Solid State

By Tim Knight

In the year 2036, humanity has achieved a nearly perfect digitally based society. Behind the scenes, a terrorist group known as The Liberators see it as their mission to free humanity from the shackles of social media. Aided by a rogue tech billionaire, they detonate a nuclear device over the heart of technology, the San Francisco Bay Area. Their act instantly turns back the clock two hundred years on the eight million people who live there, leading to widespread chaos and death.
In the aftermath of the attack, an ambitious, young Senate candidate rescues his family from the horrors of the disaster as more attacks are threatened. The man behind the attack learns he has been a pawn in a global game. Through an encounter with a mysterious stranger, he finds a pathway to redeem himself and make amends to those he has gravely harmed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987576021

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Copyright © 2023 Tim Knight

All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Cover by C5 Designs

Interior design by Jodi Giddings

ISBN-13 (Paperback): 979-8-9875760-0-7

ISBN-13 (Hard cover): 979-8-9875760-1-4

ISBN-13 (eBook): 979-8-9875760-2-1

for my beloved son

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air…

—Lord Byron

Contents

SEYCHELLES: Five Million Years Ago

ONE: Davos

TWO: Stanford

THREE: Misdirection

FOUR: Launch

CARRINGTON: 1859 A.D.

FIVE: Darkness

SIX: Escape

SEVEN: Bedlam

EIGHT: Decay

TOBA: 70,000 B.C.

NINE: Osiris

TEN: Sacrifice

ELEVEN: Solitude

TWELVE: Tao

About The Author

SEYCHELLES

Five Million Years Ago

Awarm breeze weaved its way through the palm fronds of the southernmost island. The beach, festooned with massive boulders and ribbons of sand, was pulsing with life, as terns, coconut crabs, and white-tailed birds moved about and sought their morning meal. Where the land met the sea, the mangroves hovered just above the surface. The roots of the trees drooped into the water, and small fish darted around their tendrils.

Farther out in the water, beyond the beach, and past the long, shallow slope of sand, the coral began. Staghorn, elkhorn, and sea fans rose from the seabed, and the abundance of colorful life navigated the forest with grace. The grinding noise of dozens of parrotfish, each of them engaged in the ceaseless act of chewing algae off the hardened calcium, was the only sound in this otherwise silent world.

Red and black sea urchins were anchored to nearby rocks, and sea turtles, most over a meter long, pushed their flippers behind them, gliding toward deeper waters. A school of angelfish fluttered past, the iridescent blue streaks across their vivid yellow bodies creating another swirl of colors in the chaotic and kaleidoscopic scene, and the entire archipelago was bathed in sunlight, completing a spectacle of peaceful vitality.

Eons later, in the era of homo sapiens, this place would be described as a paradise. Images of these creatures and their surroundings would imply a heaven on Earth, whose sights and sensations would evoke cravings for adventure in any person, as well as a willingness to shell out large sums of money just to have a little time there.

To the creatures there in that ancient time, no such thoughts of paradise would have any meaning. The moray eels, hiding like sock puppets in whatever crevices they could find, the vivid neon nudibranchs undulating near the ocean floor, and the occasional octopus shooting by had neither the capacity nor any reason for such a thought. This marvelous reef was all they knew and all they would ever know.

Yet only thirty feet farther out to sea, the flamboyant hues and abundant shapes of life gave way to the drab. A small, round stone lay on the seafloor, coated with brown moss. A few feet away was a second stone, similarly shaped, and likewise adorned with dullness. Then another. And yet another. And so it went, for the entirety of the millions of square miles of ocean covering the planet. A ceaseless progression of the unremarkable, the unseen, and the plain.

For those fortunate few inhabitants swirling around the rainbow rocks in the warm, shallow waters of the Seychelles, the alien depths of the ordinary ocean might as well have been another world altogether. One did not know the other. Yet every creature on the paradiscal reef intuitively understood it was exactly where it belonged.

ONE

Davos

To the uninitiated, what was most memorable weren’t the sights or the sounds, but the smell. Specifically, the smell of the world occupied by the elite. The rich. The well-to-do. The zillionaires. Whatever term a person might want to use, depending on one’s own particular place in the social strata. To outsiders, the scent of the upper echelon’s domain was unfamiliar yet unforgettable.

For those inhabiting the highest tiers, the aroma might permeate every room of their splendid home, or perhaps the interior of the forbiddingly expensive car they drove. The scent would also make its presence known in the private jet in which they were transported from place to place, as if in a customized conveyance tube circling Earth.

