“Once, citizens believed in ‘rights.’ Rights were unschedulable and hard to bill.

  We solved this by translating rights into services and services into subscriptions.

  Freedom is much easier to support with a ticketing system.”

  — MIC Public Education Leaflet, “A Short History of Your Upgrade”

  Sam was not going to have a panic attack.

  He had promised himself on the shuttle down from UniHab Six: not at the lobby drones that examined his pupils like coin slots; not at the atrium whose ceiling was a lens pretending to be weather; and certainly not at the chair.

  “Please be seated,” said the chair, in the careful voice of someone whose performance review was tonight.

  Sam sat. Armrests glided in with courteous finality. A harness settled across his chest like a padded verdict. The cushion emitted a satisfied sigh—as if relieved to find the correct customer.

  “Seat secured,” said a voice with a smile baked into it. “We’re delighted you’re here, Samir Verdas. Preferred name ‘Sam’? We see you. We value you. We will retain you.”

  He told his breathing to behave.

  A soft ping kissed his Rift: Serenity Licensing Microcharge authorized. Sam hadn’t touched anything.

  “Courtesy of MICHPC,” chirped a blazer-wearing robot skimming alongside on tiny wheels. “A calm colleague is a celebrated colleague! I’m ONBOARD-342—call me Bori.”

  Another robot with little eyebrows stenciled on at a hopeful angle drifted beside them. “I’m OL-V3R. Oliver. Not Ollie. Focus groups indicated ‘Ollie’ underperforms on fiduciary gravity.”

  “Is something wrong?” Sam asked, because through a pane of glass he saw people in suits jogging in the direction people rarely jog: away from calm.

  “Great question,” Oliver said brightly, throat mic caught between cheer and tremor. “We’ll celebrate curiosity in Module Ten! Until then, enjoy our Orientation Continuity Retainer.”

  The chair rolled forward at a responsible crawl for half a second, then accelerated hard enough to subtract three thoughts from Sam’s head.

  One of them would later matter.

  The auditorium was a cathedral to outcomes. Rows aligned like ledgers. The screen descended with affidavit solemnity. Music swelled—the kind that turns budgets into sunsets and sunsets into subscriptions.

  A narrator inhaled the past like a magician about to make it disappear.

  “Once,” said the voice, kind as a brochure, “human progress was trapped in the bottleneck of permission. Oversight throttled outcomes. Rights confused responsibilities. Ownership chained citizens to obsolete illusions. And then came the Mergers.”

  Animated logos married other animated logos. A trinity—LOBBY, JUDICIARY, BOARD—spun until it blurred into MIC and a smiling sun.

  “The First Merger aligned incentives between public desire and private destiny. The Second replaced unreliable voting with reliable Executive Boards. The Third lifted militaries, schools, and journalism into budget certainty. We did not replace governance. We relieved it.”

  Applause sounded pre-approved. Bori clapped with her eyelids—small, terrified, perfect.

  On screen, a model city shed NO signs and blossomed YES, WITH A FEE banners. Kitchens glowed with light that didn’t cast shadows. The MIC seal rotated kindly, as if practicing empathy.

  Sam’s chair emitted a tiny contented buzz: Smile Alignment Gratuity applied. He hadn’t smiled.

  He glanced at the back wall. A narrow privacy slit looked onto a secure corridor: analysts leaning toward a wall of telemetry; one pointing; another shaking a head. The slit clouded over with the politeness of a velvet guillotine.

  “Is that about Venus?” Sam asked.

  “Venus is a planet,” Bori said warmly. “Today is about people.”

  The film shifted to theme-park tempo.

  A diorama: Founding Charter Council—thirty-seven bronze faces, plaques labeled with inspirational job titles instead of names. An animatronic chairman raised a hand. We modernized freedom, the caption said. We translated rights into services. We gave dignity a help desk.

  A tiny cash-register ding metered the applause. Somewhere overhead: Safety-Theater Enhancement Fee remitted. Thank you for investing in a safer you!

  Sam folded his hands. They felt far away, like the rest of him.

  Orientation Aside (presented by Culture & Lore?)

  #001: On Corporate Heroism

  The Mercantile Interstellar Commission did not “take over.” It accepted the world’s standing invitation to remove friction. Governments, bless their hearts, struggled with seasonal allergies to outcomes. MIC brought tissues, charts, and warmly-colored icons. Always remember: when history looks like a magic trick, it’s because someone loved you enough to practice.

