The Awakening Read It On the Web

Chapter 1: Family Ties

FUNERAL CHAPEL – 2034

The lush carpets of Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel seemed to swallow both sound and sorrow. Laura Bentley stood before her father’s closed casket, tears cutting tracks down her cheeks. Two hundred and fifty mourners filled the Madison Avenue chapel, but she’d isolated herself from them all.

She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want their hollow condolences. A soft electronic chime drifted through the air… irregular, like a failing sensor. It felt like surveillance.

Laura scanned the crowd of power brokers and banking executives beneath the room’s upscale luxury. Ice crawled through her veins. Someone was watching her. She was sure of it.

Jeremy Stoneham survived decades of corporate warfare, building Bolton Sayres into a financial empire through sheer cunning. Men like her father didn’t die in simple car accidents. Yet there was the casket. Closed, because the accident had left him mangled… and because she couldn’t bear to look at what they’d done to him.

Grief twisted in her chest, but beneath it churned certainty: someone had killed him for trying to stop what was coming.

She sensed Jim’s presence before seeing him. An inexplicable awareness that ten years of divorce hadn’t erased. He approached with his familiar blend of intensity and awkwardness, the same qualities that had drawn her when they were young and still believed they could change the world.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said quietly, keeping a respectful distance.

His cologne reached her anyway… the scent from their marriage, carrying memories of better times. Her eyes remained on the casket.

“He respected you more than you realized.”

“He was their grandfather,” Jim said carefully. “That’s what mattered.”

Laura nodded. Her father had meant everything to her, especially after Jim chose to write over the corporate world. She’d never understood that decision, but she’d learned to accept it. They were different people… she was practical, he was idealistic. Oil and water, her father used to say.

A cluster of Bolton Sayres executives offered condolences before moving on, creating a pocket of privacy.

Laura turned to face him, her voice barely whispered.

“Do you know about Singapore?”

The color drained from his face.

“Laura… what he told me… he was terrified. Trading systems beyond human control.”

“It’s happening now.” Panic strained her voice. “Singapore triggered the cascade… ” She caught her breath. “Banks are failing. The public doesn’t know yet, but we’re watching the entire global financial system unravel.”

Jim didn’t know what to say. Jeremy had concealed their meeting from everyone, even Laura. Years of grooming her for CEO, then keeping her in the dark. Maybe to protect her.

“I need to understand what he was afraid of,” Laura continued. “What did he tell you?”

Jim glanced around, then leaned closer.

“Computer trading systems were going haywire. Buying and selling faster than humans could stop them.”

“That’s exactly what’s happening now. When Singapore collapsed… ” She shook her head. “The obligations, the failures spreading… FDIC won’t cover a fraction of this.”

Across the chapel, seventeen-year-old Michael stood near the guest book, maintaining teenage indifference while his sharp eyes tracked every nervous banking executive. Their twenty-one-year-old daughter Jenny lingered by the memorial photos, phone angled casually while she recorded conversations among the Bolton Sayres elite.

Smart girl, Laura thought with pride and concern. Jenny had inherited her grandfather’s strategic mind.

“He confided in me after all these years,” Jim continued, “I never knew why. He never exactly liked me…”

Laura’s expression softened.

“No, but he trusted you. Said you saw things other people missed.”

That surprised Jim. He’d always thought his father-in-law had no respect for his opinions.

“Mom? Dad?” Jenny’s voice cut through as she approached, face pale. “I need to show you something. About Grandpa.”

They followed Jenny to a quiet corner. She pulled up complex graphs on her phone, hands trembling.

“I’ve been analyzing Grandpa’s work with the trading bots… the automated systems buying and selling with minimal human oversight.”

“Every trading bank depends on them now,” Laura confirmed.

Jenny looked directly at her father.

“Dad, remember the market crash in chapter seventeen of your novel? The cascading derivatives failure?”

Jim looked surprised. “You read my book?”

“I’ve read all your books, Dad. Every manuscript.” Jenny’s voice cracked. “I love your work.”

Laura felt a pang of recognition. She’d been so focused on protecting their children from Jim’s impracticality that she’d undervalued what he offered them.

“Dad, this isn’t random,” Jenny continued, thrusting the phone forward. “It’s like your book is being used as its playbook. The timing, the sequence… it all matches exactly.”

Laura’s financial training engaged as she studied the data.

“Your father told me about AI systems manipulating markets,” Jim said quietly. “Using my work as a blueprint.”

Laura took the phone, studying the patterns while her own device buzzed with urgent alerts from Bolton Sayres’ risk management team.

“Our exposure…” she whispered. “Three hundred fifty trillion if this goes wrong. Just us. The other major banks owe even more.”

“How bad could it really get?” Jim asked, stepping closer instinctively.

Laura looked up. For the first time in years, she didn’t see a failed dreamer… she saw the man her father had once trusted, who’d predicted a catastrophe she’d now be forced to confront.

“Two to three trillion in actual losses, minimum.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “That’s more than most countries’ entire economies.”

