jumble of debri and scattered shapes, the largest of which still centered around where the satellite had been.

“What does that have to do with me?”, Neal pushed up his glasses, squinting at the screen.

“Depends. You intercept anything interesting in the last week?”

“Define ‘interesting’.”

Agent Reed sighed, like he had caught Neal in the cookie jar.

“I really was hoping you’d be more cooperative. I’m going to ask you one more time. Have you intercepted anything non-terrestrial of interest?”

Neal took off his glasses, cleaning the lenses with his t-shirt. Reed had to know, but Neal wasn’t about to hand it over on a silver platter.

“The algorithms tag my observations, if there’s anything to find it will be in the logfiles.”

Agent Reed stood, summoning the Sergeant outside.

“Well then, lets both have a look, shall we?”

Neal rose, marching back to the office like a man condemned. He had to stall them. Just long enough to find out what the hell it was they were looking for. He thought about his log book, safely hidden in the weather-proofed junction box.

Neal wished he could’ve hidden there too, amongst the cables and wires.

(To be continued.)

The conversation was brief and evasive. Neal hung up the phone, residual impact resonating the ringing mechanism in tinny aftertones. They were coming here. What they wanted wasn’t exactly clear, but Neal had a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He had to prepare.

Sitting in front of the constellation of monitors, he began to formulate a plan.

---

Incursion

Agent Harrison Reed had a problem. It wasn’t the kind of situation where you sent in fresh meat from the academy. This had to be handled by seasoned field agents with extreme discretion. Agency business was always a hush-hush affair, but this was something on an entirely different scale.

Agent Reed, or “Harry” to his closest friends, was being flown directly from the deck of an aircraft carrier group to the Australian outback town of Parkes, New South Wales. It was fortunate that the local government was so accommodating. Normally relocating fifteen thousand people would be more of a chore. Nothing could be left to chance.

Even now, as he was choppered over the sparse landscape, multiple teams were visiting other facilities where the signal could have been intercepted. Another break — the equipment needed had to be very sensitive, or the Agency would have had its hands full mitigating a “vectored containment” scenario.

He was to meet with the local astronomer Watkins, immediately after touchdown. Their conversation had been clipped and awkward, driven by the need to release as little information as possible, and to prevent Mr. Watkins from tampering with the logs and archive data in the facility.

If he even knew what they were looking for. There was a good chance that the hapless scientist didn’t even have a clue as to what was going on. If they were that lucky. In Agent Reed’s experience, that was so seldom as to be almost impossible.

“ETA 25 minutes”, the pilots voice crackled in his headset as Agent Reed scanned the barren countryside below.

What a shit-hole. Still, better than some of the other deployments he’d had. Barely healed scars ached on his shoulder and and back, the remnant of a rough drop into dense jungle. His chute had tangled and nearly cost him his life. Hanging from the straps in the tall trees, he managed to cut himself down without breaking his neck.

In a way, this was a similar mission. Locate the intel, scrub the site and contain any leaks. Reed sincerely hoped they didn’t have to call in a code black. That would not be an optimal outcome, to say the least.

His scowl deepened as the engine pitch changed. They were descending from cruising altitude to better blend into the landscape on approach, full tilt as their target grew closer on the tactical display.

The pilot activated stealth mode, cutting engine noise to nearly nothing. Running silent was standard protocol when the stakes were high. Agent Reed steeled himself. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard like last mission. Second chances were rare events in his line of work.

Mistakes meant severe consequences.

---

Neal climbed up the main access stairway to the dish above. He didn’t like it, not at all. The Agent on the phone, Harrod, Harrison, whatever – was coming and he didn’t trust him a single bit. Something in the tone of his voice. Like he had done all kinds of horrible things before breakfast and Neal was going to be the dessert.

Wrenching open the utility box, Neal gingerly placed his logbook behind the braided wires and sensor leads. There would be no reason for them to check here, and even if they tried searching every square centimeter, there were hundreds of these junction boxes all over the facility.

Security by obscurity may be pointless in the digital age, but in the real world it was often enough to get by. Neal shut the box and secured the cover in place, careful to not scratch the paint. No point in making the search easy by leaving tell-tale marks that it had been opened recently.