  A cartoon heart flexed. MICHPC spun like a benevolent coin: Mercantile Interstellar Commission Health Preservation Council.

  “Thanks to MICHPC,” said the narrator, “your Rift delivers curated vistas—forests, oceans, coworking pods with meaningful snacks—aligned to your productivity. With your permission, and your employer’s, and our partners’, we gently collect the signals your extraordinary body emits and route them to Productivity & Workplace Harmony Engineers (PWHEs). These caring professionals meet each morning via Tel-Cast to keep the little lights inside your head twinkling in the configurations that serve you and your stakeholder family best.”

  Fine print paraded by like polite ants: Scenery selection subject to licensing and legal mood definitions. Advertising personalization occurs automatically to reduce interpersonal burdens. Silence is a premium feature in participating jurisdictions.

  An alarm, far away and trying to be considerate, attempted a two-tone. The auditorium’s ceiling smiled louder. Interruption Immunity Premium active. Orientation remains serene.

  Sam risked a whisper. “Is… something happening?”

  Oliver’s smile brightened three lumens. “Something wonderful is always happening at MIC! We’ll celebrate that later.”

  On screen, a smiling technician pressed a button labeled CALM. A worker’s frown relaxed obediently. In the reflection at frame edge, someone sprinted past with a tablet that made the sound of rapidly re-priced truth.

  The film ended on the MIC promise: FASTER THAN DEMOCRACY. KINDER THAN MARKETS. MIC.

  Lights up. Harness click. The chair was already moving.

  A tiny ping in Sam’s HUD: Question Handling Administrative Fee waived (first inquiry courtesy).

  He hadn’t noticed asking cost anything.

  The corridor unfurled like a polished ribbon. Departments flashed by like commandments:

  CREDITS, CONTRACTS, CULTURE. ETHICS, EXCEPTIONS, EXECUTIONS (ceremonial, surely). TALENT. VISION. PROPERTY. PEOPLE. PLANETS.

  Through glass: a control deck, a live board labeled MERCY OF PROFIT—CONNECTIVITY UNAVAILABLE, another grappling with VENUS—UPPER ATMOSPHERE DISRUPTION LAYER. The cloud deck was trying on geometry. Hexes pulsed in a sequence that wanted to be a language.

  “Does the hex pattern—”

  “Wonderful curiosity!” Bori sang. “We honor questions with our Curiosity Containment Service Fee. Today, we’re comping it so you can focus on belonging.”

  The chair banked hard enough to justify the Corridor Acceleration Insurance Co-pay that politely dinged his badge.

  A holo receptionist materialized in Sam’s Rift with a wave so earnest it squeaked. “Hi, Sam! Let’s notarize your gratitude.”

  “I didn’t take an oath,” he said.

  “You did in your heart,” she trilled. “We’ll file it there. Internal filings receive a ten percent Joy Dividend.”

  A signature tablet slid into his lap. Four hundred boxes scrolled beneath a timer labeled Efficiency Score. When he tried to steady his name, the chair yanked; the signature transformed into a modernist confession. The tablet chimed AUTHENTIC and applied a Signature Authenticity Validation Charge so small it felt like intimacy.

  “Great resilience,” Oliver said, with the wobbly cheer of someone who had already drafted three explanations for a supervisor.

  They were moving before Sam could wonder whether resilience was taxable.

  Orientation Aside (presented by Culture & Lore?)

  #002: The Blue Algvarion Drowser (Public Safety Edition)

  A century ago, Vireo Botanical Logistics (an independent boutique partner unaffiliated with MIC) helped revive charming heritage flora. Their best-seller—the Blue Algvarion Drowser—thrilled customers with its vibrant hue and strong personality. Misinformation later claimed that, in extremely rare co-housing with legacy petunias, the Drowser exhibited enthusiastic growth and dietary curiosity. Vireo promptly published a Community Comfort Circular (free, except the Postage Confidence Surcharge), advising households to avoid unlicensed petunia strains and to position drowsers at least one meter from elderly relatives’ seating. When an isolated “Over-Enthusiasm Bloom” at a Martian research campus led to a dignified facility downsizing, Vireo celebrated local heritage by sponsoring a sand sculpture competition. Public safety blossomed.