It would be difficult to characterize the exact nature of the bouquet, since the aroma was an unpredictable combination of materials and conditions from one environment to the next. Perhaps it came from an especially good grade of leather, combined with the faint wisp of a past perfume. Or maybe it was just that, whatever the venue, it was simply kept cleaner than most others, since servants were always on hand to ensure it was pristine. Whatever the cause or reason, F. Scott Fitzgerald was quite right in asserting that the rich were not like the rest of us. Even their world smelled different.

This was assuredly true inside the sumptuous confines of Thomas Peterson’s Gulfstream, gliding several miles above the French countryside, which was heading southeast toward the Flughafen Zurich. The jet’s owner was resting comfortably in the only occupied passenger seat, staring out at the winter landscape during the final portion of the flight. He was on his way to the World Economic Conference, more colloquially known as Davos, named after the town which hosted it every year.

Thomas Peterson had slept for most of his overseas journey, and although the creases on his face were those of a man in his late forties, his mind and internal energy were those of a much younger person. He looked his age, but he endeavored never to act like it. As a teenager, he had always tried to act older, but as a middle-aged man, he still tried to tether himself to roughly the same idealized point in his life, which he imagined to be around thirty or so.

As Peterson watched the snowy mountains pass beneath, his mind was crackling with plans about whom he wanted to meet and what he wanted to accomplish. Peterson had always believed the most effective way to carve out the life he desired was to anticipate, execute, and follow through, no matter what the endeavor. In aid of this philosophy, he was impeccably dressed for the conference, and somehow, even at the tail end of his lengthy international journey, he managed to look ready for a photo shoot, even though none was scheduled.

Some of the fellow participants at Davos might have assumed a man as wealthy and well-known as Mr. Thomas Peterson would be arriving with some kind of entourage. On the contrary, he was traveling in the manner he vastly preferred. That is to say, alone, the two pilots in the cockpit notwithstanding. The man had never married, and even though he would be turning fifty in just a couple more years, he had no intention of altering the solitude of either his personal or professional life.

The truth was that Peterson had been restless for months, and he was hoping the endless networking opportunities at Davos might initiate some important new project. It had been half a decade since inSight, which he co-founded, had gone public, and while the corporation’s IPO had established his fortune, he was no longer involved in the firm’s daily management, nor did he desire to be. Still in his 40s, Thomas Peterson was rich, independent, and looking for the next big thing.

As for inSight, tending to the administration of a growing organization had never been Peterson’s forte, and even if it was, he was far too addicted to novelty to keep grinding away there. He had no intention to retire either, since he simply wasn’t the kind of man who idled particularly well. Achieving wealth was a worthy goal, but it could make for a vapid existence, especially with no family within which he could immerse himself. So the next chapter of his life began with a blank sheet, and he was eager to figure out what to write on it, starting with the World Economic Conference.

Since Peterson was an invited guest to the conference, it was ironic that his own inSight product was one of the few things that was actually banned at the event. The reason for its prohibition was not because it was hazardous. Instead, the product’s purpose was harmless and simple enough that even a child could understand it. Specifically, a person wearing a pair of the inSight glasses could, at a glance, learn a tremendous amount about just about anything merely by looking at it.

If the wearer glanced at a restaurant, he could see a summary of its reviews, the menu, or its specials. Looking at a car parked on the side of a road, the user could know the vehicle’s make, model, year, and even what kind of reputation the driver of the car had, which was an exceptionally useful way of steering clear of obnoxious motorists on the freeway. Since every wearer of the glasses was also a content contributor, he could create information for others by tagging reckless jerks on the road simply by staring at the appropriate virtual buttons on the screen and voicing his unvarnished opinion.

For all this, it was just about the most addictive high-tech product ever created, especially during the first few weeks a person started using it. In a nation packed with consumers and social voyeurs, the inSight glasses were endlessly useful and ubiquitous, particularly when it came to looking at other people. It was that use case, as an engineer might describe it, that was the most habitual feature for the public and had made inSight a household name.

The federal government of the United States had grappled for years with the issue of personal privacy, social media, and data breaches, and by the end of the 2020s, the authorities had succeeded in passing what was called the Total Open Data Doctrine. In the tradition of most federal programs, it was trotted out to the citizenry with a memorable acronym: TODD.

As the government saw it, the best way to foster social cohesion was for curated digital data to be managed centrally and to be accessible by license to the public as a whole. Thomas Peterson, along with his former business partner Kevin Toffler, had been uniquely positioned to create something that would make the most of this new paradigm. They had therefore created, in the parlance of the Silicon Valley, a killer app for the new TODD data cloud.