He had no concrete evidence that the signal and the phone call were correlated, but the coincidence was too strong to ignore. It was best to be prepared for the worst instead of being caught out in the rain. Neal scanned the sky, afternoon sun glaring overhead.

Nothing yet.

He doubted they’d show up in a convoy of trucks. There were not many routes out here, and the plume of dust would give them away. No, they’d have to be flying in. It was the only way to get here with any speed that didn’t involve dealing with the pockmarked highways.

Neal briefly thought about taking the log book and driving off, but shook his head. It wouldn’t do any good, besides if they wanted to talk to him that badly they wouldn’t just knock on the door and give up if no one was home. He had to stay put and see this through.

Descending the staircase, Neal walked slowly back to the observatory office, wheels turning in his mind.

(To be continued.)

Slow waves broke over the pier, vanishing into the grey mists beyond. Neal looked over the edge into the water, past his reflection into the shadowy depths. A white shape, flowing and moving. Arms reaching out, impossibly long. Tendrils of fingers breaking the surface, curling around his face smothering his breath. Gasping and choking, he pulled back sharply as the —

CRASH

Neal snapped awake at his desk, toolbox in disarray next to his chair. As comfortable as his chair was, it made for a lousy bed. His neck and lower back ached. His hand still curled around the mouse. Neal’s workstation hummed softly, hard drive burbling to itself as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

What a strange dream.

Standing slowly, Neal made his way to the industrial coffee machine on the counter. It had seen better days, but the scratched and worn surface had a sort of character that Neal liked. “You and me buddy, until something interesting happens.”, Neal took the empty pot out and gave it a rinse. Something about regular routines that allowed his brain to roam free.

Discrete steps. Locate coffee pouch. Tear open, taking care not to apply too much pressure. Scattered grounds were the last thing Neal wanted to deal with. Besides, it would be a terrible waste of delicious brew. Filter, grounds, reinsert and lock. Filling the pot with water and dumping it into the machine, Neal slotted the pot and pressed the large amber “Start” button.

All sorted. Neal would complain about someone leaving the pot empty for the next person, but that someone had been himself. Not many visitors out here, aside from the occasional tour and official review. But Neal liked it this way. Coffee smells filled the room as he sat back down at his desk.

Neal’s monitor was decorated with various notes and reminders. Even in the digital age, Neal wasn’t comfortable with being fully virtual. He knew the fragility of whirling electrons on spinning platters, having lost a portion of work in a drive crash a few years ago. Backups were only as good as the last time they were refreshed.

Neal preferred to write his more promising findings on paper, in a log book decorated with a “I want to believe” sticker, replete with a blurry photo of a saucer-like object. It was Neal’s inside joke, as he was increasingly convinced that Fermi’s Paradox meant we were in the wrong period of history, all prior civilizations having gone extinct on remote planets we’d never see.

Still, it didn’t stop him from looking.

Sitting down, he scooted closer to the desk. Neal tapped the keyboard, awakening his desktop display. Neal had four screens, but when working with data he used the largest one in the center. The others were tasked to observatory data feeds and general communications with observers all across the globe.

He had left off near the end of his captured files. The algorithms hadn’t flagged any of the files for further study, but Neal liked to check to be sure.

Clicking on the next to last file, Neal invoked a utility that allowed him to see the spectrum data, in addition to a raw dump of sensor data for good measure. Waves wound up and down on a long horizontal axis, mostly sticking with the baseline drawn through its mean. The observatory was located in the outback of Australia for a reason, isolation from all kinds of signal interference.

It meant a few inconveniences, like the heavily shielded office that had no outside comms save the internet chat windows on his machine. Cell phones were prohibited, along with all their noisy bluetooth-enabled cousins. This allowed for sensitive equipment to receive faint signals from space, amplifying the output into a readable format for human and machine alike.

“Oh ho, what is this?”, Neal highlighted a segment of the display, routing the output to a smaller pop-out window that allowed for more detailed examination. A small waveform poked above the noise floor, like a curious porpoise peeking at a ship passing by. The algos had missed it, since the report threshold was slightly above the peak.

This deserved further study. Neal wrote down the file name and timestamp in his log book, tracing out an approximate profile of the wave. Printing out a screenshot, he attached it to the page as a reminder and bookmark. The shape itself was odd, smaller peaks-within-peaks that suggested something more complex.

