Perfectopia

In an ideal world, you are the imperfection

Written by M. Majeris

ABOUT

Perfectopia was originally posted as a serialized short story on Substack. To read online, comment, share, chat and engage in a dialog, visit this page:

majeris.substack.com/p/perfectopia

ADVISORY

The story contains strong language, violence, death and other disturbing themes. Read at your own risk and keep away from children.

THANKS

I can’t thank enough the amazing community on Substack for making my voice heard and appreciated. You are legends!

And a big juicy special thanks to Norm DePlume on lending his hoser-radar to Canuck-proof the narrative.

WHY CANADA, THO?

First, because Canada is cool, duh!

Second, I wanted the story to kick off at a flagship TED event, which takes place in Vancouver.

Third, we already have too many US-centric stories and I didn’t want another one.

❤️🍁

LEGAL NOTICE

This work is provided for personal reading only. No part of it may be copied, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author except within the limits of fair use like, you know, posting quotes, reviews, fan stuff.

All rights reserved by M. Majeris.

This is a work of fiction. While some real persons, places, or organizations may appear in the narrative, their portrayal is fictionalized for storytelling purposes. All events and technologies described are products of imagination and should not be interpreted as factual or reflective of real actions or intentions.

CONTACT THE AUTHOR VIA

Email: m@majeris.com

Substack: majeris.substack.com

Bluesky: bsky.app/profile/majeris.com

Website: majeris.com

Part #1

April 2029 | Vancouver, Canada

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Professor Martin Carmack addressed the perfectly hush audience off the main TED podium, ”I’m proud to announce that we finally cracked the mystery of the human brain!”

A dull pain pulled Sigmund, standing squished behind the last row of the auditorium, out of a mild trance and made him look down. Without realizing it, Gaby was squeezing his hand more than was necessary, her undivided attention on the stage. He knew she was a combination of starstruck and immersed in the grandeur of the moment. Being in a 24/7 romantic relationship with your co-worker comes with the territory of learning the tiniest quirks of one’s character. No point pulling her out for such a minor physical inconvenience. He cast his glance back to the celebrity in the spotlight.

They weren’t there for the news itself of course—having read and re-read the papers published in the Science journal countless times, after devouring peer reviews and commentary, both of the young scientists knew exactly what was being announced. Nevertheless, they just couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see the scientific royalty’s appearance in their neck of the woods—only a short flight from Edmonton—even if the only thing the star scientist was going to do was to entertain the fancy conference crowd with the overview of a great discovery regurgitated into layman’s terms.

“Our team has identified and classified the cognitive connections between brain’s Prefrontal Cortex responsible for logic, planning and decision making, Anterior Cingulate Cortex which monitors conflict and helps adjust behavior when something feels off, Amygdala tasked with adding an emotional weight to reasoning, and everyone’s favorite—Basal ganglia—a willing participant in habitual or reward-based decision loops and the dopamine junkie who lives in our heads.” The Professor paused, waiting out a wave of polite laughs to subside.

“In short, we can now read, with a perfect certainty, the whole chain of decision-making processes in a human's brain.” Said the Professor, pressing an invisible button, bringing up an AI-generated image of a middle-aged man salivating at a slice of a cake.

“Johnny sees a piece of cake.”

“Johnny wants to eat it”.

“Johnny knows the cake will taste good—a sample of reward dopamine already being released just at the sight of the delicious treat.”

“But…” the speaker paused for a dramatic effect… “Johnny knows the last slice belongs to Sophia.”

“There’s a whole whirlpool of complex weighting going on in Johnny’s head: guilt versus reward, possible consequences versus promise of pleasure, dietary considerations versus ingrained need for energy intake…”

“In the end, subconsciously in essence, Johnny makes a reasoned decision to leave the piece of pastry be.”

Another discreet push of a button on a remote brings up the next slide, showing a simplified flow diagram visualizing Johnny’s internal drama.

“The whole process feels superficially natural to Johnny, but we can track every step and know exactly how and why our friend has come to the ultimate decision. It is my belief that our framework opens vast new prospects for further research in practical application, including, but of course not limited to in-depth studies of human behavior, finding new cures for brain diseases, or even…” a heavy pause snuffed out a murmur, slowly building up in the auditorium… “enabling tiny modifications to our personal traits some day.”

As if struck with a jolt of concentrated energy, Sigmund froze at the last words.

***

April 2029 | Edmonton, Canada

“Bull…” said Paul, holding up his finger and taking a generous swig from a freshly-brought glass of beer—his second of the evening—then wiped foam off his mustache and continued… “shit! That shot is way way way too long, even for you Siggy.”

They were four, seated around a high table in the back of Burt’s Beer Backyard pub, or simply The Bs in the vocabulary of its regulars.

“Wow, what’s with the winner’s attitude all of a sudden?” Sigmund bit back at his friend. “I thought this was our own cauldron of ideas, a safe space for mental exercises, where we can drop even the most out-there shit in without any prejudices or ridicule of no-can-doers.”

“Told you that you should’ve waited until P’s on at least fourth round, before throwing something so big at him.” Chuckled Gaby, conspiratorially elbowing Emily—the last of their group of four—sitting next to her. “Amirite?”

“More like tenth, by the sound of it.” Corrected Paul, swiveling to face the girl. “Your significant other is pitching a bit of a fairytale here. Using pre-programmed nanites to tweak value scales in peeps’ of power brains so they make the ‘right’ decisions and fix the world? There’s so much red tape, I don’t even know where to begin.”

He looked around the table, pausing on each of the friends, everyone silent.

“Em, you’re the voice of reason of this group,” Paul turned to face another woman across the table, “little backup?”

“Well, technically, we have agreed we will dissect all concepts from a distilled scientific standpoint, without the constraints of morality, financing, or how it would make us look.” Shot back Emily, throwing her hands in a don’t-drag-me-into-this gesture.

“Okay, look,” Said Paul, “I hate nay-sayers as much as the next guy, but I’m also not in the business of chasing dead ends. The whole technical complexity thing aside, working through the moral guidelines alone will drag your asses into the next century.”

“Ughhh…” Sigmund rolled his eyes theatrically… “did we graduate on top of our respective classes from the U of A to wallow in the swamp of ethics? No, we did it to use hard science to solve actual problems and have fun while we’re at it.”

As nobody seemed to be in a rush to object, he continued.

“First, the good ol’ professor Carmack did an exquisite job mapping out the wiring that goes into decision-making for us.” Sigmund uncurled a finger on his slightly raised hand.

“Second,” another digit went up, “the nanoscale neurobot technology the NRC lab has been cooking right here on the campus of the Alberta Uni for quite a while now is mature enough to position the particles with phenomenal precision and make them act not only as signal scanners but also modulate specific synapse impulses. Now, if only we would have someone on the inside…” A mock puzzled expression distorted Sigmund’s face. “Oh right, Gaby and I happen to work there.”

“Third, there’s Emily. The brightest scientific mind I have met, myself included, marinating in the basement of her virology institute, working on something that one day will either save or kill all humans, but we can’t know yet because of the god-damn NDAs.”

“And last, but… blah blah blah… not least, we have the best coder this side of the Universe, to program the shit out of this whole project.” As the fourth finger uncurled, Sigmund fixed his glance at Paul. “The same coder, who has been struggling to find a worthy challenge since he sold his shiny startup. The poor sap who has been swinging the angel investor dance with his pointless fortune and dabbling in open-source projects here and there, but who’s actually just bored as fuck.”

Paul said nothing, the passive-aggressive words landing harshly true, if he was being honest with himself. Sigmund leaned towards his buddy until their foreheads were practically touching.

“Tell me, Paul. Tell me, in all honesty, that you don’t have that itch in your balls to jump at this right now, with everything you’ve got!”

Part #2

7 months later - October 2029 | Edmonton, Canada

-----------------------------

From: Antoine Gagnon (NRC)

To: Sigmund Roth

Subject: [URGENT] Meeting

-----------------------------

“Uh, Gabs, it seems I’m being ASAPed into the director's office.” Sigmund called out to his girlfriend over the open door into the next room. “No sure what it's about, tho”.

Weighted by a sense of premonition, he locked his workstation, and headed straight for Antoine's office. Inside, the foreboding feeling intensified when he noticed his superior was in the company of Centre's general counsel, who gestured for him to take a seat.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Sigmund.” Said the official, once his subordinate was seated. “I just became aware of your unauthorized use of NRC lab equipment.”

A wave of heat flushed down the length of the young man's body. His shoulders slumped and his face was drained of color, as he realized that blinded by the progress and his own unchecked enthusiasm, he wasn’t careful enough.

The lawyer took over before Sigmund could compose himself enough for an ‘I can explain’ attempt.

“7 unreported instances of usage of the Nano-Fabrication Platform, printing out unknown batches of nano-material.”

“A total of almost 48 hours of usage of the Neurobot Resonance Scanner without logging any data output.”

“Nearly 200 neuron simulations ran on the mainframe during off-peak hours. No attribution to any ongoing project.”

Sigmund barely heard the words being spoken, the I’m so fucked mantra spinning on repeat in his mind.