As was the case with most high-tech success stories, they were in the right place at the right time with the right knowledge. The hardware, the software, and the government’s disposition toward information accessibility all lined up to make possible something which had never existed before, especially with such an irresistible variety of uses. Peterson and his partner had literally and figuratively given humanity an entirely new way to see the world, and it had made them both fabulously wealthy.

Given the inSight’s power, there was no way the organizers of the Davos conference were going to permit attendees to stroll around, aiming their data-enhanced gaze at participants and trying to divine who was worth talking to and who should be ignored. Over the many years the conference had been held, and long before inSight even existed, the regular attendees had made a high art out of assessing which colors of conference badges, which styles of dress, and which catered events offered the highest likelihood of rubbing shoulders with the right people. In a way, a contraption like the inSight glasses took the sport out of the entire exercise.

The ban against his product hardly mattered to Peterson. Although he had been the strategic mind behind the company, dovetailing his product vision with Toffler’s engineering expertise, he never had an especially strong interest in actually using the product in his own day to day life. Just about the only time he donned the things was during interviews for demonstration purposes at trade shows and media events.

Anyway, Peterson knew that he would get enough attention on his own at Davos. Although a miniature business ecosystem had sprung up around accessorizing inSight glasses to make them fashionable, it wouldn’t have been the look Peterson wanted to project even if attendees were permitted to wear his creation. He never would have admitted it, but he thought wearing the things made him look like a dork, in spite of the fact he was otherwise a very good-looking man.

As the Gulfstream started its descent, Peterson became more intent on the stunning scenery looming ahead. This early in the year, being the middle of winter, the Swiss Alps were captivating. It had been a good snow season, so the jagged mountaintops shimmered with fresh powder, and the sky was so clear that the peaks’ reflection could be seen in the lakes below. Although his jet’s flight path didn’t put him within sight of the Matterhorn, Peterson had heard that the conference organizers had paid for the event’s logo to be displayed via laser on the mountain’s peak in a rather showy, and most would say unnecessary, celebration of the conference. It was a garish idea, but no lasting harm would come of it.

Completing its approach, the Gulfstream touched down gently, and the plane decelerated down the long runway. Peterson slowly stretched his legs and felt around the floor for his shoes while the plane taxied to the terminal for private jet passengers. That portion of the airport was far busier than normal, since Davos week was the heaviest amount of private air traffic Zurich would see all year. Peterson, like the others who had just jetted in on their own planes, had long since forgotten the misery of flying with strangers in a commercial craft. Solitude, like privacy, had become an unspeakably precious and expensive asset, and it was just one of the many perks of being on top of the socioeconomic food chain.

After the Gulfstream’s cabin door opened, Thomas Peterson made his way down the airstairs to the tarmac, taking a few deep breaths of the crisp alpine air. The winter sun was already low in the sky, and it was a pleasure to have finally arrived and be out of the plane. All he had to do now was find his ride.

Mister Peterson!

An unfamiliar man walked briskly toward him, smiling. He was slender, mostly bald, and had a neatly-trimmed beard. Although the stranger was a few inches shorter than Peterson, he had one of those trim, muscular builds that made him seem taller.

Extending his hand, the man said, Welcome to Zurich, Mister Peterson. My name is Gerald Flynt. I’m here to take you to the conference.

I’m sorry, you’re who?

Gerald Flynt. We’ve got a helicopter waiting.

A helicopter? I thought I was going to be driven.

Oh, no, Mr. Peterson, this is much faster. It’s nearly a hundred mile drive to Davos. Mr.Toffler didn’t want you to deal with all that, so he made arrangements.

Toffler? Kevin Toffler?

Yes, sir! Follow me, and we can be right on our way. Flynt put his hand on Peterson’s right shoulder, giving it a gentle nudge toward the waiting aircraft.

As Peterson followed Flynt across the tarmac, a porter carried his suitcases just behind them. It was puzzling that this helicopter trip had been arranged. Peterson hadn’t heard from his former business partner Kevin Toffler since Alexandra’s funeral, which was almost three years ago, and the last place he expected to hear from him again was in Switzerland. It was a generous surprise, although Peterson felt a little annoyed at the sudden change in plans, no matter how well-
intentioned.