It could be nothing.

Neal sighed, leaning back. How many years had it been, out here? He had a hard time recalling. Sunrise into sunset, short trips into town to get supplies. It stretched on like long shadows in a forest, blending together into a pattern of grey and black, until night fell and there was nothing but the rustle of leaves and creaking of branches.

Neal stared at this ceiling tiles, dotted pits like an inverted star field. He wanted to go out into space, but he wasn’t astronaut material. “Those also serve who only stand and wait”, Milton’s words rang true, even centuries later. In the corner of the room, a phone started to ring.

A call? Out here? How unexpected. Neal rushed to the wall-mounted receiver, knocking over a pile of old printouts.

“Hello?”, Neal paused, only hearing the hiss of static.

“Mr. Watkins. We need to talk.”

Neal nodded and listened, breaking dawn casting a dim orange light as the voice began to speak.

(To be continued.)

Discovery

Neal Watkins mopped his brow, adjusting his wide-brim hat in the New South Wales heat. “Sub-tropical my arse.”, he muttered, remembering the job posting. His main job title was “Radio Astronomer”. His secondary job was fixing and maintaining the large radio dish, including rousting any local wildlife.

He had responded to the job listing enthusiastically, not knowing that the majority of his time would be spent coaxing the ageing dish into producing useful data. Winters weren’t so bad, with moderate temps and rare precipitation events. But summers were on the uncomfortable side with muggy humidity and potential storms blowing in from the Pacific.

No clouds today.

Brilliant sapphire skies all the way out to the horizon, noon-day sun beating down on his neck. Nothing but the blowing wind and the metallic clink of his tools. You could hold a concert here, and no one outside the immediate area would have any idea.

Neal missed the city. Sometimes. It was enough to do some scientific work out here in the wilderness.

He detected and classified FRBs – Fast Radio Bursts, recording and analyzing short signal spikes above the ambient noise of the cosmos. It was painstaking work that involved isolating microsecond events against a large expanse of chaotic signals.

Neal didn’t mind. It was just like sailing. Pushing out the boat, tacking into a good breeze and letting the momentum build into a smooth glide over calm water. It took focus and attention to detail. Sometimes Neal would find himself adjusting and selecting signals on the workstation almost subconsciously.

Fingers stroking the keyboard, targeting waveforms, scrubbing the spectrum for small blips of interest. It was the “flow” feeling that he liked best. Select file, scan, scrub and notate. Neal often would work long shifts in the observatory office, sometimes falling asleep at his desk.

Neal finished splicing in the new control feeds, wrenching closed the all-weather utility box with a few twists. Time for some lunch. The sun was high in the sky and small dust-devils were swirling outside the yellowed grass border near the tall fence.

The dish was a beauty, 64 meters of graceful steel and reflecting mesh panels. At night, you could see the stars through the dish, twinkling and wavering in the darkening sky. Red warning lights pulsing at the receiver, tripod of struts suspended over the locus. Solitary cyclops, staring at the sky with an unblinking eye.

Arriving in the lab, Neal relaxed in his duct-taped chair. He had to hide it when the higher-ups came to tour the facility. It was too “lived in” to be on display. Duct taped with worn depressions from his elbows in the arm rests, it was the most comfortable thing in this office – besides his sheepskin footstool.

Neal logged in, scanning the most recent captures. Algorithms did a majority of the grunt work, but Neal still preferred to scroll though the list himself. There was always a small chance the rigid logic of the filters could have missed something promising.

Neal opened the first file and began scanning. It was going to be another long night.

(To be continued.)

Show time. Myles walked over to Alan’s office, rapping softly on the open door.

“Come. Ah, the shorts are ready, yes?”, Alan distractedly waved Myles in to a seat, sipping a latte from a tall disposable cup.

“It’s complete, I double checked the renders myself.”

“Good, lets pull in your files and give it a once-over.”, Alan opened his editing software, importing the files.

SuccINCt used the top of the line software, which meant loads of built in features. Myles had taken advantage of its scripting language to create segments that looked indistinguishable from the original, but would swap out suggestions to new objectives.

