The tech wing thrummed with energy. A low mechanical hum pulsed through the air like a heartbeat, steady and alive. Overhead, cold fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows over the rows of server racks, their blinking LEDs flickering like distant stars in a night sky made of circuitry and steel.
James stepped into the room, the soles of his shoes crunching faintly against the anti-static flooring. The scent of ozone and warm metal clung to the air, mixing with a trace of dust and machine oil.
"Start designing the specs for what we need," James said, his voice slicing through the ambient noise. He tapped his fingers against a nearby rack, a staccato rhythm that mirrored the pace of his thoughts. "Rack configurations, cooling systems, power arrays. Everything. Don't worry about budget."
Ethan Caldwell, crouched in front of a half-assembled server, paused mid-screw. His fingers froze. He looked up, brows raised.
"You're serious?" he asked, voice low with disbelief.
James didn't blink. "Dead serious."
There was a weight to his tone. It wasn't about ambition anymore—it was about permanence, about building something that would outlast them both. A digital vault not for profit, but for purpose.
"We're not just storing data," James continued. "We're building a sanctuary for the future."
A long beat stretched between them. Then Ethan let out a sharp laugh, half incredulous, half impressed. He wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, leaving behind dark streaks of grease and grime.
"I've got no problem doing real work," he said. "Hell, I miss it. But custom-building a full data center from scratch? That's not a weekend project. That's millions. You think the company's going to be okay with that?"
James allowed a faint smile to form. "DoubleClick won't fund this."
Ethan blinked. "Then who—?"
"I will."
Ethan's mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes searched James's, but there was no trace of exaggeration, no hint of theatrics. Just cold certainty.
"If you say so..." Ethan muttered, though the words lacked conviction. He leaned back on his heels and looked around the room like he was seeing it for the first time—as the seed of something much bigger.
James took a step closer. "That's only half the problem," he said. "We'll need help. You know anyone who can design a high-security data facility? Someone trustworthy? Someone who understands discretion?"
Ethan hesitated. A flash of nostalgia softened his features. "I do, actually," he said slowly. "Never told you this, but I spent my doctorate and internship years at Bell Labs."
James raised his eyebrows. "The Bell Labs?"
Ethan nodded, a hint of pride rising in his chest. "The one and only. Back then, it was the crown jewel of R&D. I was part of a team working on high-bandwidth optical switching. Insane stuff."
James exhaled a slow whistle. "That place gave birth to the transistor, didn't it?"
"And the laser. UNIX. C. Shannon's information theory. Hell, you name a piece of modern technology, it probably passed through Bell Labs at some point."
James's mind was already racing. Bell Labs. The temple of technology. And here stood Ethan Caldwell, someone who had lived inside it.
"Why'd you leave?" James asked, genuine curiosity seeping into his voice. "If it was so groundbreaking?"
The grin slipped from Ethan's face.
"I didn't want to," he said after a pause. "But AT&T kept bleeding the place dry. Budget cuts. Reorgs. Restructuring. Eventually, my entire team got axed in one sweep."
James frowned. His neural processing kicked in—memories and data unspooling like a film reel behind his eyes.
1996. AT&T spin-off. Lucent Technologies.
James's eyes narrowed slightly as the pieces clicked together. Bell Labs hadn't died. It had been carved up. Repurposed.
"Lucent Technologies," he murmured, mostly to himself. "The equipment manufacturing arm. They took Bell Labs, Network Systems, Global Communications, and gave them a new name."
Ethan looked surprised. "You know about Lucent?"
James didn't answer right away. He was busy scanning the implications in his head—telecommunications, infrastructure, global reach. If he could get in now, just before the IPO, before the wave... the potential was astronomical.
He turned back to Ethan.
"You still have the contact info for the current director at Bell Labs?"
Ethan blinked. "I think so. Why?"
James didn't respond immediately. His expression had shifted, hardening into something Ethan had only seen a few times before. Ruthless focus. That uncanny way James looked when he was several moves ahead on a board no one else could even see.
"Maybe," James said, his voice low, "your dream of going back isn't as far-fetched as it seems."
Ethan's breath caught. For a second, he forgot where he was. Forgotten servers. Forgotten grease on his hands. Forgotten the years since Bell Labs.
He wanted to ask what James meant. Wanted to demand answers.
But something held him back.
Instead, he cleared his throat. "So... uh... what actually brought you here, James?"