Peterson and Toffler owed a lot to each other. The two had succeeded in making each other extraordinarily rich, although once the excitement of their success had dissipated, the thrill of the chase vanished with it, and Alexandra’s sudden death made the partnership untenable. Their friendship was based more on a shared goal than anything else, and once that goal had been achieved, the two men simply elected to go their separate ways.

As he stepped inside the helicopter’s cabin, Peterson felt a tinge of shame, since he had done such a poor job of staying in touch with his despondent colleague. Yet that same friend had evidently taken the time and trouble to arrange a comfortable welcome for him to the conference. Peterson felt like a heel and started to mull over what he might say after all these years, which already felt awkward.

For the moment, a scenic jaunt in a helicopter was a welcome alternative to a lengthy slog in a car. Peterson sat next to Gerald Flynt in one of the craft’s passenger seats and buckled in for the final leg of his journey. With the extra time provided by the earlier arrival, Peterson figured he and his old friend could partake in the festivities that would be commencing that evening, and who knows, he might even wind up enjoying himself. The rotors spun up to full speed, the skids left the tarmac, and the craft lifted Flynt, Peterson, and their pilot into the frigid sky.

The village of Davos was never distinctly well-suited for a large international conference. With a permanent population of only about 10,000, Davos had long been a marvelous destination for skiers, but since 1971, its name was principally known as the venue for the annual World Economic Forum. As such, its name was also inextricably associated with the swarm of billionaires, business moguls, celebrities, investors, and statesmen that would convene there.

Given the risks of so much money and power in one place, the conference naturally made tight security a priority, and, in addition to the regular attendees, the heavily armed personnel substantially increased the population of Davos for the duration of the event. Snipers poised on every rooftop, security checks at every entrance, and meticulously-controlled entry passes were just part of the infrastructure designed to keep the rich and powerful focused on their meetings, parties, and speeches, instead of any harm the outside world might want to foist upon them.

In the many decades the conference had been held, there had been no serious incidents or breaches, let alone physical harm, inflicted upon the invited guests. Being able to attend the conference at all was an expensive and coveted privilege, although the organization didn’t just sell the tickets online to the highest bidder. Merely selling the tickets would have destroyed the tremendous cachet that came with going to the WEC. In fact, there were multiple hurdles to jump before a person could make plans to be part of the event.

To even have the opportunity to attend required an approved membership, whose cost could be as high as two million Swiss Francs for strategic partners, and then an additional 100,000 per person who wanted to attend. The list of invited guests was carefully curated, and although a core group made the annual pilgrimage, the attendees at the fringes of inclusion fluctuated from one year to the next, depending on their own individual fame and fortune. Much like the annual Oscars awards show, the invisible committee deciding who was in and out was ferociously powerful from a social capital perspective.

As such, any financial costs were a modest price to pay for the kind of access which attending Davos provided. Senior representatives from all the biggest investment banks would be there, as would a smorgasbord of powerful executives and entrepreneurs. Goldman Sachs, BlackRock, J.P. Morgan, Alphabet, Baidu, Aramco, Apple, and hundreds of other firms were represented, to say nothing of the dozens of important political figures. Plus the over-the-top parties, which were a form of one-upmanship unto themselves for the sponsoring organizations.

Unsurprisingly, the conference provoked ample criticism from the outside world not so richly blessed with connections and cash. The protests had become as reliable an annual event as the conference itself, with the media coverage of the protesters waxing and waning depending on the general economic state of the rest of the world. Some years the protestors were more zealous than others, yet the usual mob of social justice warriors were always in attendance.

During prosperous times, the outcry tended to be about environmental issues such as rising sea levels and climate change. During lean economic times, however, the protests doubled in size as well as decibels. The juxtaposition of videos portraying the desperate, hungry people of the third world with the pampered billionaires at this pinnacle of the first world was too irresistible for the networks to leave alone, and since the raw ingredients for class warfare made for a tantalizing recipe, the news outlets doled it out with relish.

This is not to suggest that the conference didn’t try to pad its program with well-meaning initiatives. Over the years, there had been countless speakers, presentations, and banners related to eliminating the gender pay gap, addressing racial inequality, providing education to the children of Africa, and forging international agreements for asteroid mining rights. Just about the only verboten topic at the conference was taxation, which almost all the attendees preferred to keep unaddressed and safely off the agenda. Rich people came from all kinds of backgrounds, and had all manner of ostensibly noble causes, but not a single one of them was eager to send even more of their income or assets to their native government than they already were paying. Thus, the topic of taxation never stood a chance of being granted an audience at the WEC.