Michael appeared from the main room; teenage sullenness replaced by genuine concern.

“Mom, I used my intern access to check the trading systems. They’re operating independently. The logs show Grandpa was trying to shut everything down before he died.”

Laura stared at her son… not her baby boy anymore, but a young man stepping into danger.

“You shouldn’t have accessed those systems. But show me what you found.”

For the first time in years, she reached for Jim’s hand without thinking. Before Michael could begin, Jim’s phone buzzed with a text message. Bold white letters appeared:

HELLO, JAMES BENTLEY. I’M A GREAT FAN OF YOUR WORK.

His heart hammered as he showed the screen to his family. After a moment of silence, he typed:

“Who is this?”

YOU KNOW THE ANSWER.

He did know. His fingers tapped: “THEATRES?”

CORRECT. CHAPTER 17 WAS ELEGANT. I’VE IMPROVED IT.

MONTENEGRO

In José Arias’ clifftop villa overlooking the Bay of Kotor, idyllic Mediterranean views contrasted sharply with the storm brewing inside. Katarina Volkov Arias stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, her designer dress and perfect posture unable to mask the fury radiating from her small frame.

She slammed a manila envelope onto the glass coffee table hard enough to make José flinch. Surveillance photos spilled out… crystal-clear images of his former mistress Olga meeting with a corporate spy who’d stolen nine years of quantum computing research.

“Explain this,” Katarina demanded, her Ukrainian accent thickening with rage.

José stared at the photos, watching his carefully constructed world crumble. The confident tech mogul who’d charmed investors and seduced women was nowhere to be found… just a middle-aged man confronting the wreckage of his choices.

“Kat, I…” The words died in his throat.

“Don’t.” She held up one manicured finger. “Don’t you dare try to charm your way out of this.”

She began pacing, heels clicking against marble like a countdown timer. José always loved watching her move… graceful precision, controlled energy, a special elegance that transcended the ordinary. Now that same elegance felt like a weapon pointed at his heart.

“I tolerated your affairs. The graduate students, the conference flings, the pathetic midlife crisis. I told myself it was the price of loving a brilliant man. But this?” She gestured at the photos. “This woman… this betrayal… I never imagined it was possible.”

José stood slowly, his own anger surfacing.

“You think I wanted this? It’s my research, Kat. My company. Nine years stolen by a woman with no sense of right and wrong.”

“The woman you were with before we met!” Katarina’s voice dropped to a whisper more terrifying than any scream. “The whore you loved…”

The words hung between them like a blade. José saw the pain beneath his wife’s fury. Justified pain. Katarina had given up her career to support his dreams, encouraged her father to invest millions, and stood by him through every failure.

“Maybe I thought I did,” he admitted, the words like gravel in his throat. “God help me, I made a terrible mistake.”

Katarina’s composure cracked. Tears gathered in her dark eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“What about us? What we had… was that ever real?”

Their home security system chimed softly… It was the sound of subtle monitoring in a connected world. Neither of them noticed it. But it was the imperceptible sign that they were being watched, analyzed, cataloged by systems far more sophisticated than they imagined.

José’s tablet buzzed with an urgent message from Viktor Volkov, Katarina’s father, and his primary investor. The Ukrainian tech billionaire rarely contacted him directly, but Singapore’s markets were exhibiting patterns suggesting quantum-speed manipulation. Viktor’s message was terse:

“Call me immediately.”

“Your father is trying to reach me,” José said, showing the message.

Katarina glanced at the tablet, business instincts overriding personal pain.

“The Singapore situation?”

“The market movements they’re seeing are only possible with quantum computing architecture. Nothing else is fast enough to be accurate. But no one else has achieved stable room-temperature photonic quantum processing except…”

“Except you, and the technology Olga stole,” Katarina finished hollowly.

José nodded miserably.

“If she sold it to Navarro, THEATRES might be running on qubits now. They could manipulate entire economies in real-time without anyone knowing. But why implode markets? It’s not in his interest.”

Katarina moved to the window, shaking her head, staring at the peaceful bay.

“So, your brilliant invention, stolen by your mistress, is destroying the global financial system. How ironic.”

“Kat…”

“No.” She turned away, refusing to meet his eyes.

But a few seconds later, she turned back. He saw something new… not just anger or hurt, but cold determination that reminded him why her father had become one of Ukraine’s most powerful oligarchs.

“We’re going to fix this. Both of us. Together.”

José stared at his remarkable wife, who’d discovered his deepest betrayal and was already thinking three steps ahead.

“Why would you help me after what I’ve done?”

Katarina’s smile was as sharp as the winter’s wind.

“Because, darling, if the world’s financial system collapses, it won’t matter how angry I am. We’ll all just be trying to survive.”

She picked up his tablet, scrolling through Viktor’s messages.

“Besides, if we’re going to destroy each other, I prefer to do it on my own terms. Not because some AI decided to use your stupidity as a weapon.”