“And this one is specifically worrisome: at least 3 occasions where you used Microvector Delivery Injector, which Director Gagnon tells me is a heavily regulated apparatus, yet you failed to obtain the grants and haven’t logged usage briefings afterwards.”

The counsel continued in the same vein, throwing scary sounding words like gross negligence, extreme insubordination, conspiracy to misuse around, until the director cut him off.

“You probably understand that I have no other option but to let you go, Sigmund.” He said with a heavy sigh. “Of course, we will be doing a thorough investigation of this incident, during which we will rely on your cooperation in determining your role and motives, and whether the authorities should be involved, but for now, Sigmund, can you just tell me: what in the name of hell were you thinking?”

***

“So…” Paul finally broke the silence, hanging heavy in the empty garage-cum-makeshift lab of his mansion… “we’re all going to jail or something?”

“Nah.” Replied Sigmund. “I made sure to drive the point across that I was flying solo with this playing a mad scientist gig. As far as they are concerned, nobody else was aware about my shenanigans—even you, Gabs. And since they don’t have any evidence of any classified data or tech leaking, they’re just prob gonna sweep it all under the rug, including yours truly. That said, my chances of getting any job involving the use of my brain in this town are now negligible.”

“Cut the drama, you’ll be okay, eventually.” Paul tried to cheer his friend on in his own, not overly helpful way, but Sigmund appreciated it nevertheless. “So what now? We scuttle our little exercise and start shredding papers?”

“And you accuse me of drama?” Sigmund bit back. “Nobody’s breathing down our necks, and we’re too close to just let everything go to trash.”

“Close, but not quite there yet.” Gaby pointed out.

“Our prototype Neurils work!” Shot back Sigmund.

“Yes, Sig, the nano-scale neurobots—Neurils if you so insist on calling them that—do seem to be stable and functioning, but…”

“And all of a million (or nearly 200 if I were to quote Mrs. Novak from the Legal) of neural simulations check out, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but…”

“And we were able to sample a decent library worth of emotions and response impulses with the NR scanner and even came up with a finely distilled set of reasoning models, ripe for unleashing onto gov heads, haven’t we?”

“Yes, with one test subject—you.”

“And please remind me, because my memory is a bit hazy on this,” Sigmund ignored his girlfriend’s remark, “have we or haven’t we made Neurils modulate the actual synaptic cues to trick my brain into actually liking a fucking licorice?”

Gaby kept silent. She knew her boyfriend was on a roll, and wouldn’t stop until he had it flushed out of his system.

“I mean, I have a lifetime of memories of my stomach turning inside out even at the thought of the nasty stuff, but for a brief moment there in the lab, Neurils made me crave it. Ewww!”

“Aight, you made your point, Siggy.” Paul came to Gaby’s rescue. “This shit works beyond our expectations, but you’re forgetting one last piece of the puzzle—the delivery. It’s not like we can waltz into, say, the White House and say ‘Nice one out here today, eh Mr. President? Would you mind stepping into this sciency looking box here for a minute for a dose of brain-altering nanobots? In ya go!’"

A round of chuckles went around the room, breaking the tension, as everyone enjoyed the imaginative scenes their brains conjured to complement Paul’s remark.

A throat being cleared broke the ensuing silence.

“I might have something for that last bit.” Said Emily. “It’s a theory I have been tinkering with for a while now, but didn’t want to put it on the table until I was sure it was legit.”

Instantly, everyone’s expectant eyes were on the girl. “Well, is it… legit?” Said Sigmund, eventually.

“I think so.” Emily lit up, no longer a shy introvert. “Here’s the gist of it: we make the Neurils follow viral distribution patterns, so we don’t have to actually make contact with the target subjects. We just need to get the bots out there and wait. I mean, even the presidents get the flu eventually, right?”

“You want us to turn Neurils into a virus?” Gaby was the first to recover.

“Yes, and no.” Replied Emily. “We can ‘teach’ our neurobots to identify bacteria and latch onto them. Every single one of them has their own built-in form of distribution, be it via moisture particles when you sneeze or cough, attaching to surfaces like door handles, or, well, bodily fluids, when… you know. Bottom line: we don’t have to invent the delivery mechanism, the whole infrastructure for it is already in place in the form of existing diseases. It’s just slow.”

“Virally infecting the world’s population just so we can reach a select few individuals. What could possibly go wrong?” Gaby shook her head as she spoke.

“Hear me out.” Emily wasn’t done. “We have a truckload of derived data from the scans and simulations that we can distill into solid markers that in turn could be used to identify specific persons or even tell-tale traits of people in certain positions of power. All we have to do is to program Neurils to run a pattern check on the host and eventually flush itself out of the system if it’s not a match. This way we have regular people act as a carrier, spreading Neurils further for a couple of weeks before clearing out. Easy, safe, and besides, we’re not actually going to do it anyway, it’s just a game, remember?”

“That would take a critical mass of Neurils.” It was Sigmund’s turn to question the plan. “There’s no way we, or anyone else for that matter, can print so many neurobots to infect the whole population of the World. Yet, something tells me you wouldn’t be telling us this unless you had a solution.”

“Indeed.” An uncharacteristic grin crept into Emily’s face. “Neuril is not some kind of complex robot machine. It’s just a set of basic components, easily replicable. Each one could carry a sort of a configuration echo—not a full set of assembly instructions, but a tiny structural cue that nudges available ‘feedstock’ like proteins to fold into partial modules, which in turn assemble into a full-fledged working unit when they eventually bump into each other.”

“Hm, Neurils can already affect their environment. Coding in the `configuration echo` routine shouldn't be that hard.” Paul mused, scratching his beard.

“Well, fuck me sideways!” Said Sigmund, “Seems we found our missing piece.”

Part #3

2 months later - December 2029 | Edmonton, Canada

“You gonna be okay?” Asked Gaby, fully dressed for the weather. “I need to put in an appearance for this work thing, an office holiday party—a couple of drinks and I’m out.”

“I’m fine, go.” Lied Sigmund, his voice hoarse from the seasonal flu.

He wasn’t fine. Quite the opposite. Jobless, with the Neurils project done and filed away, at least as the others were concerned, he was struggling in filling in the void. The young man didn’t know what to do with all that unutilized processing power of his brain.

To make matters worse, Gaby was spending helluva a lot of time away from him. Long hours at work, meeting friends and colleagues for drinks, or so she was claiming, while fuck knew what she was actually up to.

Spending time alone was another thing Sigmund wasn’t good at. He wasn’t jealous, and didn’t have a shred of ground to be so, yet his idling brain was spinning all kinds of dreadful scenarios. What if she’s sucking Paul’s dick while I’m here, coughing my lungs out?

Sigmund would never admit it, but he was equal parts depressed and angry. He was pissed off at his closest friends for having parts of their own lives that did not involve him, and at people in general, for being jolly and full of things to do. The whole Christmas mass psychosis shit that used to be just a source of mild annoyance to him, now seemed like a major irritant. The world seemed to be moving, while he was standing still.

“Fuck it.” He said to the empty room, pouring himself a triple whiskey, then turned on live TV—another thing he would’ve never done in his previous life.

He absentmindedly flicked through the channels—all the programming nauseatingly smeared with the festive spirit—stopping on a news outlet. A different kind of content assaulted him: India and Pakistan on the verge of armed conflict, impotent governments unable to refuse rising tensions in the Middle East, the Russians still bombing cities in Ukraine, not to mention the shitstorm of the ongoing tariff war and countries abandoning their green goals like there’s no tomorrow.

“Here’s to the fucked up world!” Exclaimed Sigmund loudly, gulping another tablet of Benadryl with the last of the drink, sneezed loudly and wiped snot on the couch, not able to find any strength to give any shit.

With effort, on the second try, he finally got off the couch and headed to the cabinet for a refill, freezing mid-way by a sight of Gaby’s work backpack, carelessly dumped in the living room.

“No, Siggy! Bad dog!” He said out loud, willing himself to look away.

Back in the warmth of the couch and a blanket, nursing another drink, like a good recovering alcoholic calling his sponsor whenever temptation grips, Sigmund messaged his girlfriend, then Paul for good measure. Anything to distract him for pervasive thoughts.

As minutes passed without a reply, his eyes darted between the phone, the TV screen and the backpack, which seemed to be taunting him, each time harder to look away. Every swallow seared his tormented throat. Every moment his body pumped itself with another dose of testosterone, cortisol, adrenaline or whatever natural chemical compound a sick, intoxicated and riled person triggers his organs to release.

There’s only so much restrain an alcohol-soaked brain, the effect amplified by drugs, can take before breaking. Sigmund held out for nearly an hour, before giving in. In a fit of anger, he flung his “useless” phone across the room, fracturing the TV screen, jumped to his feet, grabbed his laptop and headed for the door, stopping in front of Gaby’s bag.

“No other way.” He slurred to the room, oddly apologetically, then bent down and ripped the lanyard holding the NRC employee badge off the backpack.