Judging from the awe-inspiring view the rooftop snipers enjoyed, all was proceeding smoothly on the streets below. The protesters, while raucous and loud as ever, were kept at a safe and substantial distance, and the procession of limousines and Mercedes sedans steadily made their way to the hotels and conference venues where each of the invitees was destined. The sky was crystal clear, and as alluring as the fabled slopes were for the alpine skiers at the gathering, it was the cocktail-fueled parties in the evening which brought in the crowds.

At the Hotel Waldhuus, Dylan Jenkins, who had been Thomas Peterson’s assistant for over seven years, was anxiously awaiting word from his boss. With his neatly-combed blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and perfect posture, he could have easily been a cover model for the conference, if they ever needed one. Dylan was in his mid-30s, fastidiously groomed, and had a positive energy and sincere smile that made him instantly likable.

In spite of this charisma, he had eschewed any kind of social life of his own, particularly since he had split up with his last serious boyfriend almost a decade ago. Since then, he had committed himself almost exclusively to making sure Mr. Thomas Peterson’s life ran with smooth predictability which, at the moment, it wasn’t.

Dylan Jenkins had arrived at the hotel three days before, and his boss should have shown up by now, or at least sent him a message. While standing at the edge of the Waldhuus lobby, Dylan had received a call from the limo driver, but the brief conversation did nothing to settle his already-frayed nerves. The driver stated Mr. Peterson had never shown up, even though his jet had reportedly arrived in Zurich. When the driver tried to locate his intended passenger, the crew from Peterson’s jet said he had been escorted away, but they didn’t know where or by whom.

So now the assistant had to try to put the pieces together. Perhaps Mr. Peterson had found some alternate ride to the hotel, maybe joining the car of someone he knew. He wasn’t answering his calls or multiple messages, so Dylan walked up to the front desk again and asked, Could you verify Thomas Peterson has not checked in?

Sir, I’m sorry, we looked already as you requested, and he definitely has not. His room is ready, though, for the entire week. Is there anything else?

No, that’s all right. Thank you. You’ve got my number if you hear from him.

The clerk nodded and turned her attention back to the long line of new arrivals already waiting.

Dylan began to further speculate what might have happened. Peterson didn’t have any particular reason to be at the conference until later that night, so this was not an emergency. Dylan considered stepping over to the bar adjacent to the lobby to calm his nerves but decided against it, since he was sure his boss would show up the moment he was downing his first Pimm’s cup. Instead, Dylan decided to head upstairs to his own room for a while and catch up on emails, which seemed like the more responsible choice. This wasn’t the first time his boss had become sidetracked by something unexpected, and he’d show up soon enough.

The helicopter slipped through the mountain air, making its way swiftly across the countryside below. The passenger cabin wasn’t nearly as spacious or quiet as the Gulfstream’s, so Peterson spent his time looking uneasily at the landscape. Even if he had something to say to this Gerald Flynt fellow who had picked him up, it would have been an uncomfortable conversation, since they would have been practically shouting at one another to make themselves heard.

As pleasant as the scenery was, Peterson felt very awkward about this detour. Why would Kevin Toffler, whom he hadn’t seen in so long, want to get together like this? And why not at least reach out beforehand to make arrangements? Maybe his old friend’s heart had finally healed enough that he was ready to get out of his shell. It would be nice to see the old Kevin again, if he had managed to turn his spirits around, but Thomas Peterson was not a man who enjoyed surprises, not even pleasant ones. His life was based on the maxim: plan your work and work your plan. This helicopter junket was decidedly not part of his thoughtfully-designed punch list for the week.

More worrisome at the moment was the vista below. Breathtaking as it was, it looked completely unfamiliar. The landscape was very thinly populated, and the pilot definitely wasn’t following the path of any major thoroughfares. There were no car headlights, no street lamps, and no houses. Peterson finally decided, rotor noise be damned, to say something to Flynt.

How much longer until we’re there?

Flynt shook his head and tapped his index finger a few times toward his ear to indicate he couldn’t understand.

Louder, Peterson repeated, How much longer until we get there?

Flynt leaned closer. Just a few more minutes, Mr. Peterson. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Just sit tight.

Peterson leaned back in his seat, not at all satisfied with the answer. He could sense they were starting to head lower, although the topography looked more like patches of farmland than a resort town. In fact, it looked nothing like Davos. He tried to calm down, reminding himself he was no expert about this part of the world, and suggest-
ing perhaps the town was merely out of sight due to all the uneven terrain.

