BlueShell

BlueShell... RedShell and BlueShell... BlueShell and RedShell...

It was gone.

Gone.

BlueShell was gone.

BlueShell was gone, and the Hands of Willington were crumbling like a house of cards. RedShell and BlueShell. Charmitage and Ashland.

What had happened? When had it happened? His head was spinning...

“Mr. Bonwern. Mr. Bonwern! Sir!”

He turned.

Gillespay stood firmly with his hands behind his back, measuring him with an anxious gaze that didn’t fit his burly frame at all. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He couldn’t bear to see the way Gillespay was looking at him.

“Ignoring it won’t change a thing, Mr. Bonwern,” he said.

Bonwern looked back at the mirror in the elevator cabin. The needle above the doors was rising toward four-digit numbers.

“I’m not ignoring it,” he replied. “I’m not ignoring anything.”

“Well, that’s how everyone sees it.”

The headache wouldn’t subside. One moment he was in the boardroom with the Hands of Willington, where everyone was shouting and arguing, and the next he was on Level 1, looking down from the catwalk at the lakes of Industria. Vast, sprawling pools of glowing purple liquid, thicker than water, yet not quite as thick as blood. A single wrong step and he would fall off the bridge straight into that scalding substance powering the entire city—and, in fact, the entire world. Nothing would remain of his body. And then, all of a sudden, he was sitting in a boat with Theodor, watching a sinking steamboat.

“Sir,” Gillespay pulled him from his thoughts once more. “I’m no politician. And I’m certainly no Mind. But if I were in your shoes, the ones I’d fear most right now are your closest partners.”

“Are you suggesting betrayal?” He looked into his face, which still bore a few bruises from that night. “I don’t believe they feel the need to cripple my authority, though I understand why you might worry. If I notice even the slightest hint of suspicious behavior, I’ll drown them like a scientist drowns lab rats.”

Gillespay lowered his head. “That’s precisely the problem. You can’t just cut them off from the system. They hold too much power. Their enterprises and assets reach far beyond the borders of this island. That’s why I believe you should adopt a different strategy than simply issuing absolute orders—people don’t understand that. The world is changing, and the days when you and Mr. Willington ruled without anyone limiting you are gone. Mr. Willington is gone.”

The headache intensified.

“I understand you, sir. You built something incredible. With your own hands, you and he built a city of your own. And I look up to you. But this is a new era. And Mr. Willington no longer belongs in it. Willington is dead.”

His hands trembled, forcing him to grip the handrail beneath the mirror. His breathing quickened. Memories consumed his mind. His consciousness was plunging into an abyss.

“Sir!” Gillespay caught him before he could fall. “Do you need your medicine?”

A blurred blur of images flashed before Bonwern’s eyes, and through them, he caught a glimpse of Gillespay’s anxious face.

He nodded and reached quickly into his breast pocket, pulling out a small glass vial. The head of security helped him open it, and he swallowed its contents in a hurry.

The memories receded. He exhaled. His synthetic skin lacked pigment, making it impossible for Gillespay to tell whether his cheeks were pale or flushed, but he stopped supporting him once his breathing settled.

“Are you alright?”

Bonwern let go of the vial, which hit the floor with a clink. He nodded, then stepped on the vial, crushing it under his shoe. Straightening up, he adjusted his white tie.

The doors slid open.

Willington Hanging Gardens – Level 15

They were enveloped by lush greenery, the scent of exotic flowers, and the chirping of birds in the trees. They walked along one of several terraces covered in a vibrant array of nature, situated at one of the highest points in Willington. Far below them, dense white clouds drifted through the air, obscuring the view of the rest of the city beneath.

A few steps ahead stood an easel with a canvas, and behind it, Isaac Cunningham. From somewhere in the background, the faint melody of a chanson drifted from a digiphone.

“Good day, Isaac,” Bonwern greeted him.

Isaac Cunningham tore his perpetually dissatisfied, neurotic gaze away from the canvas. “Splendid of you to come. What do you think?”

Bonwern stepped closer and looked at the unfinished work. Intricately interconnected, massive skyscrapers stood so close together that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. “Keep going, and it will be phenomenal, as always.”

Cunningham was singular, whether in painting or architecture. His passion for monumental structures drove him to constantly defy the laws of physics, building frameworks unlike anything the world had ever seen. He was a Babylonian who had succeeded in raising the peak of his tower into the heavens.