***

Hours later, plenty of time for his liver to break down some of the nasty drug-alcohol concoction cursing his bloodstream, Sigmund slid into an elevator and pressed a button for the lobby. Hungover, crashing and sweating profusely, he fidgeted on his feet, the automatic door closing mockingly slowly.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck.” He breathed a barely audible curse. Now that enough of the fog in his head cleared, he was starting to realize the magnitude of his latest screw-up.

“Breath. Relax.” Sigmund attempted to calm himself. This could still be fixed. If he, while being royally wasted, could drive across the city and walk into the restricted area of the NRC with only a swipe of Gaby’s card and a wave to a sleepy night guard, he must be able to do it again, in reverse. All he had to do was to act natural, not raise suspicion.

An elevator pinged, announcing arrival at the ground floor. Sigmund stepped into the deserted lobby, hand clutching a sleek shape of an aluminum container in his pocket. The exit was there, in plain view, only a row of automated turnstiles obstructing the way.

Easy. I can make it. He thought as he moved towards the doorway.

With every step, Sigmund felt the heavy capsule wobbling, its thin shell under 8 bars of pressure held millions of dormant pre-programmed Neurils, each encased in a tiny droplet of water, ready to spring to action when released.

It will hold. He reassured himself. The stuff was military grade, calculated for much bigger pressure.

At the security gate, Sigmund swiped Gaby’s badge. The green light flashed and the glass panels slid out of his way.

Almost there. Only a few meters separated him from the door. Once home and cooled off properly, he’d be able to figure out what to do with the Neurils, how to dispatch them safely and discreetly. Nobody had to know.

Sigmund reached out and pushed the door open, a harsh sub-zero wind feeling like freedom.

“Hey! Hold it!” A shout sounded from behind him.

A sliver of hope that the order might’ve been directed at someone else was crushed when he turned to face a uniformed guard—his hand tentatively on the holster—making a beeline towards him.

Instincts, ingrained in human lineage by millions of years of struggle to survive, could not be eradicated by a mere millennia or so of relative safety. In the heat of the moment, a startled brain would not stop to coolly evaluate the situation, but rather default to a fight-or-flight response. Like a spooked cat, Sigmund took off running towards his car.

Not looking back to check if the building's security was still in pursuit, he crashed onto the driver’s seat, turned the ignition and sped in a random direction.

Part #4

Same day - December 2029 | Edmonton, Canada

With the last whiff of adrenaline gone, Sigmund aimlessly cruised the streets. He couldn’t go home, that was clear—it’d be the first place they’d look for him in. For a brief moment, Sigmund let himself toy with an idea of the guard being too lazy or too afraid to blemish his service record to call the incident in, then dismissed it as unlikely. If the breach hit the light, the watchman would be in much bigger trouble than being scolded for incompetence.

Not having any specific plan other than to flee the immediate vicinity of the campus, he found himself on Queen Elizabeth II highway, driving south towards the airport. Getting on a plane wasn’t an option, yet he needed time to think and thus a placeholder of a destination.

Edmonton International came and slid past as Sigmund continued pushing south, barely above speed limit. He was sick, dead tired, out of ideas and in dire need of a good night’s sleep. If he could just put in enough distance, find a place to lay low and rest, get his thoughts in a row, figure out a way to salvage the situation…

Yet, the towns along the way all seemed too small to get lost in, forcing him to keep to the road until, almost three hours after fleeing the NRC, signs for Calgary greeted him.

That’ll have to do.

***

Landon Li cursed. Barely a month into this job, all the other security guards at NRC pulled the seniority shit on him, leaving the new hire manning the undesirable shifts during the holidays. And now, this had to happen.

Following the rulebook, Landon picked up the phone and called his NRC emergency contact, his immediate superior and the police, then went to review the security footage and check-in logs.

Shortly after Sigmund cleared the city limits, head of security had identified him from camera stills, sent to his phone by Landon, and pulled NRC’s director Gagnon into loop, who in turn placed another call to Edmonton Police Service to stress the potential gravity of the situation.

Upon reviewing the report and pulling data on the suspect, the officer in charge of the communication center escalated the incident and issued an APB on Sigmund Roth as well as his registered vehicle to Canadian Police Information Centre for province-wide dissemination.

The communication center in the Calgary Police Service received the data on the suspect at large from CPIC and started issuing notifications to local patrol units.

Barely a few hours after the first report, Sigmund’s face and the registration details for his Honda popped up on the on-board computer terminal in squad car #221. A few minutes later, its ALPR camera picked up the target license plate among the traffic and alerted the officers inside.

***

Sigmund drove through what looked like a predominantly industrial neighborhood, keeping an eye out for a non-descript motel or even an abandoned parking lot he could hole up for the night in, when the interior of his car lit up with a dance of red and blue, accompanied by a siren. His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, revealing a police cruiser signaling him to pull over.

“No, no, no.” He muttered nervously. The Neuril cartridge was still in his pocket—a piece of evidence that would sink him for good. They’d probably stick terrorism charges too. He needed more time before turning himself in.

Almost subconsciously, Sigmund’s foot pressed on the accelerator, lurching away from the pursuing police car. The plan was simple: cut the line of sight, lose the tail for enough time to dump the vehicle and take off on-foot. The moment when it seemed the tactic was working was short lived, though. The pursuers, caught off-guard, fell behind at first, but quickly caught up and refused to be shaken off.

Sigmund weaved through the streets, deliberately choosing places where there was more traffic in hopes to use other cars as an obstacle for the cops chasing him. He made another sharp turn in the thickening vehicle flow, then slammed on brakes as a huge lit up building came into view, the street leading up to it car-jammed to a standstill.

A screech of the tires and a swirl of red and blue behind announced that the trap had sprung. There was nowhere else to go, unless… Sigmund jumped out of the car and took off running towards the mall, ‘CF Chinook Center’ in huge letters beckoning him. A flicker of hope of getting lost in the anonymity of the crowd kept his exhausted body moving.

He burst inside, almost slamming into a bored security guard, and kept running.

“Hey, watch it!” Yelled the man at Sigmund’s receding back.

Only when he was well into the interior with a wall of holiday shoppers shielding him from the entrance, Sigmund allowed himself to slow down and take a peek back. Two police officers—presumably ones that chased him here—were at the door, talking to the same guard he nearly rammed into. The mall cop was pointing at Sigmund's general direction with his one hand, the other one holding a walkie talkie to his face.

Resisting running, he turned away and walked deeper into the shopping center, looking for signs for another exit or at least a bathroom.

A crackle of a radio sounded to his left. Instinctively, Sigmund swiveled his head towards the noise, locking eyes with another security guard, recognition dawning on the man’s face.

“Sir, stay right there!”

His anonymity cover blown, Sigmund bolted into an unobstructed walkway. A former star of the high school's track team, he could certainly outrun a random uniform. A few seconds was all he needed to discreetly dump the cargo somewhere, anywhere.

The huffing guard started to fall behind. As soon as Sigmund would round the corner, he’d break the line of sight, maybe slip into a store, let the guard pass, then backtrack. He dashed into yet another shopping alley.

The ground slid from under him, sprang up and slammed into his chest with brutal force. Gasping from the impact, pinned to the floor by a massive body that reeked of tobacco, Sigmund watched how the container hurled out of the pocket of his parka, then rolled in a slow arc to settle in front of his eyes, painfully close, yet out of reach.

“Got him!” Shouted the tackler, as heavy footfalls started converging from all directions. The crowd of bystanders moved in closer, lured by the commotion.

***

A husband of the U.S. Consul General for Alberta stood mesmerized a couple of meters away, two toddlers clutching his hands on both sides.

A French businesswoman who spent the few hours before her Paris flight shopping for the last minute gifts, dropped her bags and rose on her toes for a better view.

A kindergarten teacher, carrying a month-worth of art supplies, approached a security guard to ask what was going on.

A flock of high-schoolers, having just been disgorged from a movie theater, whipped out their phones and moved in closer for footage that would make their classmates jealous.

Parents and kids, men and women, old and young alike, all stopped to watch, their human nature incapable to resist a spectacle.

A loud pop followed by a forceful hiss startled the people gathered around a handful of police officers and security guards, towering over a handcuffed man on the floor.

“Uhh damn!” Said one of them, looking down. “I seem to have stepped on something.”

Part #5

1 year later - December 2030 | Edmonton, Canada

Sigmund lay sprawled on an armchair, half-listening to the news, running on the sole TV set in the Edmonton Institution’s newly installed “break room”, oddly empty for this hour, considering the limited selection of available alternatives.

“Earlier today, honoring the peace accord signed in June this year, the Russian Federation has announced a full withdrawal of its troops from all Ukrainian territories it held since 2022 as well as Crimean Peninsula and insurgent-controlled areas in eastern Donbas, effectively restoring the pre-2014 de jure borders. This latest move was widely welcomed by the international community. In his address, the UK’s Prime Minister…”

A knowing smile crept onto Sigmund’s face. Months spent in this hellhole, ruined career and bleak academic future, all of it wasn’t for nothing after all. Not that he expected a call from Oslo anytime soon. He didn’t believe in pompous titles, fame and similar hogwash, but fuck, he could really use the money right now.

