DATE: Monday, October 15, 1979

  LOCATION: Interstate 5, Northbound

  LOCAL TIME: 08:00 AM

  The 1979 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz was a land yacht painted in "Firemist Gold." It had an 8-track player, plush pillow-top seats, and a hood that stretched out like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.

  Uncle Jack drove it with one finger on the wheel, a lit Merit 100 in his other hand.

  "You're sweating, Doug," Jack said, glancing at my father.

  "I'm not sweating," Doug lied. He wore his best suit—a beige corduroy number that trapped the Southern California heat like a greenhouse. He clutched a leather briefcase containing the only copy of The Mermaid (we decided Splash was a marketing title for later; right now, it was The Mermaid from Cape Cod).

  "You're sweating," Jack repeated. "Don't sweat. It smells like desperation. Producers can smell fear, just like dogs and loan sharks."

  "Jack, we don't have an appointment," Doug said, looking out at the smog-choked sprawl of Los Angeles. "We're driving to Paramount Studios without a pass."

  "We don't need a pass," Jack said, tapping the steering wheel. "We have a Cadillac."

  I wasn't in the car. I was three hours south in Fallbrook, eating Cheerios. But I knew his playbook. Jack was running the "Assumptive Close." You don't ask for permission to enter the room; you act like you own the building and are incredibly annoyed that the keys aren't working.

  LOCATION: Tukwila Industrial Park | Seattle, Washington

  LOCAL TIME: 11:00 AM

  A thousand miles north, the sky was the color of a wet sidewalk.

  Bob Yauney stepped out of his rental car—a sensible Ford Fairmont. He opened an umbrella against the freezing drizzle.

  He wasn't sweating. He was shivering.

  He adjusted his glasses and looked at the building. Seattle Computer Products. It wasn't a corporate headquarters. It was a nondescript single-story brick building next to a carpet warehouse.

  Bob checked his reflection in the car window. Dark blue suit. White shirt. Red tie. He looked like an IRS auditor. Or an IBM executive.

  He patted his chest pocket. The cashier's check was there, funded by a frantic reshuffling of family assets that John Battisti had orchestrated over the last forty-eight hours.

  "It's just a transaction," Bob whispered to himself. "Just like buying concrete."

  But he knew it wasn't. He thought about the sandbox. He thought about the worms eating the plastic. He thought about Chad’s eyes—eyes that were too old for a toddler’s face.

  If the worms are real, the code is real.

  Bob closed the car door. He walked toward the entrance. He didn't knock. He walked in like he was there to inspect the fire extinguishers.

  LOCATION: Paramount Studios | Melrose Gate, Los Angeles

  LOCAL TIME: 11:15 AM

  The guard at the gate was bored. He held a clipboard like a shield.

  "Name?" he asked, not looking up.

  Jack rolled down the window. The air conditioning blasted out, carrying the scent of new leather and absolute confidence.

  "Jack Moore," he said. "Here to see Solly."

  The guard frowned, checking the list. "Solly? You mean Mr. Solomon? I don't see a Moore on the list."

  "That's because Solly's an idiot," Jack said with an exasperated laugh. "He told me to bring the car by at eleven. Said he wanted to see the Firemist Gold in the sunlight before he ordered one for his wife."

  Jack patted the dashboard.

  "This is the demo. If I don't get it in front of him in five minutes, I gotta take it to Burt Reynolds over at Universal. Burt's been calling me all morning."

  The guard looked at the car. It was magnificent. A glittering beacon of American excess.

  "Burt Reynolds?" the guard asked.

  "Don't get me started," Jack sighed, rolling his eyes. "The man loves gold. Look, pal, do you want to be the guy who explains to Mr. Solomon why his wife is driving a Buick next year?"

  The guard hesitated. The logic of the hustle was flawless. It preyed on the universal corporate fear of disappointing the boss over something trivial.

  "Go ahead," the guard sighed, waving them through. "But make it quick."

  Jack rolled up the window. He winked at Doug.

  "See?" Jack said. "Chrome gets you home."

  LOCATION: Seattle Computer Products | The Workshop

  LOCAL TIME: 11:20 AM

  The inside of SCP smelled of ozone and hot solder. Electronic parts were scattered on workbenches like confetti.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  A young man with a beard and a flannel shirt looked up from a circuit board. Tim Paterson. Twenty-three years old. The man who had written Q-DOS (Quick and Dirty Operating System) in four months because he was tired of waiting for Digital Research.

  "Can I help you?" Paterson asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

  Bob Yauney stood in the doorway. He didn't smile. He looked at the cluttered room with a mixture of disdain and authority.