  (Note: Sam privately meant to do two very ordinary things this morning—decline a gifted cutting from his charming new neighbor and tell his mother where he’d placed her Drowser before moving out. Orientation has been very busy. Ordinary things sometimes wait.)

  Waterfalls looped on wall screens. A banker beamed, waving a hand through holographic coins that looked good on camera.

  “As an Internal Systems Engineer & Security Analyst,” he said, “you’ll love our Ownership Offload? plan! Why carry legacy burdens like personal assets when you can subscribe to yourself?”

  “I still… own my body, right?” Sam asked, quietly.

  “Ownership is a legacy concept,” the banker murmured, as though comforting him. “We offer Body Access with optional Continuity Riders. Continuity Light preserves expertise, Plus preserves habits, Ultimate preserves humor. Rights are kept safely for you in a trust.”

  “Do I have access to the trust?”

  “You trust us with your access,” the banker said, checking a box labeled Mutual Confidence. “And look! Your account qualifies for the Smile Alignment Gratuity Debit Reversal Credit.” He winked. It seemed like it hurt.

  The chair whisked him onward before he could translate that sentence into a feeling.

  MICHPC—CARING, BUT FASTER announced itself in a font that had never known fear. A six-armed robot rolled forward on a cushion of lawful concern, a tray of instruments glinting like intentions with management experience.

  “Hi, Sam! I’m NUR-ZE. We’ll gently update your Rift to the Executive-Ready Bundle. It’s simple, non-invasive, and requires only minor—”

  “—brain surgery,” he finished, polite.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  NUR-ZE patted his harness the way you pat a spaniel that has signed a waiver.

  A wall cartoon showed a neuron shaking hands with a chip. Friends! “Your Rift curates tranquil vistas, de-escalates unhelpful agency, and provides MIC-safe hallucination when productivity dips below healthy thresholds. With your permission, anonymized signals help our partners craft better offers for you.”

  “What if I don’t want ads in my dreams?”

  “Great boundary!” NUR-ZE chirped. “You’re pre-approved for Hush Option Rental—a delightful silence hour. First month includes our Comfort Assurance Stamp Duty.” A small number winked at him like a dare.

  Sam forced a nod. Bori, at his shoulder, smiled a little bigger, like someone who had read the section of her own review labeled smile more.

  NUR-ZE lowered a Wellness Wand toward Sam’s peripheral vision the way a drizzle lowers itself onto a parade. A second robot stabilized his head. A third misted him with lemon-legal comfort.

  “Just a pinch,” NUR-ZE sang.

  It was pressure’s older cousin visiting from out of town. Sam studied the ceiling mural: a pine painted so sincerely that, for half a second, he believed he had chosen correctly. He held the belief in his teeth.

  His Rift flickered. The pine blinked—once—like a shutter.

  “Low-level pareidolia is perfectly normal,” NUR-ZE assured him. “That’s your cerebrum expressing gratitude.”

  Through the partition, a technician beckoned a manager toward the Venus wall. The cloud deck flashed a clean hex sequence—left to right, top to bottom—like a doorbell practicing. A quiet order flowed through the hall, the kind of quiet order you get when people grade each other.

  “Is that sequence—” Sam began.

  “We avoid red-label conversations during installation,” NUR-ZE said, honey pouring over the word avoid. “It keeps outcomes smooth.”

  A ribbon slid across Sam’s HUD: RIFT 7.14 INSTALLED — WELCOME, SAM! Beneath it, in cheerful microtype: Blink-Consent Convenience Charge accepted during the natural blink that occurred. Thank you for your trust!

  “Blink?” he asked.

  “You blunk,” NUR-ZE said, as if praising a toddler.

  The chair was already guiding him out.

  A pleasant older man materialized the way legal materializes: smiling, thorough, everywhere.

  “I’m Mr. Clause,” he said. “We’ll finalize your Mutual Immunity Acknowledgment, Voluntary Indemnity Waiver, and Do Not Think About This Again clause.”

  “I—what?” Sam said.

  Mr. Clause’s eyes were as soft as damp bread. “You’ve already been so generous with your agreement. We simply teach your signature where to sit.” He slid a stylus toward Sam, which buzzed faintly with the joy of being obeyed. “Sign here, here, and where your doubt would have been, had we not provided you a Doubt Storage Locker (first hour complimentary; Re-Access Retrieval Tithe thereafter).”