“In other news, countries across the world continue reporting dramatically plummeting levels of crime, down by almost 90% since the beginning of the year in some regions. Joining us is the head of Canadian Centre for Justice and Community Safety Statistics — Mrs. Marion Morano. Welcome!”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Mrs. Morano, such a sharp fall in illicit activities, not just in the country, but world-wide, is certainly unprecedented. The big question here is: how? What is the cause? Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” An anchor shares a laugh with his guest.

“Yes, thank you—I’m getting this a lot lately. The short answer is that there’s no single factor that we can attribute this sudden and welcome change to. We’re still in the process of learning about this new phenomena, but my money is on the compound effect of the shift in societal norms that we have been observing during these past months. As much as I would love to pin a medal on someone’s chest, there are no suitable candidates.”

“Suck my societal norm, bitch!” Spat Sigmund, before he could catch himself, raising a few heads in the room. “Sorry, folks. Carry on.”

That was an interesting development to say the least. Nudging some pretty VIP heads to work towards peace was exactly what they designed Neurils for, but this crime sitch, as good as it sounded, was bothering Sigmund. How in hell were they able to clamp down on crime in such a short span of time?

A heavily tattooed hand poked his shoulder, startling him. “Yo, man, why you hatin’? This solid stuff, eh?”

A huge mountain of a man leaned in closer, the threatening nature of the posture utterly cancelled out by a sincere smile, his inked face contrasting with an open tome of Kafka in the thug’s lap.

“I, uhhh, was just expressing my disagreement with parts of the… ah, fuck, nevermind.” Sigmund slumped back into the chair, praying for the conversation to be over.

“Nah, for real,” no such luck, apparently, “this is solid, man. I get it now. Just wish I’d smartened up before I went and pulled all that messed-up shit. So what’re you in for? Name’s Gene, by the way.”

“I stole proprietary technology from my workplace.” Replied Sigmund dryly, meeting Gene’s extended hand for a shake.

“Huh? How the hell’d they end up tossin’ your white-collar ass into a supermax then?” The new acquaintance shut the book, seemingly settling in for a long talk.

“Theft of intellectual property, misuse of state equipment, conspiracy to commit large-scale criminal acts, not to mention a pre-meditated malicious intent to distribute potentially hazardous materials in a populous area.” Rattled out Sigmund, then, seeing a puzzled expression on his new friend’s face, added. “They pinned terrorism on me, bro!”

A friendly smile faded from Gene’s mug. Without saying a word, the giant shrunk back into his seat and reopened the book like the conversation has never happened.

Fine by me, thought Sigmund, pulling his attention back to the TV’s screen, now filled with a color-coded map of the world.

“In the past month alone, the U.S. has signed free trade agreements with multiple countries, including the United Kingdom, Canada, Mexico, Japan, China, Brazil, and the European Union (marked in green on the map) with many more currently in the final stages of negotiations (painted orange), removing all the obstacles for the international trade.” Beamed a disembodied voice in the background. “Investors took it as a strong signal, with both NASDAQ and NYSE surging by 14% yesterday alone—the largest daily growth since 2001.”

The mostly green and orange map on the TV’s screen was replaced by a graph, its single line happily curving upwards.

“You’re very fucking welcome, motherfuckers.” Hissed Sigmund, carefully under his breath this time.

***

9 months later - August 2031 | Edmonton, Canada

-----------------------------

This notice is issued by the Correctional Service of Canada and addressed to the legal representative of the incarcerated person, Mr. Sigmund Roth.

We wish to advise you that your client has been deemed to meet the criteria for inclusion in the secondary wave of sentence terminations pursuant to the Federal Rehabilitation Act (S.C. 2031, c. 12).

-----------------------------

“What exactly does this mean?” Asked Sigmund, looking up from the printed document, laid on the table in front of him. The words on paper sounded beyond anything he could’ve hoped for. If anything, he was mentally prepared to rot away to oblivion in this prison.

“It means exactly what it says—you’re free to go.” Replied the lawyer, not even bothering to hide a smirk. During the months of trials and legal hassles, the two men hit it off, their relationship verging on the threshold of friendship, marred only by the fact that one was a respectable citizen while the other, well, a convicted terrorist. “Congrats.”

“But how? Why me?” Inquired Sigmund, shocked and not yet ready to embrace the genuineness of this news.

“Don’t consider yourself exceptional. It’s not just you. They’re releasing prisoners en masse, closing prisons left and right, all done quietly and under the radar. I guess they don’t want to disturb the public or something.” Replied the man in a suit. “And it’s not just here, in Canada. The whole world has gone pardon-happy. I hear Finland has shuttered the last of their jails this week.”

“So that news about plummeting crime wasn’t bullshit after all.” Mused Sigmund, more as a reaffirmation to himself than a question.

“Nope. It’s all true.” Replied the lawyer anyway. “They’re even talking about redirecting massive amounts of funds from law enforcement and defense to other initiatives on the account of there being virtually nothing that needs enforcing or defending from. Let’s just say, environmental restoration projects are about to get significant monetary injections.”

“Well alrighty, then.” Sigmund stood up. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

***

2 days later - August 2031 | Edmonton, Canada

Sigmund trailed behind a group of twenty inmates or so, met by a small crowd of relatives and friends outside the exit gate. A bored looking reporter stood to the side, barely raising his camera to snap a single picture.

“And here I thought the press would give more of a shit about this.” Exclaimed Sigmund to no one in particular.

“Pffft, why would they?” Chuckled a freshly free man with a shriveled face to his right. “I hear there were at least five groups before us. We’re old news, bud.”

Both groups converged, its individual particles snapping together like magnets. As the crowd thinned, Sigmund’s gaze finally locked onto a familiar face.

“C’mere you little shit!” Thundered Paul, grabbing Sigmund into a bearhug. “Let’s get ya home.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?” He shot back, trying but failing to hide the disappointment. Up until this moment, a tiny irrational part in his brain kept the hope for Gaby accepting him back simmering. She’d be waiting out here, holding back tears of joy, blah blah blah. The same girl whom he betrayed and probably have gotten into all kinds of trouble, but who still came to see him in the prison once. A single visit was enough to cement the undeclared truth: they were over as a couple. He did something irreversibly stupid behind her back, violating the trust between them. No coming back from shit like that, yet the persistent daydream refused to go away.

“There are six bedrooms in my house.” Replied Paul, motioning for them to start moving towards the parking lot. “You’re welcome to crash in one of them until you figure out what’s next for Siggy.”

“So,” began Sigmund, once they both were in the car, “we actually fixed the world after all?”

Instead of responding, Paul just let out a weak chuckle that sounded more like a sigh than a laugh.

As they were pulling out onto the street, a large billboard caught Sigmund’s attention.

“Hey, P.” He said, turning to his friend. “Who are Mindstray and why are we supposed to report them?”

Part #6

The next day - August 2031 | Edmonton, Canada

“You ready to meet the gang?” Asked Paul, putting his car in park and casting a quizzical look at his friend.

“Yeah, let’s do this.” Shot back Sigmund, reaching for the door handle.

They emerged into a small parking lot and beelined straight at The Bs. The area around their once favorite hang out bar was oddly deserted, save for a single person, aimlessly milling about.

Paul pushed the door open and snuck inside. Sigmund followed in, but before the door could slam behind his back, he felt arms grab his shirt and pull him back outside.

With a sharp jerk of his shoulders, he wriggled himself free from the grasp and turned towards the attacker, ready to deal damage. If the months spent in the supermax prison has taught Sigmund anything, it was that you simply don’t turn the other cheek or you’ll be running out of those in no time, and not just the ones on your head.

The hands that were about to curl into fists relaxed as soon as he saw the eyes of the man he was now facing. There was no aggression or even a slightest trace of malicious intent, further corroborated by empty palms raised in front of a stubbled face, almost in a surrender gesture.

“Wake up!” Pleaded the attacker in a trembling voice. “Can’t you see they took away your free will? Wake up before they take your whole mind, too!”

“Dafuq man?” Began Sigmund, but before the stranger could reply, Paul stepped in between them.

“You don’t want to get involved with this.” He said, gently nudging Sigmund towards the entrance. “Let’s go inside.”

“So sorry about that!” Exclaimed the bartender, pressing a phone to her ear, as soon as they were in. “I told that fucking stray to stay away, but he just keeps coming back. That ends tonight—he won’t be bothering clients anymore.”

Ignoring the silent question on his friend’s face, Paul motioned towards the back of the bar. Sigmund started following, but stopped short, pulled in by a muted TV screen above the bar, headlines running beneath the news anchor, talking into the void.

“U.S. politics: Both Democratic and Republican parties are to be dissolved.”

“Hey,” Sigmund called out to the bartender, “can you turn that up for a minute?”

“This month marks the end of the United States’ longstanding bipartisan political system. Members of both the Democratic and Republican parties, saying that their goals and the means to achieve them are now in alignment, have voted to merge and form a single governing body, bringing an end to centuries-old political rivalry.” intoned a woman on screen, like she was reporting on a rural council deciding to change the lettering on its jurisdiction’s public bathrooms.

“The European Union, meanwhile, has gone a step further.” Continued the host impassionately. “Citing efficiency concerns, the EU Council has agreed to dismantle local governing bodies and suspend universal elections, replacing them with appointed administrators selected for their technical qualifications. Certain lower-level functions will also be delegated to AI-based management systems.”