A few minutes later, the helicopter descended to the ground and eased its skids onto a square paved area surrounded by dead grass and snow, and a modern-looking house was a short distance away. Two men standing near the entrance of the house had been watching the craft land, and they bent down and jogged over as the rotors were spinning to a stop.

Good. We’re here. said Flynt as he opened the door and stepped down.

Peterson didn’t budge from his seat and he shouted to Flynt, standing just outside. We’re where? This isn’t Davos.

Flynt took on a slightly scolding tone: Come on out, Mr. Peterson. Mr. Toffler is eager to speak with you.

The furrow in Thomas Peterson’s brow indicated he was finally out of patience.

Peterson spoke, trying to conceal his frustration: Look, I don’t know who you are, or where we are, or where you think we’re going, but I’ve had it. I’m not just going to go wherever you say. Have your pilot take me back to the conference. If Kevin wants to see me, he can find me there. I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sorry about any misunderstanding with my partner, but I just want to get to my hotel. After an awkward moment he added, Please.

Flynt sighed and gestured to the men who had come over from the house. They immediately reached inside the cabin, each grabbing one of Peterson’s arms, and yanked him out of the helicopter.

Wincing from the pain in his shoulders, he shouted, "Get your hands off me! What the fuck are you doing? Let go of me, you fuck-

ing apes!"

As Peterson was trying to pull away, the two men dragged him toward the entrance of the house, with Flynt following behind. The pilot spun up the rotors once again, lifting away from the pad, and as he began the ascent, he saw the front door of the house slam shut. Behind the pilot’s seat, the cell phone on the cabin floor buzzed, moving around the floor as it vibrated while Dylan Jenkins was still trying to get an answer.

The room where the two goons had thrown Peterson was pitch black and utterly silent. The cessation of the senses can be unnerving, and because of this, on top of the bewildering experience he had already gone through over the past half hour, the man was terrified.

Neither Flynt nor his two henchmen had said anything to Peterson after they entered the house, shoved him into the room, and pulled the door shut. Peterson just stood in the darkness for a few minutes, absolutely still, feeling his heart pounding inside his chest. As unsure of everything as he presently was, he didn’t know if taking even one step might send him down a chasm. It occurred to him to try his phone, but reaching for his pocket, he could tell it wasn’t there. He surmised one of the men must have snatched it away when they were dragging him inside.

In the darkness, he was desperately trying to get his bearings. Holding both hands out in front of himself, Peterson slowly, blindly walked forward until he felt a wall. It was smooth and cold. He carefully made his way around the perimeter of the room by sliding his hands until he met a corner, at which time he would trace along the next wall’s surface. He deliberately made his way around the entirety of the room a couple of times, but it was still too dark to see anything, even though his eyes had plenty of time to adjust.

From what he could tell, the room was a simple square, and although Peterson was moving through it with absolutely no illumination, he never tripped, since the floor was evidently vacant. No furniture. No rug. Nothing. He could feel the thin outline of a door on one wall, but that surface was completely smooth as well. There was no handle on the inside, and not even hinges on the edge. Peterson was literally in a black box with no sight and no sound, except for his own breathing and footsteps. He felt somewhat dizzy as he began to imagine what might come next. Thomas Peterson had never been so unnerved in his life.

He broke the silence and said to the emptiness: Hello?

It was a ridiculous gesture. Given his circumstances, what kind of reply did he expect? But he wasn’t sure what else to do.

Hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?

Nothing. So he slowly made his way over to one of the corners, leaned his back against the two adjoining walls, and slid silently to the floor. There he sat, legs pulled to his chest, peering pointlessly into the blackness.

No one had seen the banner go up, but there it was, high on the wall, twenty feet above the floor of the largest conference room and there for all to see. It must have been some smart-ass who was attending the conference who got it up there, because there’s no way anyone could have made their way into the ballroom without a pass.

To the perpetrator’s credit, this was no hand-painted sign. It actually was as professional-looking as any of the other self-congratulatory missives hanging in any of the other rooms, yet this one declared:

Davos WEC:

Where Billionaires tell Millionaires

what the Poor are thinking.

Klaus Richter was straining his neck as he leered at the sign. Jesus H. Christ, get that goddamned thing down! he shouted to his crew.

It wasn’t like the man didn’t have enough to worry about already. As the WEC’s security chief, Richter had to deal with 5,000 hired personnel each year, the clearance for the badges, the roadway barricades, the protesters, and a thousand other details. He had held the job since 2025, and even though he turned red in the face at the most modest provocation, he actually deeply enjoyed dealing with this circus every January. But getting snarky banners removed was really not what he needed at the moment. He had plenty else to keep him occupied.