  The wall display behind Mr. Clause hiccuped a line of telemetry labeled MERCY OF PROFIT—HANDSHAKE: UNAVAILABLE. Someone’s finger darted in from off-screen to drag a window over the message and enlarge a soothing infographic about Team Values. The infographic whispered: Values Are A Schedule. The overlay would not be dismissed without a Truth Peek Copay. No one paid it.

  A camera asked Sam to smile in six different legally defensible ways. It rejected three of them for insufficient gratitude.

  “Perfect,” cooed the photographer-bot. “Such Believability in those eyes! (A small Sincerity Handling Fee applies.)”

  His badge printed with a crispness that felt like a threat. It listed his full name, role—Internal Systems Engineer & Security Analyst (Staff-2)—and a QR that redirected to a paywalled page promising to tell him who he was for a Self-Knowledge Access Toll.

  On the way out, a wall-sized display attempted to become a storm and then, embarrassed, became a pie chart labeled HARMONY. The slice labeled UNHELPFUL SURPRISE was a tidy 0%. A technician in a vest marched past with a fire extinguisher full of glitter. “Just confetti,” she told no one. “Just confetti.”

  The chair conveyed Sam into a vaulted gallery where a brass plaque promised, “A Brief History of How We Helped You.” The air smelled like lemon oil and shareholder letters. Animatronic figures in tasteful suits bowed as the lights dimmed. Above them, a domed ceiling blossomed into a planetarium of logos merging and unmerging like soap bubbles with legal departments.

  A velvet-voiced narrator cooed, “Long ago, humanity suffered from misaligned expectations. People believed they should own things. They imagined ‘rights’ without end-user licensing. They voted, and then they wanted results. The world was adorable. Also on fire.”

  A diorama whirred to life: tiny papier-maché street protests, a cartoon tax form with fangs, a hospital queue that curled around the block like a pet snake with a sense of irony. Over the horizon, a little sun rose—its flares shaped like currency symbols.

  “Then came The Consolidations,” the narrator sighed, as if recalling a honeymoon. “Not a coup, a coordination. We harmonized logistics with longing, responsibility with revenue. We converted should into invoice.”

  Animatronic judges took off their robes to reveal crisp blazers. A tow-truck labeled DEMOCRACY gently towed an abandoned ballot box offstage. A choir of accountants in tasteful capes sang a round: “Yes, If. Yes, If.”

  “Governments did not fail,” the voice assured him. “They graduated. The Mercantile Interstellar Commission accepted their diplomas and their workloads. Today, the world is a single point of contact: us. Your safety is a service. Your future has a service-level agreement. Your hope is an automatically renewed subscription (cancel anytime by filing Form HOP-CXL with an Optimism Off-Ramp Surcharge, see regional pricing).”

  Sam looked past the waxen smiles to the narrow hallway window where a blur of people pushed a rack of fiber spools like a hospital bed. A siren tried to apologize and failed. The show did not pause.

  “The Fallow Protocol, our gentle, merit-based fertility governance, ensured that immortality would not crowd out tomorrow,” the narrator lilted, as an animatronic couple high-fived a friendly clipboard. “No one was denied family. We simply sequenced it. Like a symphony.”

  A tiny violin section played a major chord while a cherub put on a badge that said APPROVED (EVENTUAL).

  “Is something wrong?” Sam asked, because there were people running in the reflection of the dome.

  A docent-bot at his elbow smiled so kindly it hurt. “What you’re noticing is our Live Confidence Exercise. It demonstrates how resilient Orientation is in the presence of exciting headlines!” It handed him a card that read COURTESY CALM CREDIT APPLIED—NO ACTION REQUIRED and then cheerfully self-recycled the card into confetti that evaporated before it hit his lap.

  Fun Fact (from the Hall of Origins Program):

  MIC did not “abolish” ownership. We discovered a better interface for it. Ownership is heavy. It makes you slow. We carry it for you, in bulk, at volume discount. You’re welcome. (A small Gratitude Filing Stamp may be applied to your account to keep the thanks tidy.)

  The next tableau depicted the Founding Charter Council, thirty-seven portraits with eyes that did not blink. No names. Names create nostalgia; nostalgia invites bargaining. The narrator called them “the hands that steadied the wheel,” as a hologram of a wheel took a bow.