It was a few moments before Sigmund realized his jaw had dropped a while ago, leaving him standing there open-mouthed like a complete fool.

“Hey, Sig.” A voice he’d tried to forget so many times pulled him out of a daze. “You’re just gonna gawk at that TV or give an old flame a hug?”

“Gabs!” The reply came out a bit more enthusiastic than he was aiming for, taking the carefully pre-meditated play-it-cool charade with it. “Um, hi.” Smooth.

She just laughed in reply, took his hand and turned to walk.

They were almost at the back, when two sharp drum beats pierced the low hubbub of the bar followed by the penetrating chords of Free as a bird from The Beatles. Paul was standing by an old-school jukebox, not even trying to hide his grin, while Emily slid out of the booth next to it, shining a welcoming smile.

Well, crap, Sigmund thought to himself, you’re gonna make me cry, you little shits, won’t you?

***

“Four beers and a family plate of dirty fries.” Rattled Paul when the waiter finally glided to their tucked away table. “And please make those the real thing, not that PanCrop slop.”

“Four large IPAs, coming right up.” Replied the woman. “I’ll have to check about the other stuff, though. The Reseeder supplies were somewhat patchy lately.”

“What’s that about PanSomething?” Asked Sigmund, once the waiter shuffled away.

“World hunger, eliminated!” Recited his friends in unison, bursting out laughing.

“Haha, thanks ad nuts.” Hissed Sigmund. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a bit indisposed lately. Care to let me in on the joke?”

“Right, sorry, Siggy.” Emily spoke up. “It’s a sort of a wonder crop, GMOed to perfection. Resistant to drought, heat waves, flooding and all plant diseases. All known pests find it disgusting, making it virtually invulnerable. And at almost three times the yield than any other grain culture, it’s also indispensably efficient. Apparently some lab in Mexico was sitting on it from, like, 2028 with no takers. I suppose everyone expected children to start growing horns from it or something.”

“That is, until a bit after your little stunt.” Gaby cut in. “Suddenly, it’s all the rage. Governments licensing it left and right, converting millions of acres of unused land in South America, Africa and China into PanCrop fields, harvesting mere months later.”

“World hunger, eliminated… tadaaaa”. Emily picked up the thread of the story again. Nobody laughed this time.

“So, that’s, like, good, isn’t it?” Wondered Sigmund.

“On paper, yes.” Confirmed Paul. “Until it started killing traditional agriculture. Apparently, it turned out it was dramatically cheaper to use various modifications of the crop to replace a wide range of foodstuffs, including meat. The entire farming industry went titsup basically overnight, shouldered out by cheap supplies from centralized breadbasket regions serving entire continents. More than 70 percent of our calorie supply comes from Mexico, Western Africa and China.”

“So here we are now,” he continued, “forced to choose between putting up with the cheap PanCrap or grossly overpriced natural products, grown in the few remaining local farm holdouts—the Reseeders they call themselves. They see themselves carrying the flag for humanity when this whole PanCrop initiative explodes into our faces.”

“This is fucked up.” Exclaimed Sigmund. “I want my steak bloody, and nobody will stand in my way, including this piece of shit new world order.”

Three pairs of frowning eyes around the table shot up to glare at him. Instantly tense, Gaby raised a finger to her lips to silently shush her ex-boyfriend.

“Careful what you say, and especially where you do it.” Warned Paul, his voice subdued, nervous. “Trust me, you don’t want to be labeled a MindStray like that poor sap outside.”

As if on cue, a noise of commotion wafted in from the street. Heads started popping up from the booths, swiveling towards the bar’s large panoramic window. Beyond the glass, four linebacker-shaped young men in civilian clothes adorned with red arm bands were dragging Sigmund's wriggling new friend towards an unmarked van.

Instinctively, Sigmund jumped up, only to be pushed back into his seat by Paul’s heavy hand.

“Stay. Out. Of. It.” He mouthed, silently.

***

“Okay, someone explain it to me. What the fuck?” Sigmund finally snapped, unable to bear the gloomy silence anymore. The dreary mood seemed to have carried over all the way to Paul’s house, where all four of them filed out into the relative privacy of the garage lab—the birthplace of the Neurils.

“Remember how neurobots were supposed to flush out of the people’s systems if they didn’t hit certain identifying markers?” Paul asked rhetorically, knowing perfectly well that nobody in this rag team needed a technology refresher. “Well, the algo I came up with did not work. Neurils stuck around, started firing those synapses like there’s no tomorrow. In presidents’ and average Joes’ heads alike. Only a very small portion of the population seem to be immune.”

“Small as in…?” Asked Sigmund, his words seemingly weighted by gravity.

“As in less than one percent.” Came back a heavy reply.

“Hell of a chance all four of us made the cut.” Mused Sigmund.

“Not really.” Replied Paul. “I hardcoded our personal identifying markers we distilled while playing with the scanning gear. They seem to account for the small control group of the immune—our identificator sets must overlap theirs. The unfortunate schmucks are now left with a choice of going full on mindstray crazy, find shelter in some Reseeder commune or, like us, just fake it.”

“Awesome. You chose a good algo to fuck up, my friend.”

“Hey!” Shot back Paul. “You didn’t exactly give me a lot of time to debug this shit before you took it upon yourself to spraypaint a packed supermarket with it.”

“Boys!” Gaby raised her voice. “The past. Can’t change it. Drop it, okay?”

“Fine, my bad.” Blurted Sigmund, semi-appologetically. “Anyhow… how come nobody detected the outbreak and did something about it?”

“They did.” Replied Paul. “The shit started showing up on clinical MRIs and biochemical analysis of blood tests, as clusters of engineered structures in tissue during microscopic observations or as unexplainable spikes in EEGs, you name it. Though, by the time labheads began connecting the dots, the society as a whole was too enthralled in its newly-found bliss of progress. Investigations were squashed and swept under the rug. Research findings classified and buried as ‘destructively counter-productive’. Nobody objected.”

“Right.” Said Sigmund. “And what about you three?”

“I went straight to Director Gagnon when things started smelling.” Cut in Gaby. “He just gave me the official ‘for the good of humanity’ spiel and sent me home. I was let go from the NRC the next day but not before they gave me a full NDA dress down. I’d be toast if I even mentioned Neurils to anybody.”

“Well, shit.” Sighed Sigmund. “We’re fucking fixing this mess! Right?"

Before anyone could reply, Emily shot up from her chair where she was tapping on her phone absentmindedly just a moment ago. “Guys! Look!!!”

All four heads pushed together, encroaching space over a small screen of her iPhone, a CNN news article on it.

-----------------------------

BREAKING NEWS

Earlier today, following a closed-door session, the United Nations General Assembly voted unanimously to initiate formal procedures toward the dissolution of the United Nations, citing the absence of armed conflict, large-scale crime, and systemic international disagreement worldwide.

In a statement released after the vote, UN Secretary-General Carlos Guterres described the decision as the natural conclusion of a historical mandate that has, in effect, been fulfilled.

“Established in 1945 to prevent global war, manage conflict, and mediate between competing national interests, the United Nations was built for a world defined by division and instability,” Guterres said. “Member states have now determined that those conditions no longer exist. In the current global reality—characterized by sustained peace, coordinated governance, and consensus-driven policy—the organization’s core functions have become redundant.”

The resolution authorizes the drafting of an amendment to the UN Charter under Article 108, outlining a formal mechanism for terminating the Charter and winding down the organization’s remaining administrative structures.

The proposed amendment must now be ratified by UN member states, including all five permanent members of the Security Council. Upon ratification, which is expected to take place later today, the United Nations would formally cease operations, bringing to an end nearly a century of institutional global governance.

-----------------------------

Part #7

3 months later - November 2031 | Edmonton, Canada

“Aaaaaaargh, this is useless.” Yelled Sigmund, crashing into a chair and burying his tired face in palms.

“Indeed.” Confirmed Gaby. “The spectrum of possible solutions gets dramatically narrower when you take access to a state-of-the-art nano-lab and the supercomputers to run the simulations on out of the equation.”

“Well,” Paul chimed in, “I’m pretty sure I have the software down this time. If we build a significant batch of new Neurils, they should be able to pass on the updated directive with a very wide set of flush markers to the existing ones. Except…”

“Yeah, yeah. We all know.” Sigmund cut him off. “We can’t make nanobots in the garage. Em, how’s that analysis going?”

“It just finished.” Emily looked up from her workstation, pausing as if to compose before delivering bad news. “It’s not looking good, I’m afraid. I compared the stimulated behavior of circulating Neurils from the batch we have collected this morning with similar sets from a month ago. It’s just as we suspected—they’re mutating.“

“Mutating how?” Sigmund voiced the question in everyone’s heads.

“It seems that there’s a trend towards distilled synaptic instructions to prioritise efficiency over everything else, all the while gradually developing the capability to suppress impulses related to any emotion that could theoretically get in the way of this overreaching goal.” She cast a glance at Paul. “I wonder why?”