What usually surprised those that met Richter was his voice. Anyone beginning a conversation with someone named Klaus Richter might expect a Bavarian accent, but instead they got a thick North Carolina twang and a smile which, back home, was lovingly called a shit-eating grin.

True, Richter’s family had immigrated from Germany to the U.S. generations ago, but the rotund, almost completely bald man had been born sixty years prior in his Carolinian home in Durham and spent most of his working life at Fort Bragg. His responsibilities at Davos were far less risky and much more lucrative than his time with the Army, but sometimes, like now, he was just about on his last nerve.

Mr. Richter?

Klaus tensed up even more and thought to himself, Christ, now what? He turned around and saw a well-dressed young man holding an electronic tablet in his left hand.

My name is Dylan Jenkins. I’m the personal assistant to Thomas Peterson, one of the attendees here.

Yes? said Richter, trying his best to sound calm.

Is there somewhere we could go to speak for a minute?

Richter glanced around the large room and saw there was an empty table surrounded by chairs off to the side. Sure, son. I can’t talk for long, but let’s go over here.

Once they were seated, Dylan set the electronic pad on the table and turned it on. Pointing to the map on the screen, Dylan said, As I mentioned, I work for Thomas Peterson. This is a tracking map of where he’s been since he arrived this morning, and I was expecting him quite some time ago. We had a driver waiting for him, but even though we know his plane landed, he never showed up. Luckily his location app was on, so I was able to reconstruct where he went.

Richter took a close look at the map, pivoting the tablet for a better view and pulling it closer to where he was sitting. The route displayed would be impossible for a car, since it cut across a series of low mountains and open fields. It had to have been by air. Yet it terminated at a place that was nowhere near anything like an airstrip.

Richter touched the screen and traced out the path with his index finger. Mr. Jenkins, how much time transpired from the start of this line to the end?

Jenkins rubbed his forehead and replied, About thirty-five minutes. And the distance was more than a hundred kilometers.

Richter tapped his finger on a specific point of the screen and said, Well, given the terrain of this area, and that speed, I’d say he was in a helicopter. Is there any chance he had planned to meet someone else before coming here? It’s been very busy at the airport.

No, sir, he would have told me. It’s simply not like him. We had agreed to all our plans when I saw him last Friday. We agreed on the time of his flight, on the car, where he would be staying, who he would be meeting with. Everything.

Richter leaned back in the chair, tipping the front legs off the conference room floor. After a few moments he asked, You’ve done everything you can to reach him, right? Do you have any idea at all what might have happened?

Jenkins pressed the power button on the tablet and said, Mr. Richter, I’ve worked for this man every day for the past seven years. I know more about what’s going on in his life than he does. Something is very wrong here. I am absolutely certain of it.

With the conference officially starting in just a few hours, a distraction like this was unwelcome and unexpected, but it was also serious. Although several thousand individuals came to the conference, Peterson was one of the better-known participants, especially given all the attention his company had received over the past couple years. For a person whose job it was to keep this event safe and predictable, Klaus Richter found this news to be alarming.

Richter put both hands on the surface of the table and stood up, pushing his chair back. Come with me, Mr. Jenkins. I think we’d better get some extra help.

Peterson could barely hear the steps coming down the hall, but they were the first sounds he had heard since he was sealed in his lightless prison. It was impossible for him to tell how long he had been in that room. An hour, maybe? He was uncomfortable enough as it was, both physically and psychologically, and his brain throbbed with apprehension as he stared into the void. Suddenly, a stark rectangle of light appeared as the door flew open.

Peterson shielded his eyes from the painful glare, and he instantly bolted up to a standing position, his back still pressed against the corner of the walls.

What do you want with me? Peterson said, practically shrieking with terror.

The slender silhouette of Gerald Flynt was flanked by the two goons. Flynt pulled an office chair from the hallway and rolled it toward Peterson with a hard shove and commanded, Sit down.

Peterson’s back was aching from squatting in the corner for so long, so he stopped the chair with his hand, pulled it behind him, and sat. Flynt pulled another chair in from the hallway, rolled it close to Peterson, and then sat down himself. Flynt’s face looked different than it did during the helicopter journey, now that any pretense of friendly favors had been dropped.