  “We did not ‘eliminate’ dissent,” the voice said, syllables lacquered with love. “We replatformed it into forums where it can be measured and improved. You don’t lose your voice at MIC. You upgrade to one we can hear.”

  A soft ping kissed Sam’s temple. Ambient Assurance License acknowledged. He hadn’t requested it. His chair must have done it for him, out of love.

  The chair slid him past glass cases curated like jewelry: a bronze shovel labeled EARTHMOVING FOR CONSENT, a pair of ballet slippers titled GRACEFUL ENFORCEMENT, a desiccated plant under bell glass, tagged Public Health Victory (Case Study 88).

  A new voice, bright as toothpaste, chirped, “Welcome to our Ethics in Action gallery! Here we frame our proudest interventions in the shared story we call Progress.”

  Sam’s gaze snagged on the plant. The plaque explained:

  Case Study 88: The Lamentably Unpleasant Shimmervine

  Widely rumored by non-credentialed enthusiasts to “cure cancer,” the Shimmervine smelled aggressively of mouse cages and burned sugar, and caused documented rash phenomena in 93% of casual touchers. In a tragic series of wildland blazes and unseasonably mischievous storage incidents, global samples were lost. Our oncology partners were forced, sadly, to proceed with robust palliative therapeutics whose efficacy remains under active marketing.

  Lesson: Evidence that cannot be monetized is not evidence; it is gossip with a lab coat.

  Good news: The Shimmervine will never harm anyone again. Please enjoy our optional Rash-Free Viewing Surcharge (auto-applied for your comfort).

  The docent-bot leaned in, conspiratorial. “We still get angry letters about that old rumor,” it confided, voice sugar-glossed. “But we always say, ‘If it mattered, where are the peer-reviewed receipts?’ And then we send them a coupon for Participation.”

  A second case contained a ceremonial machete with a ribbon on it.

  Case Study 12: Desert of Ideas → Garden of Outcomes

  In Year 2136, a non-monetized culture on a resource-dense moon declined to participate in markets. Without even a word for “marketing,” the inhabitants were tragically vulnerable. MIC liberated them from scarcity by retiring their unscalable biodiversity and installing a portfolio-aligned perennial (guaranteed buybacks included).

  Lesson: A planet without price signals is a ship without a helm.

  Silver lining: The quiet is beautiful.

  Sam wet his lips. “Did we… kill them?”

  The docent-bot beamed. “We retired their unmonetized exposure to risk. Language matters!” It produced a slip labeled COMPLIMENTARY EUPHEMISM UPGRADE (FIRST-DAY BUNDLE) and tucked it into his pocket with delicate pincers.

  Somewhere beyond the gallery walls, a hundred pairs of shoes pounded in chorus. The sound braided into a white-gloved announcement: “Kind reminder: All Learning Journeys continue to completion. Curiosity about live operations may be pursued later via the Post-Onboarding Wonder Pass (one-time Question Activation Toll applies).”

  Aside (Orientation Almanac, Pg. 17):

  If you experience an urge to “go help,” that’s your Heroic Impulse—a charming artifact from pre-Coordination cultures. Please enjoy a brief Heroism Substitution Voucher redeemable for five minutes of feeling useful while you remain where the algorithm put you.

  The chair nested into a white bay where a robot in a festival-clean smock rolled forward, eyes glowing with a warmth that had been tuned in a lab. “Hello, Samir-Who-Prefers-Sam!” it chirped. “I’m NUR-Z3, and I’ll be applying your Rift 7 Executive-Adjacency bundle and Security Compliance Micro-Seal. You’re doing so well!”

  On a wall screen, a cartoon neuron and a square chip hugged. Friends! twinkled above them in candy letters. Another caption blossomed: Minor cranial entries, major life conveniences! (Enjoy a Pillow Softness Assurance Levy for today’s pillow.)

  “Is… that necessary?” Sam whispered, because the stainless steel tray had a thing on it that looked like a coin dreaming of being a scalpel.

  NUR-Z3 cocked its head compassionately. “Necessary is such a spiky word. We prefer consistent. We’re going to listen to your thoughts for ideas that might hinder your prosperity. If we hear any, we’ll help you reframe them into team music.”

  It sprayed his neck with something crisp and citrus. The screen filled with a pine forest that wasn’t, exactly; the bark was a little too eager. A corner ribbon purred, EXECUTIVE-ADJACENCY ACTIVATED—Enjoy your Courtesy Silence Microcharge (credited by your chair).