  "Mr. Paterson," Bob said. His voice was deeper than usual. "I represent a private investment consortium based in San Diego. Fractal Systems."

  "Okay," Paterson said, unimpressed. "We sell memory boards. The 8086 kits are over there."

  "I'm not here for the boards," Bob said.

  He walked into the room. He didn't ask to sit. He placed his briefcase on a clear spot on the workbench.

  "I'm here for the software," Bob said. "86-DOS."

  Paterson blinked. "The OS? It's just a utility to run the boards. It's not really a product."

  "We think it could be," Bob lied perfectly. "With significant refinement."

  "I'm actually talking to a few guys about it," Paterson said, scratching his beard. "Microsoft. You know them?"

  Bob’s heart hammered. Gates. He was already sniffing around.

  "Microsoft makes languages," Bob said dismissively. "Basic. Fortran. They aren't an architecture firm."

  Bob clicked the briefcase open. He pulled out a folder.

  "We aren't looking to license it, Tim. We want to buy the asset. Lock, stock, and barrel."

  "Buy it?" Paterson laughed nervously. "Rod Brock—the owner—he'd have to sign off on that."

  "Get Rod," Bob said. "I don't have all day. I have a flight to Armonk tonight."

  He didn't say he was going to IBM. He just said the name of the town where IBM was headquartered. It was a dog whistle, and it worked.

  Paterson’s eyes widened slightly as the geography clicked in his head. "Armonk?"

  "Get Rod," Bob repeated.

  LOCATION: Paramount Studios | Building 4

  LOCAL TIME: 11:45 AM

  "Solly" was actually Solomon Weiss, a mid-level production executive who had bought a Cadillac from Jack three years ago.

  He sat behind a desk that was comically large, smoking a cigar that cost more than my dad’s shoes.

  "Jack Moore!" Weiss shouted. "I thought you were in Carlsbad!"

  "I'm everywhere, Solly," Jack said, shaking his hand warmly. "And I brought you something better than a car."

  He gestured to Doug.

  "This is my nephew, Doug. He's the writer."

  Weiss’s smile faded slightly. "Jack, I buy cars from you. I don't buy scripts from car salesmen."

  "You're not buying it from me," Jack said, dropping onto the plush leather sofa. "You're buying it because your wife is gonna divorce you if you don't."

  Weiss raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

  "You make action movies, Solly," Jack said. "Car chases. Gunfights. Great stuff. But Mrs. Weiss? She hates 'em. She wants to see something... nice. Something magical."

  Jack pointed a finger at Doug. "Tell him the logline, Doug."

  My dad stood there. He looked at the framed movie posters on the wall. The Godfather. Chinatown. He took a deep breath.

  "A man falls in love with a mermaid," Doug said.

  Weiss stared. "A mermaid."

  "But he doesn't know she's a mermaid," Doug continued, his voice gaining traction. "She saves him from drowning. She follows him to New York City. She learns English from watching daytime TV. She eats the lobster—shell and all—at a fancy restaurant."

  Weiss chuckled. "She eats the shell?"

  "It's a fish-out-of-water story," Doug said, stepping forward. "Literally. But it's really about a guy who thinks he can't love, realizing that love is the only thing that makes sense in a crazy world."

  Doug wasn't selling the gimmick anymore. He was selling the heart. He was telling the story I had implanted—the story of Uncle Bruce and Aunt Denise Mitchell.

  "It's funny," Doug said. "It's sweet. And the ending... the military is chasing them. He has to choose. His boring life on land? Or the ocean with her?"

  Weiss leaned back. He took a long drag of the cigar.

  "Who's the girl?" Weiss asked.

  "Goldie Hawn," Jack interjected smoothly. "Or that girl from Taxi. Daryl Hannah."

  Weiss looked at Jack. "You got Daryl Hannah attached?"

  "I can get her," Jack bluffed. "If you put up the development money."

  LOCATION: Seattle Computer Products

  LOCAL TIME: 12:15 PM

  Rod Brock, the owner of SCP, stared at the cashier's check.

  $75,000.

  In the original timeline, Microsoft paid $25,000 for a non-exclusive license, then $50,000 later for full rights. We were offering $75,000 up front. A premium for speed.

  "That's a lot of money for a stop-gap OS," Brock said suspiciously.

  "It's a risk premium," Bob Yauney said smoothly. "We're betting we can port it to other architectures. If we're wrong, you walk away with seventy-five grand for a few months of Tim's work."

  Bob leaned in, placing his hands flat on the desk.