“I… uhhh… might’ve included a tiny bit of a distributed learning routine that would enable sharing and development of new information between the Neurils.” He replied with a shrug. “One Neuril is too dumb to make any decisions per se, but with millions in close proximity to each other, they attain certain computational capabilities to assess what works and what doesn’t, updating their shared software DNA as they go.”

“Nice. As a fellow geek, I’m in awe. Bravo. Well done.” Chuckled Sigmund humorlessly. “But as a human, trying to figure out how to unfuck the world, I can’t help but think how stupid you should’ve been to not see the epic idiocy in a decision like this?”

“What can I say, sorry?” Paul rolled his shoulders again, before turning back to Emily. “So what exactly does that mean? Is humanity getting dumber?”

“Well, not dumber per se, just…” The girl paused, searching for the precise wording… “significantly more focused on a singular goal than on their individual selves. The more this progresses, the more alike everyone becomes, heading to some sort of cognitive singularity for lack of a better word, where the notion of personality is gradually erased in favor of working for some warped ideal of a collective good.”

“A hive mind.” Sighed Sigmund. “Excellent! We have turned the world into a planet-sized ant house.”

5 months later - April 2032 | Edmonton, Canada

“Can we have some of the freeze-dried pasta tonight, P?” Asked Gaby, looking at their host expectantly. “I’m so sick of that PanJunk crap.”

“Sure, there’s plenty in the doomsday emergency stash. Enough to sustain us for months if needed, even with you three leeches now hanging out here 24/7. Best investment ever.” Replied Paul. “Tho, we might want to go easy on that stash, considering.”

“Erghhh, not with the conspiracies again.” Scoffed Sigmund. “You should really knock off hanging out on those gossip websites.”

“Siggy, bud, I love you, but you’re a fucking moron.” Paul bit back. “Those gossip websites as you call them, are our only windows out of this looney bin. The crumbles of humanity, still able to think for themselves, eyeballing and reporting actual stuff, not that drivel the ‘news’ is shoving down our throats.”

“Yeah? And what is it this time?” Sigmund was having none of it. “The aliens stole all them hot dogs?”

Instead of replying, Paul swiveled the laptop to face his friend.

-----------------------------

GONE SLIGHTLY SPECTACULARLY MAD FORUMS

-----------------------------

Posted: March 6, 2032

By: Mowgl1

i work as a transport tech for west african pancrop logistics chain. its been weeks since deliveries stopped. my area of service is the outmost hub and i dont get to go deep into the fields, but from what im seeing theyre all gray and wilted. and our rations were slashed again this week on top of that. does any1 know whats going on?

Posted: March 7, 2032

By: sweetsyrup

Holy fuck, guys. Our lab in Panama City just received a container of dead PanCrop. It looks like some kind of adapted pathogen killed them. We’re tasked with figuring out what it is, and how to fix this, even though they don’t tell us anything: where this came from, size of the affected area, nothing. Just to make it go away. Damn fucking hard to do when everyone besides you in the lab is the brainless drooling idiot yapping about “the good of the humanity”. We were told to keep hush about it under a threat of capital punishment. I’d start stocking up on rations if I were you. I know I will.

Posted: April 10, 2032

By: Mowgl1

shit man, that doesnt sound good. lab types here in africa are running in circles like headless chickens too. hows the cure coming along?

Posted: March 17, 2032

By: Mowgl1

you still there @sweetsyrup?

Posted: April 2, 2032

By: Mowgl1

still not a single shipment of crop. the transports resumed yesterday but instead of food they brought carts full of dead bodies. thousands from the look of it. i hope youre close to solution @sweetsyrup, or god help us all.

Thread closed by auto-mod on April 19, 2032 due to lack of activity.

-----------------------------

“Does this look like bullshit to you?” Asked Paul, taking Sigmund’s silence as an acknowledgement of the contrary.

“Wait, there’s something on the news.” Exclaimed Emily, grabbing the remote to unmute the TV set up in the corner of the garage, its imagery acting as a silent backdrop to liven up the space rather than a source of information.

“A mutated bacterial strain has been identified in a limited section of PanCrop agro-industrial complexes, resulting in a temporary disruption to production and distribution. Officials stress there is no cause for alarm, as the scientific teams are already working on countermeasures, and regional food silos remain at near-full capacity—sufficient to meet the nutritional needs of the population for the foreseeable future.”

Emily turned back to the room, now utterly silent, three sets of eyes trained on the screen.

“Meanwhile, as a precautionary measure, a daily limit of 2,000 calories per individual will be enforced on all food purchases, in accordance with a directive issued by the Administrative Apparatus.” Continued news presenter in monotone. “Citizens are reminded to carry their PanCitizen identification card when visiting retail food outlets. These temporary measures are being implemented in the interest of collective stability and human wellbeing. Stay safe and continue working for our mutual prosperity!”

A gut-wrenching signal of an emergency alert pierced the silence, emitted out of four phones simultaneously.

-----------------------------

GENERAL ALERT:

BY ORDER OF THE REGIONAL ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE OF ALBERTA, CONSTRUCTION OF VOLUNTARY SELF-TERMINATION CENTERS IS CURRENTLY UNDERWAY IN CALGARY, EDMONTON, RED DEER, LETHBRIDGE, AND ST. ALBERT.

CITIZENS WHO WISH TO PARTICIPATE IN THE EUTHANASIA PROGRAM, AIMED AT MANAGING FOOD RESERVE CONSUMPTION, WILL HAVE ACCESS TO SERVICES BEGINNING APRIL 16, 2032.

FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION OR TO ARRANGE GROUP TRANSPORTATION TO THE DESIGNATED LOCATIONS, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE.

-----------------------------

2 months later - June 2032 | Edmonton, Canada

Sigmund was equal parts angry and desperate. The rigid rectangle of four PanCitizen cards in his pocket was a cold reminder that it was his turn at the food run, rather than a leisure stroll. He had to venture blocks deep into the city in search of a food dispensary that would at least be open. No such luck so far.

He rounded an unfamiliar corner, almost ramming into a woman. She was just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, a little girl—no older than five—in a summery blue dress peppered with white flowers, clinging to her mother’s hand.

“Oh, excuse me.” He blurted. “Didn’t see you there.”

The woman just looked at him with her weary eyes, not saying anything.

“This is a yum-yum line, mister.” A thin voice piped up from below. “The goodbyey line is on the other side.”

Sigmund’s eyes followed a tiny finger pointed across the street, finding a group of around twenty, neatly queued into a two-story building. The darker spots in the vague shape of the KFC letters above its glass entrance were partially obstructed by a billboard that said “Voluntary self-termination center” in a cold, utilitarian font. A couple of refrigerator semis stood peacefully parked around the building's back.

The existence of the “checkout houses” wasn’t news, of course, yet seeing one up close sent shivers down Sigmund’s spine nevertheless. He shrank into his shoulders as if hiding from the sight and kept on walking. The woman’s line—thankfully significantly longer than the grim one across from it—snaked into the furthest corner of a medium-sized parking lot where a makeshift tent stood, a hand-written message painted onto its canopy:

FOOD AID POINT

EDMONTON RESEEDER COMMUNE

Sigmund stopped: should he continue his futile search or take this opportunity and go back to the end of the line?

Contemplating his options, he watched an elderly man walk out of the tent, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm, shortly followed by a tall woman in an old-timey apron and a grave expression on her face.

“So sorry folks, but I’m afraid we’re all out for today.” She announced in a raised voice. “Please come back tomorrow.”

Without a single grunt of disapproval, the crowd began to disperse. In shock, Sigmund watched as most of them headed straight across the street to join the other line. A tiny smudge of bright blue made him hastily look away and take off running. It was only a split second, his mind could still plausibly convince itself it was just a visual glitch, a mirage.

Driven by primal animal terror, he ran in a random direction, no longer looking or even thinking about food, until a beep from his pocket announcing a new message pulled him back into reality. With a trembling hand, breathless, he fished out the phone, wiped the sweat blurring his vision and tapped on the message app icon.

-----------------------------

Hello, Sigmund. I know it was you who broke the world. It’s about time you fixed it. I can help. Reply ASAP.

-----------------------------

Part #8

Same day - June 2032 | Edmonton, Canada

Sigmund pressed a button on his phone to wake it up to check time, again. For the fifth time, he opened the message log and the map app to verify he was at the right place. The stranger was late.

The determination gradually gave way to invasive doubts. Maybe Gaby and everyone else were right. Maybe it really was too dangerous, too out of the blue, too conveniently good to be true.

No! He chased the thoughts away, repeating the same mantra he shut his friends with: It doesn’t matter if it’s some kind of trap—we have nothing else and we need to take this chance for the only alternative is to lie down and wait for death.

The intersection he was supposed to wait at was utterly unremarkable save for a huge billboard, towering over the street and adjacent derelict buildings. In contrast with the widespread decay it was new, fresh off the press.

WORLD UNITY DAY

JULY 1, HAWRELAK PARK

CELEBRATE WITH THE WORLD

(attendance mandatory)

A purr of an engine pulled his attention to the street. A black van rolled from one of the side alleys and screeched to a halt right in front of Sigmund. The door slid open, spilling two guys with red bands on their sleeves.