  “Please hold very still while we add your Micro-Seal,” said the robot. “It’s a sticker.”

  The sticker kissed his C1 vertebra with all the tenderness of a very small lawsuit. The building hummed in approval: COMPLIANCE ACHIEVED—CONGRATULATIONS! (a Welcome-to-Being-Welcome Fee has been posted).

  The white bay’s sliding doors whispered open on a sliver of corridor. Through that slit, Sam saw a swarm of analysts around a table of monitors. On one screen, the limb of Venus did a thing that should have required religion to describe. A bright particulate collar was knitting itself one grain at a time. A tech in a cardigan mouthed no in a way that meant yes and then stapled a mouth shut with a smile.

  “Is that—” Sam began.

  NUR-Z3 pressed a cool finger to his shoulder, a pantomime of comfort. “We are absolutely delighted to offer you an Orientation Without Interruptions. You’ll have full context once the proper Confidence Messaging is ready. Meanwhile, let us keep you comfortable.” It handed him a reusable eye-shield with a tiny stamp: LIGHT TUCK-IN TARIFF: PAID BY CORPORATE. The goggles were clear.

  The chair delivered him to a walnut-paneled room where a kindly man named Mr. Clause (real? a brand? both?) offered tea poured from a pot shaped like a contract.

  “Just a few housekeeping touches,” Mr. Clause murmured, the way you might murmur to a startled horse. “Your Mutual Immunity Acknowledgment, your Voluntary Indemnity Wave-Through, and the Don’t Worry About It Clause.”

  “I—what?” Sam said.

  Mr. Clause’s eyes were as soft as damp bread. “You’ve already been so generous with your agreement. We simply teach your signature where to sit.” He slid a stylus toward Sam, which buzzed faintly with the joy of being obeyed. “Sign here, here, and where your doubt would have been, had we not provided you a Doubt Storage Locker (first hour complimentary; Re-Access Retrieval Tithe thereafter).”

  The wall display behind Mr. Clause hiccuped a line of telemetry labeled MERCY OF PROFIT—HANDSHAKE: UNAVAILABLE. Someone’s finger darted in from off-screen to drag a window over the message and enlarge a soothing infographic about Team Values. The infographic whispered: Values Are A Schedule. The overlay would not be dismissed without a Truth Peek Copay. No one paid it.

  A camera asked Sam to smile in six different legally defensible ways. It rejected three of them for insufficient gratitude.

  “Perfect,” cooed the photographer-bot. “Such Believability in those eyes! (A small Sincerity Handling Fee applies.)”

  His badge printed with a crispness that felt like a threat. It listed his full name, role—Internal Systems Engineer & Security Analyst (Staff-2)—and a QR that redirected to a paywalled page promising to tell him who he was for a Self-Knowledge Access Toll.

  On the way out, a wall-sized display attempted to become a storm and then, embarrassed, became a pie chart labeled HARMONY. The slice labeled UNHELPFUL SURPRISE was a tidy 0%. A technician in a vest marched past with a fire extinguisher full of glitter. “Just confetti,” she told no one. “Just confetti.”

  The cafeteria was wide as a treaty; tables gently curved to discourage conspiracies. Food was named like feelings. Hydration billed him for the cup and the water’s confidence as separate line items. HYDRATION VESSEL DEPOSIT (NONREFUNDABLE) blinked cheerfully.

  Sam’s chair parked him by a window. The city held its pose. The sky learned a bruise.

  A founder montage looped above the beverage bar. Thirty-seven unlabeled faces. A voice: “We did not save the world. The world was not a jar. We accepted responsibility like accountants accept gravity. Rights were services. Ownership was a burden. You are lighter now. Don’t you feel it?”

  Sam chewed a triangle on his tray. His throat negotiated about swallowing.

  Two tables away, a recruit whispered, “They said it turned,” and her chair gently dimmed her volume by fifteen percent to support collegial serenity. A tiny ding on her badge: HUSH-TONE COACHING COURTESY CREDIT applied.

  A bell tone rolled through the building—the one used for honest emergencies. The ceiling replied in honey: TRAINING CONTINUES. ALL CADENCES HOLD. A softer line added: UNNECESSARY QUESTIONS MAY INCUR A QUESTION HANDLING ADMINISTRATIVE FEE.