  "But here's the condition, Rod. Exclusive rights. You don't sell to Microsoft. You don't license to anyone else. We own the code, the copyright, and the underlying logic."

  "We still need to sell our computer kits," Brock argued.

  "We'll grant you a perpetual royalty-free license to bundle it with your hardware," Bob countered. "You keep your business. We take the software headache off your hands."

  Brock looked at Paterson. Paterson shrugged. To him, $75,000 was a fortune. It funded the hardware division for an entire year.

  "If I take this check," Brock said, "Bill Gates is going to be pissed. He called me yesterday."

  "Let him be pissed," Bob said coldly. "He's a kid in Albuquerque. We are... well, we are moving in a different direction."

  Bob tapped the check on the table.

  "Do we have a deal, Mr. Brock?"

  LOCATION: Paramount Studios

  LOCAL TIME: 12:30 PM

  Weiss looked at Doug. Then he looked at Jack.

  "It's cute," Weiss admitted. "The lobster scene is funny. But I don't know..."

  Jack stood up. He buttoned his jacket.

  "Come on, Doug. Let's go."

  "What?" Doug asked, confused.

  "Solly's not feeling it," Jack said loudly. "It's fine. I promised Burt I'd stop by anyway. Universal loves this kind of high-concept stuff. Jaws with legs. They'll eat it up."

  Jack started walking toward the door. It was the "walking out on the manager" move. The oldest, most dangerous gambit in sales.

  "Wait a minute," Weiss said.

  Jack stopped, his hand on the brass doorknob. He didn't turn around. He checked his watch.

  "Burt's waiting, Solly."

  "Sit down, Jack," Weiss sighed, waving a hand. "Let's talk option money."

  Jack turned slowly, a shark-like grin spreading across his face.

  "Standard WGA minimum," Jack said. "Plus ten percent. And Doug gets a 'Story By' credit."

  "We'll see about the credit," Weiss grumbled. "But I'll give you five grand for a six-month option."

  "Ten," Jack said.

  "Seven-five," Weiss countered.

  "Done," Jack said. "And I want a receipt. Today."

  LOCATION: The Tillman Residence | Fallbrook, California

  LOCAL TIME: 06:00 PM

  I was in the bathtub. My mother was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair.

  "Close your eyes, Chad," she said.

  I closed my eyes.

  The phone rang.

  Mom sighed, wiping her hands on a towel. "Stay there, honey."

  She walked out to the hallway. I sat in the warm water, listening.

  "Hello?" she said.

  Pause.

  "Oh my god. Doug? Really?"

  Pause.

  "Seven thousand dollars? For a story about a fish?"

  She laughed. It was a sound of pure relief. The sound of a mortgage payment being made.

  "Okay. Okay, hurry home. Drive safe."

  She hung up.

  A moment later, the phone rang again.

  "Hello?"

  Pause.

  "Bob? No, Doug is... oh, you're in Seattle? Is everything okay?"

  Pause.

  "You bought it? Bought what, Bob?"

  She listened for a long time.

  "Okay. I'll tell him. I don't know what it means, but I'll tell him. 'The bird is in the cage.' Okay."

  She hung up.

  She walked back into the bathroom. She looked at me. I was just a four-year-old boy playing with a plastic boat.

  "Daddy sold his story," she said, beaming. "And Uncle Bob... well, Uncle Bob bought a bird, apparently."

  I pushed the plastic boat through the suds.

  We owned the Operating System.

  We owned the Narrative.

  The foundation was set. Now we just had to survive the construction.

  "That's good, Mommy," I said. "Birds can fly."

  I sank the boat.

  Phase One complete. Time to start training for Mogadishu.

  The Reality (Fact & Science):

  Seattle Computer Products & Q-DOS: This is hard history. Tim Paterson, working at SCP, wrote the 16-bit Q-DOS in 1980. Microsoft eventually bought the rights for $75,000 total to license it to IBM, creating the foundation of the MS-DOS empire.

  The Studio Hustle: The frantic, ego-driven nature of Hollywood studio lots, where independent producers frequently used bluffs and perceived leverage (like namedropping Burt Reynolds) to force executives into development deals.

  The Fiction (The Narrative):

  The Interception: The Yauney/Tillman family front-running Microsoft to buy the Q-DOS source code, forcing Bill Gates to eventually come to them for the IBM deal.

  The Cadillac Bluff: Uncle Jack using a client's Cadillac Eldorado to bypass Paramount's security and spark a fictional bidding war that lands the Splash script at Disney.

  The Algorithm Protocol: