Proven

Dave

Screw Stanley Kubrick. Don’t know who he is? Look him up. And screw him while you’re at it. And specifically, screw the damn HAL.

*“Hello, Dave.“*

Yeah. That’s my name. Call it foreshadowing. I don’t care, and trust me, the irony is not lost on me — not the name, not the situation, not the fact that both have conspired to land me exactly here. Dave Clark.

Currently locked inside a POS. A diesel VW Rabbit, 1978, black and yellow. Hideous color combination. Possibly the thing saving my life right now, because the entire car is analog. Not an ounce of digital in her. Nothing to trace, nothing to hack, nothing to phone home.

I unfolded a piece of paper with a string of numbers scribbled across it. 0s and 1s. Binary.

My grandfather taught me binary over summers on something called a Unix terminal, which I would genuinely die for right now — an old machine, older than most people’s patience for me, and the only thing that ever made sense before anything else did. But I digress.

How did I get here. And what, exactly, am I doing here.

Well. Some people go to Vegas for a thrill. Me, I code. And sure, I did it to see what would happen. What happened is you end up doors-locked in a German POS in the middle of nowhere, questioning several of your life’s better decisions.

I had a scholarship to MIT. What more could a geek like me possibly want.

My mentor — my grandfather. Smart. Thought in black and white. In 0s and 1s. He also taught me BASIC, which is another reason I’m currently doing seventy-five in a Rabbit in the dead of night with a set of switched license plates and a story I haven’t finished writing yet.

Oh — and I faked my own death. Did a lovely little swan dive off a California cliff into the abyss below.

Goodbye, Dave.

Hello, Jennifer Smith.

I’d tell you to sell your AI stocks now, but it’s already too late. Tomorrow the markets crash, and I become the most wanted person on the face of the earth.

Me.

---

Jennifer

Finally into New Mexico. One thing about back roads — they’re beautiful. Great rock formations, sky doing something unreasonable at every turn. Another thing about back roads — they’re slow.

Once I crossed into Texas, the true drudgery began. Texas can be beautiful. It can also be disgustingly ugly and a true fucking drag — tumbleweed-and-*Grapes-of-Wrath* ugly, depressing and long in a way that makes you reconsider the entire concept of state pride.

I needed a break. The great thing about back roads: motels. The kind that come with a garage, if you’re lucky. I was lucky. Pulled the car straight in, closed the door behind it like sealing a tomb.

The smell did more work than the air conditioning ever could, and the bedspread had creases so deep they’d achieved sentience. I was a beggar with no room to be a chooser, so I slept. Showered in the morning. Back in the car.

That night, a burner phone. A number for a contact somewhere along the Texas coast — Galveston, Kemah, one of those towns that blur together when you’re only passing through to disappear. An anonymous text, arranging a meeting. A “getaway.”

*I’m open to hearing and seeing more.*

Then:

*And I am not cheap, but the quality is good.*

I rolled my eyes. *Understood. Day after tomorrow, Kemah Yacht Club. Let’s say 4:30 pm. Reservation’s under Jennifer Smith.*

I made the reservation myself, of course. I’d invented Jennifer Smith years ago, back when I first understood that work might eventually make me run for my life, and I’d rather be ready. Jennifer has good documents. An ocean-appropriate analog yacht, registered under yet another name entirely. Money, and a credit card that clears without asking questions.

She’s also, conveniently, a member in good standing at the Kemah Yacht Club.

At the hotel I asked the front desk not to run the card and told them I was running from an ex. Which wasn’t a lie. The owner of Input AI — the man who once paid a hundred and five million dollars for six lines of my code — was, in fact, an ex-lover. Not a good one. A very determined one, though. Just not usually in the ways you’d want a man determined about you.

Pretty sure, as of yesterday, he wanted me dead a great deal more than he ever wanted to sleep with me.

Morning was quick, which was fine by me. In, out, food to go from the diner next door. As few cameras as the drive would allow. The next night, step and repeat, somewhere outside San Antonio.

That put me exactly where I needed to be for Kemah. I texted the number to confirm.

*Should I wear something special for the evening?*

I genuinely started questioning my life, my choices, and every single contact who’d ever handed me a number like this one. What kind of man answers a text like that with anything other than silence?

*Something that won’t raise questions. I’m not looking for attention. From others.*

*Looking forward to it.*

Yeah. Me too.