I pry open my non-bruised eye with my fingers and dart my gaze desperately around the cramped pod. The only thing I can see out of the porthole is the sky falling, and the only thing I can feel is the searing heat of the chamber I'm entrapped in. A high-pitched sound pierces my ears as I scream, moments before the ocean engulfs me whole.
That was my future, but six weeks ago, my life was much more boring.
Six weeks ago, I sat in my cubicle on the forty-third floor of Meridian Analytics, watching the files I had finished earlier slowly crawl across the progress bar to fully upload. Six weeks ago, my biggest concern was whether I'd hit my quarterly review metrics, or whether I had any leftovers in the fridge, things you can only be concerned with such a boring life. I was free, or at least I thought I was.
That night, the fan blades spun round and round, as they did every other night. My box of a home, just about the best thing I could slap together with my ordinary salary, offered nothing more than a ceiling over my head and the faint hum of climate control. I sighed, what to do?
I didn't know that in fourteen hours everything would change.
I didn't know that I was marked.
The morning started like any other: grabbing a nutrient bar from the dispenser. Its taste was the usual, undescribable, just not in a good way. Catching the 6:42 Maglev to the commercial district. The train had me and every other corporate hire packed together like sardines in a can. Pulling out my display to make the time pass, I scrolled through the night's analytics reports, flagging any anomalies for second review. It was about as braindead of work you could do, but being half-asleep, it wasn't bad.
Meridian Analytics occupied floors 38 through 52 of Castellan Tower. We handled logistic optimization for half the corporations in the eastern sector-tracking shipments, identifying inefficiencies, predicting supply chain disruptions. Important work, they told us during orientation. Essential to our economy.
I badged through security at 7:23, same as always. The guard didn't even acknowledge me.
My "cozy" cubicle awaited me, unsurprisingly identical to the other 300 on the floor. Gray walls, ergonomic chair, three monitors. To liven up the atmosphere, there was a small plant on the corner of my desk-fake, sadly, but it added a splash of green to the monotony. I'd fitting named it Gerald with duct tape. Gerald and I had a good understanding: he didn't judge me, and I didn't let him die of "neglect".
Logging on, the queue appeared on my screen. Forty-seven reports waited for review. I sighed and popped a caffeine pod in my mouth-synthetic, but it does the job-and started clicking through each report.
Most of it was routine. Shipping container 4472-B delayed at the port due to customs inspection. Warehouse 17 running low on pallets. Standard stuff. But then I hit report number thirteen, and something caught my eye.
A manifest discrepancy.
The shipping logs showed a series of containers moving from a military contractor to a research facility in the northern territories. They described the contents as "laboratory equipment and supplies." However, cross-referencing the weight and power consumption data-trying to be as thorough in this as possible-the numbers didn't match. Laboratory equipment shouldn't draw that much power. And the weight distribution suggested something much heavier.
Moving to my second monitor, I pulled up the detailed manifest. Drilling equipment. High-capacity energy cells. Atmospheric processors. And buried in the list, seemingly out of place within laboratory glassware items: "atmospheric drop pods, military grade (x50)".
That wasn't laboratory equipment. That was planetary exploration gear.
I frowned at the screen. It wasn't unusual for manifests to be mislabeled-companies often did it to avoid tariffs or regulatory scrutiny. But this was a government contractor. They were usually more careful.
I flagged the report, adding a note: Possible manifest error. Contents don't match the declared purpose. Recommend audit. I sent it up the chain to my supervisor and moved onto report fourteen.
I thought nothing more of it.
That was my mistake.
At 9:47, the monitor went dark.
All three of them simultaneously. The sudden darkness made me blink, disorientated. I tapped the keyboard. Nothing. I checked the power cables and confirmed that everything was connected properly.
"Hey," I called over the cubicle wall to Marcus, the guy who sat next to me. "Are your screens down?"
"Nope," he said, not looking up from his work. "Just you."
Something was very wrong.
I tried logging back in. Access Denied.
I tried again. Access Denied. Contact System Administrator.
"What the hell?" I muttered. I grabbed my personal comm device and tried to access the company network remotely. Locked out. I tried to message my supervisor. Message failed to send.
My whole body stiffened up.
I stood up, intending to walk over to IT, when I noticed them. Two security officers in black uniforms, walking purposefully down the aisle between cubicles. Their eyes fixated on me.
"James Mercer?" one of them said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, that's me. Listen, I think there's been some kind of–"
"You need to come with us."
"What? Why? I haven't—"
The second officer stepped closer, hand resting on the stun baton at this. "Now, Mr. Mercer."
The entire floor had gone quiet. I could feel dozens of coworkers I'd worked alongside for years, all of them watching as security escorted me away like a criminal. None of them could even meet my gaze.
They took me to a conference room on the 47th floor–one of the nice ones with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The lead security officer gestured to a chair. I sat.
"What's going on?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "If this is about the manifest report, I was just doing my job. I flag anomalies all the time—"
"This isn't about the report," pulling out a tablet and turning it towards me. "This is about unauthorised access to classified government files."
My stomach dropped.
The screen showed a security log. My employee ID. My login credentials. Time stamps showing access to restricted military databases over the past three months. Dozens of entries. Files downloaded. Data transferred to external servers.
"That couldn't have been me, I don't even have the clearance for–"
"We found your credentials. With its access points. On the company device."
"Then someone must've used my credentials! They could've cloned them or–"
"Mr. Mercer, we've traced the access to your personal device as well. The evidence is conclusive." He turned off the tablet. "Meridian Analytics is terminating your employment effective immediately. We will escort you from the building. My colleagues are already on the way to take you into custody."
"No. No, this is wrong. I didn't do this!" My voice was rising now, panic seeping into the depths of my psyche. "Let me access the files–I can prove this wasn't me. Check the metadata, the typing patterns, anything—"
"As we have stated, we've revoked your access."
"Then let me call someone! A lawyer, or–"
"You'll have access to legal counsel once you've been processed."
I tried to stand. The second officer put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into the chair. There was no way I was getting out of this.
"Please don't make this difficult, Mr. Mercer."
I sat there, mind racing, trying to piece together what was happening. Manifest report, flagged shipment, military contractor, what did they all have to do with this situation? Had I stumbled into something I shouldn't have found? Was this retaliation? But why frame me? Why not fire me quietly?
Unless they needed me gone. Permanently.
The agents arrived ten minutes later. Colder, more efficient than the ones that had arrived earlier. They didn't bother with explanations. They just cuffed my wrists with magnetic restraints and led me out through a back corridor, avoiding the main floor. It seems they didn't fully want to shred my remaining dignity. I was grateful for that, at least. I didn't want everyone watching.
As we passed through the lobby, I saw a glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome walls. I looked like a lost fawn, scared, confused, wondering how all of this could've happened.
I tried one last time. "Please, just listen to me. I didn't do this. Check the timestamps against my location data, I was at home when some of those accesses happened. I can prove—"
"Save it for your hearing."
They loaded me into an unmarked vehicle, the kind you'd only see for the worst kind of criminals, with reinforced doors and no interior handles. As we pulled away from Castellan Tower, my eyes drifted out of the tinted window, towards the city I'd lived my entire life within, and perhaps the city I'd never see again. At that moment the sky, gray with smog, didn't look so bad, compared to the metal sky I would be looking up to from now on.