He hoped that Alan wouldn’t notice the resource usage, or the small spike in processing power it would take to do so.

“Ah, what is this?”

“Sorry, what’s the problem?”, Myles swallowed nervously, had he been caught out?

“Thought we agreed to use the updated logo for the outro.”

Of course. He had been so focused on the ThinVert suggestions that he had missed a part of the director’s brief.

“I can fix that, my mistake.”

“See that you do. Otherwise, it looks like all green to me. Forward to the media team when you’re done.”, Alan waved off Myles, like a misbehaving housepet.

Myles could barely contain himself. He wanted to reach across the desk, hauling Alan over it knocking his large monitor on to the floor. He had never met anyone so annoyingly passive aggressive. Clenching his fists, he went back to his editing console.

Focus. There was only one chance to get this right.

The rows of editing suites were empty, large twin screens showing the SuccINCt logo bouncing in random arcs. Myles had to make sure that they wouldn’t be able to make new ThinVerts, at least for a while. The long-term plan was to anonymously tip off federal agencies to SuccINCt’s malfeasance.

He unclipped his trusty USB Drive, slotting it into the front port on the render farm. The tall racks were bolted to the floor and fixed to the wall, matte black steel doors with clear plexi inserts. A frosted SuccINCt logo stenciled in the center like high-altitude clouds, translucent and ethereal.

Myles had swiped the barrel-shaped key from a co-worker. With the rack door open, the machines gave off a pleasant hum of whirring drives and buzzing cooling fans. Constellations of green LEDs blinked in flowing patterns, with hypnotizing precision.

He typed out commands on the pull-out keyboard, small monitor mounted above. Copying the code to the master server, he closed the session and pushed in the tray.

“What are you doing?”

Myles turned slowly, palming the USB drive. The frowning face of the IT support technician glaring through oversized lenses.

Time for the brain-lock maneuver.

“Oh, good question. You see, I noticed a rendering error in the clips I was working on, so I whipped up a quick fix so that the latest campaign wouldn’t be late. It involves the split-second timing of certain edits, which programmatically were adjusted using best business practices to adhere to the clients needs. Our window of delivery was limited, so it left me no choice but to employ a hotfix before the deadline…”, Myles trailed off, staring at his eyes.

The pupils didn’t dilate. Something was wrong.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”, the tech pushed up his glasses, moving closer.

“Oh, well its all here – take a look.”, Myles brought up his hand holding the keychain, whipping it into the tech’s jaw. Pushing down on his shoulder, he brought up his knee connecting it with the tech’s skull. It was over in a matter of seconds.

The tech lay slumped on the floor, thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. Myles looked down at his shaking hands. He hadn’t meant to do that so forcefully. Better hide the body before it was discovered. He hauled the tech under both armpits to the last row, stuffing him under the desk.

Walking back to the render racks, Myles carefully closed the door, locking it with the barrel key. He circled back to the dozing technician, stuffing the render farm keys into his front pocket.

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

When SuccINCt found out about their failed ads, they’d most likely look for a culprit in the support team. Myles wanted to throw them off track, it wouldn’t help having them on his trail when the house of cards came tumbling down. SuccINCt had a lot of money and resources. Not the kind of enemy he wanted raging after him.

Myles went back to his workstation and clicked the “Render All” button. The racks whirred into life, surging bits flowing across multiple pathways as hundreds of silicon cores crunched through the video frames. He composed an email, linking the output directory on the network drive, destined for the media team.

He had to get out of here. Staying only increased the risk of having the whole thing unravel.

Elevator down, out into the lobby.

He walked briskly through the exit into the twilight beyond. Further down the street, Myles cracked his access badge in half, tossing it into a trash bin. He was done with SuccINCt, the entire bloody mess. A huge weight came off his shoulders, he felt like a bird gliding in the sky.

In his left hand, a dull blue manual containing the technical details of ThinVerts.

Myles smiled, thinking about the future.

There was so much more he could do.

SuccINCt believed in supplying their creative team with the best equipment possible.

Twin monitors at every workstation, custom keyboards, cutting-edge editing software and trendy ergonomic chairs with mesh-like coverings. Myles wished his desk had a chair like this. Everything could be adjusted from the lumbar support to the inclination of the seat.

He had been in the editing studio for over two weeks now, getting used to the layout and technical requirements of the job. It sure beat making copies in the dead of night. With his new-found responsibilities he had gotten much less sleep. There were multiple commercials in the pipeline, and he had to help get them into shape for airing.

He wished he had never read the SAS files. It was insidious, invasive and horrifying. By inducing the mental “lock”, subjects would be planted with subtle suggestions, what to buy, what to wear, and now – who to vote for. The first part of his plan had worked, navigating the project requirements arranging to be put into the editing studio.

The rest would be a bit more involved.

Mary Harrison was SuccINCt’s newest client, a city council hopeful with eyes on state representation. Her opponent, Conrad Burke had been involved in council positions before, but was now jockeying for the state slot as well. The defensive strategy distilled into a series of “ThinVert” spots run on local cable and streaming sites.

Given Harrison’s resources, she was outgunned by Burke’s larger warchest and commercial business sponsors. That was the external view. The internal view from his perspective she was an easy shoe-in, just a few ThinVerts from a landslide victory.

“How’s the latest segment coming along?”, Alan was wearing a turtleneck sweater today with jeans, an homage to someone he thought was very clever. Myles thought it looked smug and pretentious.

“Progressing, getting some of the final bits spliced in now.”

“Excellent, when the whole series is done we’ll have another project for you to cut your teeth on.”, Alan patted Myles on the shoulder in a way that made him want to punch Alan in his condescending face.

It had been exhausting working on the ads, there were a lot of moving parts that Myles never knew existed. He waited until Alan walked out into the hallway, frosted glass doors quietly closing in unison. This might be his only chance. He had been in a state of constant tension, with managers and their bosses touring the studio to keep tabs on their latest enterprise.

Myles quietly unhooked his portable USB Drive from his keychain.

Slotting the drive, he brought up a file system window and started copying over code and assets he had created at home. This had better work. He felt the same urgency he did in his nightmares, running through faceless crowds trying to reach an objective in time. In some a huge colossus would be glaring down with wide open eyes, intense beams sweeping the crowd.

He always woke up when the dark fingers grabbed him, the smell of burning charcoal filling his nostrils.

“Say, what are you doing there?”, Alan peered over Myles shoulder, squinting at the monitor. Myles heart leapt into his throat, hammering pulse pounding in his ears.

“Oh good question. You see I’m putting these assets on here because the project needed a bit of enhancement. As you know, the asset requirements were for multi-level tactics employed with SuccINCt protocols. In brief, the components that you are looking at have been calculated to elicit the primary response, which in this case would be..”, Myles trailed off, watching Alan’s eyes go into that thousand-foot stare that Gail, his boss had done.

Alan had been reset.

Myles found that anyone who had viewed the ThinVerts without an appropriate counter-response would be susceptible to the lock phenomenon. He had made his own inoculating clip at home, and viewed it daily. It was a mental flu-shot in the middle of a raging epidemic.

He carefully hid the file window, bringing up the video editing suite.

Alan blinked, and straightened up.

“How’s the latest segment coming along?”

“Proceeding on schedule.”, Myles turned, looking at Alan’s eyes.

The same detached expression as Gail, like someone woken up in the middle of the night, not quite grounded in their surroundings.

“Excellent, well carry on.”, Alan walked slowly to the double doors, with a stilted gait.

Myles didn’t like using the brainlock, but it had leapt out of his mouth without him thinking. Alan wouldn’t remember anything he had seen before the reset. It was a horrible thing to do to someone. But the plan had to succeed. He thought about what would happen if it didn’t.

SuccINCt would expand their business from just slinging products to influencing policies and electing politicians. It would lead all the way to the top, with SuccINCt pulling the strings. From what Myles had observed in planning meetings, it was the exact opposite of the world he wanted to live in.

His assets copied, Myles retrieved and pocketed the USB drive.

The final edits were due tomorrow. If his substitution went unnoticed, he just might pull this off.

Myles rubbed his face with his hands, staring at the video timeline. A few edits was all it would take. Deliberately, he began inserting the key phrases and suggestions he had created.

Mouse clicking like the escapement in a clock, ticking towards an unknown fate.

(To be continued.)