Yet despite his talent, he almost never painted people, faces, or animals. “Living beings are not worthy of being immortalized on my canvas. Nothing living will ever match the perfection of architecture,” he used to say.

Continuing through the garden, they reached the end of the path at a railing and a set of small tables, where the digiphone playing the chanson sat. Nearby stood Georg Wittlinger and Arius Andrejev, wine glasses in hand.

“Mr. Bonwern!” The professor, a tall, slender man with a monocle over his right eye, took another glass and offered it to him in one perfectly fluid motion. “Bitte. This is my latest creation.”

He took the glass and sniffed it cautiously. “Should I be worried?” he asked with a faint smile.

With Wittlinger, you could never be sure whether even the pen in his jacket pocket wouldn’t suddenly transform into a lion that would tear you apart alive.

The professor smiled, revealing rows of elongated, pointed teeth. “Keine Angst! Just a taste.”

Bonwern tasted it. It was an ordinary red wine. Exceptionally fine. “Vintage 2910, I presume?”

This time, Andrejev smiled as well, his thick fringe of snow-white hair bouncing slightly.

“Incorrect, Mr. Bonwern, it’s this year’s vintage,” Wittlinger replied. “It’s one of my informal side projects. Almost a hobby! I attempted to engineer grape berries that double—and sometimes triple—the entire fermentation process.”

“You never fail to surprise us, Professor.”

Wittlinger drew himself up proudly, the brooch on his lapel glistening in the golden sunlight of Level 15. Every Mind wore a distinct brooch representing their field. Cunningham’s bore a ruler, Wittlinger’s a human heart, and Andreev’s a treble clef.

“I hope you’ll be serving it at the premiere of Mr. Andrejev’s new musical,” he added.

“Ach, that is a fantastisch idea!”

“By the way, Andrejev, how is your show coming along?”

“Sleep Tight Darling? Ah, it’s...” As he searched for the words, he waved his hand in the air, his eyes fixed on the sky in typical artist fashion, “it’s... somewhat tailored for a modern audience. Dr. Mori would certainly condemn it for its ‘decadent music.’”

“That’s what she calls jazz,” Wittlinger chimed in.

“It is true that wild music is one of the factors corroding moral values among Consumers. But I must confess, I find something in it that classical music lacks. There’s a wildness to it, something almost beastly!” he said dramatically.

“Well, well, speak of the devil and he shall appear,” the professor chuckled softly.

Walking down the stairs from the upper terrace were Ernestia Mori and Emett Wang. Mori’s brooch featured a judge’s gavel, while Wang’s bore a lightning bolt.

“I do hope you gentlemen weren’t speaking about me behind my back,” an elegant smile slowly spread across her southern, olive-skinned face.

On the surface, Mori appeared modern. She wore trousers. Yet inside, she harbored noble, traditional values, fighting against the vulgar behavior of modern young women and the drug industry.

“Mr. Charmitage is waiting for you in the gazebo,” she said, looking at Bonwern and Gillespay.

“That imbecile? Again?” The skin on his face—far too flawless to be human—creased into an annoyed grimace. “The man simply doesn’t know when to quit.”

“He is merely a beast,” she said, pulling out a small container of raw velvet along with a hollow stick for snorting. “Just like all the Hands of Willington,” she inhaled a few crimson crystals through her nose. “Beasts prop up the filth on the lower levels. Gangsters and criminals smuggling drugs and forbidden papers across borders in stolen automobiles.”

Dr. Wang remained silent, merely observing them from behind his thin spectacles.

Finally, Dr. Mori finished her thought. “Still, I understand that the force keeping society running must sometimes override reason and ideals. Even in Willington.”

Following her last sentence, several thoughts flickered through Bonwern’s mind—thoughts he had no intention of dwelling on at this moment. He gave a slight, faint smile, excused himself, and set off with Gillespay up the stairs toward the gazebo.

As they rounded the corner on the upper platform, they encountered Charmitage’s personal assistant, Lambert, wringing his hands and whispering to himself. Catching sight of them, the dwarf man bowed immediately, his forehead nearly touching the ground.

“Mr. Bonwern, Mr. Gillespay.”

They passed him without stopping, heading straight for the gazebo.

“I should be off. Duty calls,” the head of security said as they halted a few paces from the gazebo, where their visitor was leaning against the railing. “Call me if you need anything at all.”

He held out his hand. “Thank you, Case. Give my regards to your wife.”

Gillespay continued on his way, and Bonwern stepped onto the gravel path toward the man staring intently at the city view. Not a single drop of sweat showed on his flawless, pale skin despite the hot sun. His biomechanical eyes, with irises the shade of a tropical sea, didn’t contract at all in the sunlight; they remained calm, as always.

“What an honor it is for my eyes to behold the leader of Willington at the top of the world!”

Charmitage’s bear-like paw warmly shook Bonwern’s slender, white hand.

Just looking at that toothy grin made him want to kick the man right back to Detroit, along with his implants and typecabs.

“Greetings, Charmitage. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“Industria,” he began simply. “Mr. Bonwern, we are both men of our word and men of rational thought, which is why we both despise wasting our limited time. Allow me to get straight to the point.” He pulled two expensive v-cigars from his pocket and offered one to him.

Bonwern politely declined.

Charmitage returned the second v-cigar to his pocket while lighting the one between his lips. “Industria is the bedrock upon which Willington was built.”

“Willington was built on meritocratic absolutism.”

“Ha ha ha. I’m talking about tangible things. It wasn’t meritocratic absolutism that made Willington rich, after all.”

Bonwern did not respond.

“Industria powers the entire world. It powers the most advanced city on Earth, and we, the Hands of Willington,” he rested a heavy paw on Bonwern’s shoulder, “you and I, must elevate this Age of Industria to a new level. You surely know that beneath Hermespol lie untapped deposits, and it would be ideal for my corporation to initiate private extraction there.”

“Is that so? Explain to me, if you will, how that would benefit the city.”

The corners of Charmitage’s broad maw turned down. “Well, my sales would contribute to the economy.”

“How so, given that Willington has no taxes, unlike countries overseas?”

“Shares in Charmitage Cybernetics would rise.”

“Indeed, which would only benefit the Hands of Willington and your investors. And I gain nothing from it. Willington is the most powerful superpower in the world.”

“You know, I come from the Americacontinent, and centuries ago, it too was the most powerful country on Earth. It decided everything, yet brought about its own downfall by turning its own people against each other.”

He refused to be rattled. “This city possesses the sharpest minds on Earth, the most advanced AI. It has no need for such an idea to be realized.”

The businessman in the luxurious suit before him opened his mouth again to spout another absurdity, but Bonwern didn’t give him the chance.

“This isn’t about how much it brings in, but what it brings. And now allow me to speak of ‘abstract’ things again. What does my city gain from you and Ashland hoarding wealth for yourselves?”

“Your”—he uttered the word very slowly—“city has been shared with the Hands of Willington for a long time,” he said with a solemn face, but as soon as he finished, that toothy grin returned to his egg-shaped face.

For a moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

Bonwern drew a breath and looked back into his small eyes. “I know you and Mr. Ashland are planning big things. I also know you have some of the Minds on your side. But no matter how many people take a liking to you, no matter how much money you have... a mortal can do nothing against Zeus.”

He would have liked to know what was going through Charmitage’s head at that moment. Presumably, his tiny house of cards was shaken to its foundations, yet his business shrewdness prevented him from saying anything other than: “You are missing out on a unique opportunity, Mr. Bonwern.”

“You will never have my permission to mine,” he said with cold calm in his eyes. “Accept it at last.”

Charmitage turned in silence and walked out of the gazebo.

“Give my regards to Dr. Wang the next time you meet at Gambit the Club.”

Charmitage paused. He didn’t turn back, but simply kept walking away.

Once he had disappeared from sight, Bonwern turned back to the view of the skyscraper peaks piercing through the white clouds.

Charmitage wanted to unleash his war with the Eurocontinent. That was his true objective. People like him never had enough. People like him should never have been allowed to gain power in Willington. Bonwern had made a mistake—one he could no longer undo.

His legs trembled. He had to lean against the railing.

He pulled out another small glass vial, pressed it quickly to his lips, and turned it upside down, while the words of Jacqueline Ronolt echoed in his mind: “Every hierarchy will eventually collide with simple human nature.”