The bright ceiling bulbs flicked on, and one of the goons closed the door. The lights stung Peterson’s eyes, although he was relieved to at least be able to see again. He placed his hand on his forehead to shield the glare and squinted.

Flynt asked, I suppose you want to know why you’re here.

Peterson stared back in astonishment and said nothing.

As I told you earlier, my name is Gerald Flynt. I am the head of a group called The Liberators. Ever hear of us?

Peterson’s face was unflinching. No.

Well, not many people have. That’s going to change very soon. But since you’re here, and since you’re such an important part of what we’re doing, I want to tell you what we’re all about.

Peterson cut in, Mr. Flynt, I don’t know who you are or what you want. I don’t know if it’s money, or publicity, or anything else, but I strongly suggest you let me go now before you get yourself into some very serious trouble.

Flynt pulled his right arm to his left side, and in a swift, unyielding arc, smashed Peterson hard on his face. The blow was strong enough to knock Peterson out of the chair, which rolled away until it hit the opposite wall. One of the men in the hall opened the door to see what was going on, but when he saw it was Peterson on the floor instead of Flynt, he closed it again.

Flynt shouted, Do NOT interrupt me again, Peterson! You WILL hear what I have to say! Now get back in that chair and shut the fuck up!

Pushing himself up off the floor, he looked into Flynt’s eyes. Thomas Peterson was not a man accustomed to being struck. Ever. His cheek burned, and his head was throbbing. He steadied himself to his feet, staggered over to the chair, and sat back down where it was. He preferred the greater distance that now lay between the men.

Flynt rolled his own chair closer a few feet and started talking again. Aren’t used to not getting your way, are you? Mister Big Shot. Right? I bet you’d like to kill me, wouldn’t you? Yes?

Rubbing his jaw, Peterson replied, "Kill you? What are you talking about?"

Flynt paused for a moment, staring at the man. He had seen his picture so many times before in the media, and he had planned so long for this encounter, but it still seemed unreal. It was time to say out loud what he had been thinking about for so many months.

Mr. Peterson, you are here for a reason. And it isn’t for any of the reasons you’ve guessed. It isn’t for ransom or fame. It’s to send a message.

Sitting up taller, Gerald Flynt went on: Our group despises where the world has wound up and what it’s done to humanity. Men like you have hollowed out anything that matters in the lives of most people, and you’ve gotten rich doing it.

"Hollowed what out? What are you even talking about? Peterson replied. I made my money because I made something people want."

Flynt tightened his glare and said, A cocaine dealer could say the same thing. Sometimes people want stuff that’s no good for them. That doesn’t make it right. Flynt looked intently at his captive for a moment. You ever been to a zoo, Peterson?

Being in no mood for a bull session, Peterson stared down at the floor silently. After a few moments, he decided he had better be cooperative, so he quietly said, Of course I have.

And I don’t just mean any zoo, I mean a shitty zoo. The old kind. The kind where they have trapped animals in cages. So imagine a kid goes in there and looks at a tiger. The tiger’s just pacing back and forth, back and forth. The kid says, ‘Oh, pretty tiger’, and then he walks away to the next cage. For that kid, the tiger in the cage is just a moment in time. A childhood memory. But to the tiger, that’s his entire life. Just walking back and forth, back and forth, losing his fucking mind. That tiger lost his mind a long time ago. He just doesn’t know it.

Peterson mumbled to the floor, What does a tiger in a cage….

Flynt’s voice grew stronger. "Tigers weren’t meant to be in cages. Millions of years of evolution shouldn’t lead them there. And how about humans? You look around today, and how do people spend their time? Most of them don’t work, since they’ve got just enough to get by, so how do they spend their time? Watching movies. Playing games. Men having sex with fake women in a VR world. And those are the active ones! Some of them just watch other people doing that stuff. Instead of actually doing something, they’re just watching someone watching something else. It’s bullshit. Total bullshit! This is the world you’ve created, Peterson!"

Thomas Peterson knew this was going to be a one way conversation, so he just kept staring at the floor while Flynt raged on. Better to let him say what he wanted to say and simultaneously try to figure out how to extricate himself from this madness. Peterson’s jaw was still throbbing from the smack, so he massaged the side of his face briefly and then eased his hand back down, not wanting to startle his captor.

"People didn’t fight their way through the past hundred thousand years just to spend their time like that. We were meant to do stuff. Struggle. Imagine. Build. Create. There’s got to be a fight. But people like you have created these cages, and everyone just walks right into them. Every single human has become that tiger in a zoo cage. People like you lead them right into that cell, shut