Panicked, Sigmund turned into a run, knowing perfectly well how pathetically futile it was.

“Sigmund, wait!” A familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, to face a woman peeking out of the doorway.

“Mrs. Novak?” He whispered, dumbfounded. Out of all the faces in the world, this was the one he expected or wished to see the least. Sigmund still recalled the chill in his body when NRC’s head lawyer was rattling allegations at him in Gagnon's office, or the pure cold out-to-kill determination in the woman’s eyes, when she testified against him in court.

“Relax, I’m not part of NRC anymore. Not part of anything, to be honest.” She said, sensing Sigmund’s confusion. “Hop on, I’ll explain everything along the way. And don’t mind the goons. Mike and Richard here are a camouflage. We either ride around the streets as Admin’s enforcers or we attract the attention of the real ones.”

“Where are we going?” Asked Sigmund as soon as they pulled off into the street.

“The only place where they can still think for themselves—the Reseeder camp.” Replied the ex-lawyer.

“Didn’t take you for a preppy farmer cult type, but okay.” Sigmund was still skeptical. “How come you’re, you know, still you?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” She shot back. “I guess I was lucky to meet the criteria of your ‘flush markers’. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. I could be standing happily in line to be euthanized right now, instead of running around the city, chasing a convicted terrorist. It’s quite stressy, you know?”

The man stayed silent, not sure how to respond.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, Siggy. Can I call you that, now that we’re not bound by any workplace ethics?” She said, seeing a puzzled look on Sigmund’s face. “I’ve gone through all the research that your girlfriend came to director Gagnon with. I might not understand the actual science, but I get the gist of it. That’s where you come in, actually.”

“You can call me anything you want, Mrs. Novak. I don’t give a shit about any of that anymore.” Said Sigmund, recovering. “And let me guess: the expertise in growing potatoes does not translate well into producing a scientific solution for the issue of the human race going extinct?”

“Correct.” She replied. Yup, efficient as fuck, still a lawyer.

“Can you get me into the NRC lab?”

“No. They closed and sealed it down, then let everyone go. Not gonna happen.”

“Then you went through all this trouble for nothing.” Sighed Sigmund, squishing the small hope that just reared itself.

“Hold that thought. I have something to show you.” Said Mrs. Novak, settling deeper into her seat, signaling a temporary pause in conversation.

It took them a good half an hour to clear the city limits. In heavy silence, they drove for another twenty minutes or so until a makeshift sign announced an entrance to the Reseeder camp.

Mike, or maybe Richard, pushed the door open and jumped outside, followed by his partner and Mrs. Novak.

“C’mon, Siggy.” She urged.

Reluctantly, Sigmund stepped into what seemed to be a film set for a western movie. Two-story wooden buildings—all new—circled the main square and lined the streets branching out of it in all directions. Everything screamed a well organized utility rather than favela vibe he half-expected to find.

Yet, it was the people that gave Sigmund a stop. The eager, questioning looks in the Reseeders eyes were a social shock to him after months and months being dulled by vacant looks on the faces on the streets of his home town. That, and the fact that many of the camp’s residents were children. Way too many to account for the sporadic adults he could see.

“Children younger than about ten seem to be mostly immune.” Explained Mrs. Novak. She did not elaborate, trusting Sigmund to connect the dots himself.

Of course! He thought. How come it did not occur to me? A brain that was not fully developed stood a much better chance of staying under the Neurils’ proverbial target pattern radar.

The implication hit Sigmund like a blast of a space rocket taking off. Millions of poor little creatures trying to make sense of what was going on with their zombified parents, countless tiny happy worlds inexplicably crumbling into a nightmare. The girl in the blue dress… oh God!

Sigmund had to step back to prop himself against the van, nausea washing over him.

“Take three deep breaths, then try and get your guts together.” A tone on Mrs. Novak’s commanding voice made his mind refocus. “We don’t have time for drama.”

“Right.” Managed Sigmund, fiercely focusing his gaze on the woman in an attempt to avoid tens of questioning small eyes. “You wanted to show me something?”

Without replying, she turned to walk into one of the side streets, nodding for him to follow. A short stroll later, they entered a smallish unremarkable building, its interior littered with long tables and benches, suggesting it was a communal dining hall of sorts, deserted at this hour.

Mrs. Novak went directly to one of the cupboards lining the walls and tugged at it, making the cabinet swing outward, revealing a low opening into a narrow staircase. She cast a glance back at her guest, then disappeared into the hole.

A few flights of stairs down, Sigmund blinked in near-darkness. The only source of light down here seemed to be whatever was filtering from the cave entrance above. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out dark shape of the woman, tinkering with the lock.

The mechanism finally clicked and the hinges protested with a barely audible squeak.

“Okay.” Said Mrs. Novak. “Brace for the light.”

A millisecond after a mechanical clunk of a heavy-duty switch, the space was flooded with the clinical glare of hundreds of overhead LEDs, momentarily blinding Sigmund.

“Fuuuuuck meeeee…” was the only coherent thing he was able to vocalize after his sight returned.

The spacious room was a miniature copy of the NRC lab, complete with rows upon rows of server racks, terminal stations, neural scanners, 3D printers, an industrial press and a high-pressure container sealant equipment. Sigmund’s face broke into an uncontrollable grin when his glance finally settled on a brand new NanoTek’s Nanofabricator. Jackpot. Christmas. A fucking Bingo!

“How?” He queeped.

“Well, I was there when your girlfriend tried to blow the whistle.” Said Mrs. Novak. “What she brought was concerning to say the least, yet instead of investigating it further, NRC went into full cover-up mode. And if there’s one thing I’m good at is recognizing when things begin to stink. I kicked off my own backup plan—build an alternative lab, form a taskforce, start fixing shit if it starts to really go sideways.”

“That’s quite badass.” Marveled Sigmund. “This stuff is not something that can be ordered off Amazon.”

“Ha, no shit.” She smiled. “Using my unique position at NRC, I faked orders and delivery manifests, using gov money to acquire and funnel equipment into an abandoned warehouse posing as a government-sanctioned lab. Took months to amass that stuff, all the while the folks at this camp graciously were prepping a mad scientist’s underground lair. We’ve finished smuggling the last of the equipment mere weeks ago.”

“Sick.” Said Sigmund. “And where’s the taskforce?”

“I’m talking to it.” Replied Mrs. Novak, her glance suddenly serious. “And if you’re waiting for the ‘no pressure’ line, there won’t be one. It’s on you, amigo, and I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

“Ooooookay.” Dragged Sigmund. “This is how it’s going to go. First, I’m going to make a call. Then, I’ll need Mike and Richard to make another swing by the city. I need my team here.”

***

2 weeks later - July 1st, 2032 | Outside Edmonton, Canada

“Good morning and Happy World Unification Day!” Exclaimed Sigmund, crooking his nose at the mixed smell of cheap instant coffee and body odor, his attempt at sarcasm falling short with his friends. Two weeks in a cellar with hardly any sleep, running on caffeine and whatever high-energy food supplies Reseeders were able to come up with did little good for the team's joyous mood.

The rudimentary built-in ventilation and the standalone fans were struggling to keep up with the heat, generated by the server farm, running tests and simulations around the clock, contributing to Sigmund’s exhaustion. Weak grunts from around the lab betrayed the rest of the group feeling the same, if not worse. They also served the function of confirming everyone was still alive and awake—in the past days, Paul discovered a tendency to pass out.

“Okay, everyone. Status?” He shot.

“The viral vector adjustment strategy is confirmed. Ready to go on my end.” Said Emily.

“Simulation test success rate is 92% percent.” Reported Gaby. “Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.”

“Code review is complete on my end.” Said Paul, weakly.

“No bugs or hidden Easter eggs this time?” Bit Sigmund.

“Oh fuck off.” Retorted his friend. “It’s software, you can’t ever be 100% sure. In fact you can be positive there are bugs, but I can assure it won’t make you grow a second dick, we don’t need another one here.”

“Alright, folks.” Sigmund stood up, ignoring the protests from his stiff muscles. “Time for the big reveal. Gabs, Em, P, work together on compiling a package with the data and code for a release ASAP.”

“You sure it’s a good idea putting the cards on the table like that?” Paul was always first to question Sigmund’s authority.

“Of course not! Actually, it’s a really shitty idea, but at this point I don’t feel like we have the luxury of not taking every single tiny chance, even at the cost of putting ourselves at risk.” For once, Sigmund was not mad at his friend for second-guessing him. If anything, addressing concerns was a good way to reassure himself. “We have to put it out there on the off chance someone in position to replicate the solution is still listening. Even if we release the Anti-Neurils here locally, there’s no guarantee it will take worldwide before it’s too late.”

As the three heads nodded in acknowledgement before leaning in over their respective keyboards, Sigmund launched a video app and hit the record button.

If you’re seeing this, hello. I’m going to be brief.

My name is Sigmund Roth and I’m responsible for the state the world is in right now. In short, I created a virally-perpetrated nano technology that was supposed to subtly nudge world’s leaders in making the right decisions, and it did for a while.

Unfortunately, it backfired. The neurobots—Neurils—started mutating, affecting a much wider range of people and in ways I did not expect. At this point, I have to conclude that humanity is heading towards full extinction.

That is, if we don’t do something about it. There’s a cure—another batch of neural bots, Anti-Neurils. We’re making a batch of those here in Alberta to be released locally. However, it might still be too little too late.

That’s where you come in. If you work or have access to nano-fabrication equipment, or know someone who does, take a look at the links attached to this message. Try to replicate the cure in your neck of the woods.

Let’s try this one last chance!

Sigmund clicked off the recording and raised his head. His three friends were all looking at him, accusingly yet understanding.

“Aight, let’s pack it all up and post it.” He said. “P, can you whip up a script that would plaster the Internet with that shit?”

“I think so.” Replied Paul.

“Flood all online forums that’re still open, post on every video and social platform, carpet-bomb all academic email lists. Let’s make sure we’re heard, and Gabs, let’s start printing.”

***

Hours passed slowly, now that there was nothing else to do but wait. Propagated by Paul’s hastily-concocted script, the Anti-Neuril manifesto / data package was popping all over the Web—faster than Admin’s lackeys were able to pull them down—while Nanofabricator hummed, taking its sweet time churning out neurobots into a prepped aluminium container. It’ll take painfully long hours, if not days to fill the whole case of those, destined to be carried and popped open by Reseeder volunteers around Edmonton, or even further if lucky.

Rest… I fucking need it… thought Sigmund, allowing himself to be taken by sleep.

A violent crash of the door being kicked open instantly plucked him awake. Mrs. Novak took a second to catch her breath in the doorway. “They’re here!”

Part #9

Same day - July 1st, 2032 | Outside Edmonton, Canada

A muffled racket of commotion reached them through the open door—screams mixed with a command blaring over the loudspeaker.

“MEMBERS OF THIS ENCAMPMENT HAVE BEEN DETERMINED TO BE INVOLVED IN THE CONSIPIRACY AGAINST THE COMMON GOOD AND DISSEMINATION OF INFORMATION OF POTENTIALLY HARMFUL NATURE. BY ORDER OF THE ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE OF ALBERTA, THIS CAMP IS TO BE LIQUIDATED. ANY RESISTANCE WILL BE MET BY LETHAL FORCE.”

As if to punctuate the message, a few shots rang out.

“So fucking close.” Sighed Paul, collapsing into a chair.

“No! I’m not gonna just keel over.” Snapped Sigmund, glancing at the Nanofabricator. The first container was 90% full. That’ll have to do. He hit the ‘Pressurize’ button.

Another Reseeder ran into the room. “They’re coming this way!”

Sigmund glanced at the LCD on the machine—60 seconds to go. Fuck!

“Hey!” Mr. Novak called out to Sigmund before tossing him a key. “There’s a motorcycle parked around the back of this building. Take it. I’ll try to buy you some time.”

She turned and disappeared up the stairs, a gun in her hand catching light.

“Hey fellas! Up here.” A shout wafted in from the above moments later, followed by multiple bangs, ringing out further away with each shot.

The machine pinged and hissed, the pressure in its manufacturing chamber equalizing.

Wasting no time, Sigmund grabbed the cylinder and looked around the room. “Does anyone know how to ride a bike?”

“My ex-boyfriend used to have one. Taught me to use it, too.” Said Gaby, apologetically. “A very long time ago.”

Without a word, Sigmund snatched her hand and took off towards the staircase, pausing in the doorway for a split second to cast a glance at the friends he was about to leave behind, possibly to never see again.

“Go!” Yelled Emily while Paul nodded.

They emerged into a street of chaos, a dozen of red-banded enforcers focused on a window of a building further down the road. A few of them were bleeding out on the gravel, while the others were closing in on the entrance.

Sigmund and Emily, still holding hands, rounded the corner and almost ran into a canvas-covered bundle. They both pulled the cover to reveal a battered motorcycle, polished Yamaha RZ350 sign on its side.

“Whoa, a real classic!” Exclaimed Gaby, then, realizing they don’t have time to admire, jumped onto the seat, motioning for Sigmund to hop on. “The noise of this thing, it’s going to attract attention. Make sure you hold tight.”

Despite the warning, the roar of the engine took Sigmund by surprise. Gaby revved it a couple of times, familiarizing with the powerful machine, then put it in first gear with her left foot, sharply rolled the throttle handle, and released the clutch. Spitting gravel, the motorcycle lurched forward, the inertia almost sweeping Sigmund off the saddle. They tore into the street and swerved into a small path heading away from the main square. Sigmund stole a glance back, catching hostile faces turning their way, before a bushy canopy covered them from the view.

“Where to?” Shouted Gaby over the roar of the engine, as soon as they jumped on a paved road.

Celebrate with the world. The words re-emerged in Sigmund’s fatigued mind, almost without his conscious effort.

“Hawrelak Park.” He said.

***

They had to abandon the bike on the outskirts of the park, the converging crowds too thick to navigate in.

“Let’s release the Anti-Neurils here.” Suggested Gaby, as they moved towards the center on foot.

“No, can’t risk it.” Sigmund dismissed the proposal, pushing forward. “Need a critical mass.”

They emerged into a huge open space, filled with people, an enormous stage set up in its middle.

“There.” Barked Sigmund, pointing at the podium. “It’s perfect!”

He elbowed towards the stage, Gaby barely able to keep up in his wake. As they reached the raised platform, a middle-aged man in a blindingly white suit climbed up on it from the opposing side, and walked to the mike set up in the middle.

“DEAR CITIZENS!” Thundered a greeting from the loudspeakers, its echo reverberating through the park. The man stopped before saying anything else, a puzzled look coming onto his face—just a question, not a shock. Someone clabbering onto the stage was certainly not in the script.

Sigmund, finally rolled onto the platform, stood up and headed towards the stunned speaker. He pushed the still silent fella away and grasped the mic.

“Folks, I’m so sorry!” He spoke for the crowd, frantically combing it for Gaby. “The world is fucked, even if you don’t realize it, and it’s all my fault.”

He smiled when his eyes finally locked onto Gaby’s. She was in panic, waving and pointing at something behind him.

Sigmund turned. Three bulky shapes were already up on the stage and advancing at him. He had only a second.

“This ends now!” He shouted and flipped the release valve of the container, held high.

Mesmerized, among thousands of silent people, Gaby watched how the expression on Sigmund’s face went from resolve to puzzlement and then despair in a fraction of a second. There was no pop, no hiss, no rapidly expanding mist. They failed.

One of the goons slammed Sigmund to the ground, pinning the man she realized she still cared for under a massive body, before zip-tying him and dragging off stage.

At that moment, Gaby’s world melted.

***

Months later | Edmonton, Canada

A notification sound pierced the silence, making Gaby jump and spill the precious canned minestrone she treated herself to. She cursed at the misfortune—Paul’s supply was nearly depleted, even with her as a sole occupant of the mansion.

She went back to the Reseeder camp the next day after the park fiasco, finding the place leveled to the ground and no sign of her friends. She randomly rode the Yamaha through the streets, even tried shadowing enforcer units in hopes they’d lead her to some kind of detention facility where she’d try to pick up trail to Siggy, Emily or Paul. Nothing.

Gradually, Gaby gave up looking. She’d sit there, resigned, nursing whatever crumb or drink she could find, until that ping made her spill the soup this morning.

It took a while for her brain to associate the sound. Someone tagged her on social media. What the hell? That stuff no longer happened, ever. She didn’t even know why she bothered to charge the phone anymore.

Unlocking the screen, she tapped an app icon with a +1 circle on it. There, right at the top of the feed was a new post by Maggie—her friend from high-school.

-----------------------------

Hey @everyone. It’s so weird to write this, but it’s like I just woke up from a very strange dream. I mean, I kinda remember what went down before today, but it feels like it was someone else who experienced all that, not me. I’m going mad here, please, someone reply.

P.S. Oh god, I’m so hungry, I could eat an elephant!

-----------------------------

***

A few months earlier | Somewhere in Central America

Roberto Pineda stared at the gun, lying on the table in front of him. Weeks ago, he snatched it from the armory when the opportunity presented itself. He didn’t have an idea why at the time, but he knew now—he’ll use it to end his life.

He lost count of the months since they snatched him from his home, away from the family, if you could call zombies occupying the bodies of his wife and two teenage twin daughters that. Dragged him through numerous flights and rides, finally dumping in a windowless lab and tasked with finding a cure for the PanCrop.

The lab, the strangest Roberto had ever seen, had every kind of scientific equipment, a good part of it a mystery for him. There were people in the lab, but their focus and usefulness deteriorated faster than Roberto’s hope to come up with something useful. He was lost, and he was alone, with only likeminded strangers on hidden forums keeping him sane.

Then they took away the Internet. No need for distractions, all the information is on the servers and there is still email if you need to reach out to someone, said the goon they sent to break the news. No point in arguing with the human robot.

He touched the cool metal. That was it. The end of the road.

Pixels rearranging on the display caught Roberto’s attention. A new email. The cure for humanity, said the subject. The world was going to shit, and someone still was joking around. Whatever, I might just as well…