James blinked, almost like he was waking from a trance. "Ah. Right." He turned toward the door, the overhead lights gleaming off his watch face. "Came here to give you a task. Turns out, I left with one of my own."
The door hissed open.
Ethan stayed frozen for a moment, then watched as James disappeared into the hallway.
He stood there, still surrounded by machines, but suddenly aware of something else. Not the weight of failure or missed opportunity—but the quiet, dangerous whisper of a second chance.
And in the corridor outside, James pulled out his phone. His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, then began dialing.
A number burned in his memory. A facility in New Jersey. Bell Labs. A spark that had once lit the world.
James walked toward the elevator, a quiet smile touching his lips.
The telecom revolution was coming.
And this time, he'd be waiting for it.
-----
The door clicked shut behind James as he stepped into his office, the city's distant hum softened by thick windows and fading sunlight. The room was quiet, sterile—too quiet.
He walked to his desk, fingers brushing the surface. Then he closed his eyes.
Activate.
The Neural Coding Ability surged like heat through his synapses.
Instantly, his consciousness lit up with memory—vivid, precise, unstoppable. News reports, magazine articles, analyst briefings, CNBC interviews—all from early 1996, when he had first seen the headlines in his past life.
[FLASH: "AT&T Restructures: Hardware Division to Spin Off as Lucent Technologies"][FLASH: "Lucent IPO Sets Records – $3 Billion Raised"][FLASH: "Bell Labs Included in Spin-Off, Focused on Hardware and Innovation"]
His mind drilled deeper. Graphs, earnings calls, archived editorials from BusinessWeek, even the scrolling tickers from CNN flickered back to life in perfect detail.
He didn't just remember the facts—he relived them.
The telecom giant AT&T had fractured under pressure, offloading its infrastructure businesses into a new company: Lucent Technologies, which absorbed Bell Labs, the cradle of modern communication.
It was a radical move—one of the largest IPOs in U.S. history. Lucent's early stock doubled post-launch. Analysts gushed about fiber optics, wireless networks, and the holy grail of telecom innovation.
They don't know what they've unleashed, James thought.
He saw supply chains, contractor names, early chipset designs—fragments of a hidden future encoded in the margins of his memory. His eyes opened slowly, the neural flood settling.
This is it. This is leverage.
The office door opened, snapping him out of thought. Lillian entered, holding a paper bag in one hand and a can of soda in the other.
"You hungry?" she asked.
The smell hit first—garlic, soy, toasted sesame, hints of chili oil. James's stomach growled in open betrayal.
"Starving," he admitted, pushing away from his desk.
She smirked, unpacking the containers—steaming noodles, crispy dumplings, the scent of soy and chili oil filling the air.
As they settled in, Lillian glanced at him.
"I looked at the financials," she said, picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks. "Business is good."
James smirked. "Of course it is. You know who's running it."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, Your Highness." She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "By the way, I'll start filing the paperwork for your webmail company tomorrow. What's the name?"
James leaned forward, grinning. "Lily—"
"James," she cut in, raising a finger. "If you're about to say you want to start another company, just say it."
He blinked. "Wait—what happened to yesterday's version of you?"
Lillian chuckled, shaking her head. "After our talk, I realized something." She set her chopsticks down, leaning back. "I've been city attorney for four years. I used to think I wanted a career in politics—like Dad, like Charles." She exhaled. "But I don't."
James watched her, silent.
"Now," she continued, "I'm COO of two companies. Your personal lawyer. DoubleClick is exploding. My base salary is $280,000. With bonuses and stock options?" She smirked. "I could clear $400,000 a year."
James's lips twitched. "So… money corrupted you."
She reached over and smacked him lightly on the head. "Whose fault is that?"
He caught her wrist, laughing. "I'll take full responsibility."
She pulled her hand back, shaking her head. "So? Out with it. What's next?"
James's eyes gleamed.
"I want to start a telecom company."
Lillian froze.
"Telecom?" she repeated. "I swear, I want to cut open your head and see what's inside. Why do you keep jumping industries like this?"
James leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Because I see gold mines everywhere."
She groaned, rubbing her temples. "You need structure. You can't just keep founding companies on a whim."
James nodded, serious. "Then tell me. How should I do it?"
Lillian sighed, picking up her chopsticks again.
"First," she said, pointing at him with a dumpling, "you need a plan. Not just an idea. A plan."
James grinned.
"Good thing I have you."
She rolled her eyes.
"Eat your food."
He did.
And in the quiet of the office, the future took shape.