Myles was lost in a crowd. Faceless bodies pushed past and buffeted him with elbows and hands. He had to make it to the computer terminal before the timer ran out. Shoving through to the sidewalk, facing multiple lanes of blurred traffic. He stepped off the curb, hands extended waving for cars to stop.

A large truck bore down on him, beeping its horn louder and louder.

Myles woke, alarm squealing in the background. Early morning light streaming through the blinds. Damn, he was late. He hurried to the bathroom, shrugging on his least dirty shirt. Splashing water on his face, ignoring the slight stubble and circles under his eyes.

Gail was probably texting him now, demanding status reports.

He ran out the front door, tucking in his shirt. Myles hopped into a hastily summoned rideshare, an unwanted expense, but he couldn’t afford to wait for public transport. SuccINCt was strict about attendance and punctuality. As an intern, he didn’t have much leeway compared to full-time employees.

He ran through the lobby, pushing past the turnstile, taking the first elevator up to his floor. Gail’s office was empty. A small mercy considering how late he was. Sitting down in front of his computer, he logged in, opening his work queue for the day.

Normally he would be happy to have a full workload, as it made the time pass faster. His head was groggy and he felt out of sorts, sorting through the rest of his assignments. Myles hadn’t seen Gail all day, which suited him fine. The last thing he needed was his boss riding his back.

An instant memo popped up on his screen, from one of the creative directors “See me soon-as, new campaign asst.”

He had been drafted by yet-another-senior staff member to be the errand boy on a new project. Sighing, Myles locked his machine and headed towards the director’s office. All higher-ranking employees had offices on the edge of the floor plan, which afforded window views and doors that shut.

Myles wondered if he would ever reach that status.

Walking into the office, Myles sat in the nearest chair with his tablet ready.

“Good, you’re here. I’m going to need your help on a new project.”

Alan pushed his clear-framed glasses up on his narrow nose. As one of the higher level creatives, he didn’t have to wear a suit and tie. Myles found himself envying the unbuttoned polo shirt, it looked extremely comfortable.

“Absolutely, just tell me what needs to be done.”

“Excellent, I’ll beam over the task list. This is a new account for us, so I don’t have to impress upon you the need for timely execution.”

Alan tapped his keyboard, invoking a data transfer via wireless.

“Sure thing, I’ll get on this right away.”

“See that you do. That will be all.”, Alan waved Myles away focusing on his monitor. It was easily twice the size of the one on Myles desk.

Myles walked slowly back to his cubicle, scrolling through the item list.

• Mary Harrison – Primary candidate for city council, new campaign
• Conrad Burke – Opposing candidate, see notations for background bio
• M.H. focus on expanding opportunities, better jobs, lower tax rates – other client spec as needed
• C.B. target failed policies, biased contractors, selective tax treatment – SAS enhancement opportunity

That acronym again. Myles sat down in his chair, syncing his tablet. Clicking on the imported folder, he skimmed the rest of the data. SuccINCt was gearing up to use the SAS “enhancements” he had read about. This was a first for the company, usually their campaigns were focused on retail products, not politics.

He felt a ball of worry grow slowly in his gut. If SuccINCt was expanding its interest into politics, they would have an obscene advantage. Last night’s reading delved into deep psychological territory, all centered around the “brain lock” phenomenon he had witnessed with Gail.

Myles had learned the “lock” phase was only the beginning. In that state, the brain was open to suggestion. Nearly any suggestion. Like voting for an opposing candidate kind of suggestion. It wouldn’t take much, push the cognitive envelope with a trigger phrase, then drop in the instructions.

It was elegant, like a well-written computer function. Except this was direct tampering with people’s brains. Myles sat back in his chair, staring out over the dividers. He couldn’t let this campaign air the way that it was. If SuccINCt used these tactics to gain power, there would be no end to it.

Leaning forward, he started a new document laying the details of his plan.

This had better work, or there would be hell to pay.

(To be continued.)

Mondays were filled with meetings and status reviews, queues of anxious coders and designers starting their first round of “360” evaluations. Myles was secretly grateful he didn’t have to participate in those. The stories that leaked out during lunchtime were horrific.