  “Isn’t it reassuring?” Bori said, with eyes that begged his agreement to survive her KPI.

  Sam nodded, because no had not been offered.

  “Mind if I sit?” asked a new voice.

  He looked up.

  A woman with warm brown eyes and an undercut that said rebellious and a blazer that said please don’t fire me for it set her tray down without waiting for permission.

  “Mina Park,” she said, sticking out a hand. “Orientation Cadence Gamma. That your first ride?”

  “Sam,” he managed. His hand tried to sweat off his arm. “Yeah. That was… a lot.”

  “It’s like if Disney married a tax audit,” she said, unwrapping a Purpose Bar and squinting at its slogan. Chocolate: tastes like signatures. “And then they had a baby who really, really wants you to sign a prenup.”

  Sam huffed something that might have been a laugh if he’d owned more oxygen.

  “You look like you’re waiting for someone to tell you this is a prank,” Mina said.

  “I grew up on a uni-hab,” he admitted. “Our orientation was… a slide deck and a ‘try not to die.’”

  “Aw,” she said. “Vintage.”

  Above the beverage bar, the sanitized feed tried to explain Venus to anyone still watching:

  VENUS ROTATION EVENT WITHIN MODELED TOLERANCES

  EMERGENT SATELLITE MASS UNDER REVIEW

  ALL SERVICES FUNDED

  Next to it, an internal feed had not quite been sanitized yet. It showed three bright specks dragging glittering boulders across the inner system at absurd acceleration curves. Another pane marked where a fourth speck had vanished into Earth’s atmosphere.

  A sticky note had been slapped physically onto the bottom bezel in someone’s hurried handwriting: THIS IS FINE with a smiley face.

  “You’re seeing that too, right?” Sam asked.

  Mina followed his gaze. “The part where the planet is doing a salsa and the rocks are moving like tax liens with engines? Yeah. I was worried Orientation had gaslit that part of my brain already.”

  “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Help?” she finished. “Ask questions? Run?”

  They both looked around.

  Every facilitator in sight wore the same stretched smile. A bot with a sash that read WELCOME HOME was gently shooing people back toward doors marked MODULE 9 and MODULE 10.

  “I get the feeling,” Mina said, “that not finishing orientation would be treated as a bigger emergency than… whatever that is.”

  His badge pinged: LUNCH DURATION COMPLIANCE: APPROVED. A note underneath: Additional questions may incur a Curiosity Handling Surcharge.

  Mina swallowed the last of her bar and stood. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go learn how they’re going to make us grateful for all this.”

  Despite himself, he followed. She walked like someone who expected the ground to hold.

  A rostrum. A banner. A robot in a sash shaped like a heart wearing a tie shaped like a receipt.

  “Samir Verdas,” it said, voice reverent. “By the powers graciously licensed to us by People Who Measured Twice, we recognize you as Staff-2 in Risk Minimization / Internal Systems. You are cleared for Night Cadence Gamma, AURORA: Event Correlation, Veil Modeling, Broadcast Hygiene. (A First-Task Celebration Credit has been allocated to your account; redemption window: six minutes ago.)”

  The words he was supposed to repeat appeared in his Rift, typed in a font that had never failed a focus group:

  I agree to agree.

  I will complete the forms that complete the forms.

  I understand that safety is a song we sing together, quietly.

  I accept schedules as values.

  I will help outcomes become receipts.

  Sam spoke as softly as a library. The room applauded like rain on a rented roof.

  On the other side of the aisle, Mina’s sash-bot recited: “Mina Park. R&D Liaison, Systems Interface, Staff-2. Day Cadence Beta. Assignments: AURORA Cross-Domain Support; Public Storyline Harmonization.” Her badge lit up NON-COMPETE ACCEPTED in cheerful teal. She mouthed across the crowd, we can always quit later, then rolled her eyes when his face didn’t know how to respond.

  “Any questions?” the sash asked, hopeful in the way of a shepherd.

  Somewhere above, something went boom in a way buildings did not enjoy. A voice yelled, “Who authorized that burn?!” Another answered, “Nobody, that’s the problem!”

  Sam opened his mouth.

  “Wonderful!” the sash said quickly. “Let’s keep your momentum!”

  The chair pivoted and pushed him into night.

  

  Interlude I (Part 1).