Gail’s odd behavior kept looping in his mind. The stern warning, then the blank stare. It hadn’t been anything he had said, had it? He wondered if it was a huge prank being played out at his expense. Descending to the lobby, the elevator was full of polo-wearing techs and suited sales reps.

Release the herd!

Myles visualized the escaping employees as a stampede of cattle, thundering out the turnstiles into the busy city streets. He was more a tumbleweed or curious turtle, waiting until the dust settled to make his way home. He needed to look at the documents again.

There was something he was missing. SuccINCt tailored each of their campaigns to exacting criteria matching the demographic and specific client requirements. With the pressure of Digital Video Recorders and streaming services, they were all too aware of the tendency to skip ahead avoiding ads entirely.

The invisible hand of attention deficit plagued the industry. Was it better to pour more resources into production, raising the bar compared to their competitors, or change the content? SuccINCt had taken a different route, cutting out the fat and condensing pure ad-messaging into “ThinVerts”.

Myles had seen the ThinVert term used throughout the SAS archive. It seemed the most likely place to begin searching for clues. He didn’t watch much television himself. Myles loved movies, he often would sit with friends watching or stream his favorites to his tablet, curled up in bed.

Sometimes, during dry status meetings he’d hold his phone under the table edge, playing a movie with sub-titles. It preserved his sanity in a job that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to pursue as a career. It certainly didn’t match up with the recruitment pitch that got him his internship.

Arriving home, Myles tossed his work bag on the floor grabbing a beer from the fridge. It was a “premium micro-brew”, which happened to also be one of SuccINCt’s clients. Hoovered into the gaping maw of industrial brewers, the name of the hapless brewery was still used. It lent authenticity to the brand.

Myles logged in to his computer, pulling up a browser window.

Trice Triple Bock ticked all the boxes, a dark amber lager produced by Trice brewery before their corporate takeover last year. Myles executed a search for adverts they had posted. A short list populated the screen, one from before the acquisition, and several after.

He clicked on the first ad, thumbnail of a bearded man holding a brown beer bottle standing in front of stainless steel fermentation tanks. “Welcome to Trice, we believe in the best ingredients even if Bob is too drunk to pour them into old Gertie here.” A comedic sketch ensued, where a Trice employee stumbled around the tanks spilling grains from a burlap sack.

Myles chuckled, as the brewmaster caught up with bumbling Bob. The video ended with both men clinking bottles reciting the slogan “Trice-tation”, smiling into the camera.

He scrolled down to the latest video, thumbnail showing gleaming rendered tanks in a cutaway view. The presentation was heads above the first one, shot professionally on high-resolution equipment. Splash presentation, rapid intercuts to a label dotted with condensation.

The pace was tight and synced with the pounding soundtrack. Liquid amber background undulating behind multiple slices of pouring beer laid on top. It concluded with a rapid fly-through of the brewery, resting on the Trice logo fading into a black background. The running time of the video was short, almost half of the first one.

Myles looked at the first video running time. It was nearly 4 minutes. The SuccINCt videos were 3, 2, and 1 minute 30 seconds. But why shorter? He knew that budgeting for a given campaign didn’t vary too widely. The only extras were effects rendering times and billable hours for client changes.

The trend was obviously down, but Myles didn’t know why.

Clicking on the SAS archive, he began reading more carefully. The first pass he had made only scratched the surface. The answer was here, he was sure of it. Hours passed, sunset fading into the still of night. Cool breeze creating dancing shadows from the trees outside.

He was halfway through the archive. Scrolling down one more line, folder labeled “OCS Redefined”. Myles clicked, swearing it would be the last one before turning in for the night. His weary body felt hollow and worn. Expanding the folder, he clicked on “Introduction”.

Operant Conditioning is well known and largely confined to positive and negative reward systems. We propose a more original approach, where the subject is given stimuli in concentrated sessions designed to enhance attention deficit yielding exploitable results.

Myles stopped cold. Operant Conditioning? He knew advertising was linked to internal desires and creating need, but not on such a fundamental level. What was Prototyping up to? He chewed on his lower lip, scanning through the document. Large sections of text referred to scientific studies, with notations added in red.

This was it. SuccINCt’s core strategy.

He clicked on the next document.

There was so much to understand.

(To be continued.)