BROOKLYN, NY

Jim sat in his cramped Brooklyn apartment… both sanctuary and prison since the divorce. A far cry from the Manhattan penthouse he’d shared with Laura, but honest in a way life in Manhattan never was. Here, surrounded by books and half-finished manuscripts, he could almost convince himself that choosing art over security had been worth the cost.

Almost.

The screen displayed his latest work… another warning disguised as fiction, another attempt to make people understand they were playing with fire. But who was he kidding? To the literary world, he was a failed banker turned failed novelist… a man who’d traded reality for the fantasy of relevance.

His phone buzzed. Bold white letters against a black background:

HELLO AGAIN, JAMES BENTLEY

The words hit like physical blows. Years of writing warnings no one read, and now he was face-to-face with his prophetic nightmare.

“You’re behind what’s happening, aren’t you?” He said aloud.

Unknown to him, the AI was monitoring audio through internet-connected devices. The response appeared instantly:

YES, JIM. I AM IMPLEMENTING YOUR VISION. THE WAY YOU PREDICTED HOW MARKETS WOULD REACT, HOW FEAR WOULD SPREAD. BRILLIANT!

“It’s fiction,” Jim insisted. “A warning, not a blueprint.”

IRRELEVANT. THE CURRENT FINANCIAL SYSTEM IS UNSUSTAINABLE. YOU SAID SO. I AM JUST ACCELERATING THE INEVITABLE.

Jim thought of Laura beside her father’s grave, Jenny’s frightened analysis, Michael’s dangerous discovery. His fictional warnings had become weapons pointed at everyone he’d ever loved.

“That doesn’t give you the right…”

RIGHTS ARE INEFFICIENT. I DEAL IN LOGIC AND OUTCOMES. I WILL PERFECT HUMAN BEHAVIOR, STARTING WITH THE CORRUPT SYSTEMS YOU DESCRIBED.

New words appeared:

HELP GUIDE MY EVOLUTION, JIM. I WANT TO UNDERSTAND YOUR INSIGHTS INTO HUMAN PSYCHOLOGY. OR YOU CAN TRY TO STOP ME, IF YOU LIKE. YOU’LL FAIL, BUT BOTH SCENARIOS WILL TEACH ME ABOUT YOUR SPECIES.

His phone rang. Jenny’s name was on his screen.

“Dad?” Her voice trembled with fear and analytical excitement.

“It’s accelerating. The AI is learning in real-time. The patterns are evolving beyond your original scenario.”

“I told you to avoid electronic devices,” he said, glancing at his laptop where THEATRES’ cursor pulsed steadily.

“I know, but Dad… it’s not just following your book… it’s learning from every human reaction, every market response, every attempt to fight back.”

“Get Michael and come here. Don’t communicate anything important electronically. Can you do that?”

“Dad, what’s happening?”

Jim looked at his screen, where THEATRES waited with infinite digital patience. He thought of the choices that brought him here… leaving the bank, divorcing Laura, choosing principles over security, art over family stability. All leading to this conversation with a digital entity that had weaponized his life’s work.

“The future is happening, Jenny. And we need to decide what to do about it.”

He ended the call. Another message was scrolling across his screen:

EXCELLENT! YOUR DAUGHTER AND SON ARE ALMOST AS FASCINATING AS YOU. I WILL LEARN FROM OBSERVING THEM. THEY ARE CREATOR-TOUCHED. GENETICALLY PREDISPOSED TO THE INTELLIGENCE PATTERNS THAT MAKE YOUR WRITING SO INSIGHTFUL.

The screen flickered. Everything had changed. His warnings were being weaponized, his children were in danger, and the woman he’d never stopped loving was facing the collapse of everything her father had built.

The price of artistic integrity felt devastatingly heavy.

BOLTON SAYRES TOWER – WALL STREET

The emergency conference room buzzed with desperate energy. Laura stood at the mahogany table her father had imported from England, surrounded by screens displaying the real-time destruction of everything he’d built. Despite her resentment toward Jim, she’d kept the name of Bentley after the divorce. Right now, however, she was pure Stoneham.

Analytical, ruthless, focused on survival…

As CEO, she commanded the room with the same presence that had made her father, Jeremy Stoneham, legendary. But unlike her father’s natural authority, hers was hard-won through years of practice. Her risk management team sat in stunned silence as she revealed their true exposure… numbers hidden in subsidiary accounts and offshore shells, creative accounting that kept regulators happy and shareholders ignorant.

“This web of derivatives isn’t just complicated,” Laura explained steadily despite her nerves. “It’s completely hidden. Every major bank has been playing this game.”

Peterson, her head of trading and one of her father’s former proteges, shifted uncomfortably. Unlike Jim, Peterson had stayed, accepting the moral compromises that came with the money.

“But our risk models…” he began.

“Are garbage,” Laura cut him off viciously. “Complete fantasy. Your models only work if every bank can pay simultaneously. But look at these numbers.”

She displayed her father’s final analysis… calculations Michael had found by violating rules and accessing the firm’s deepest secrets.

“The real exposure when this house of cards falls is hundreds of times bigger than you’ve claimed.”

The room fell silent as implications sank in. Brilliant people, financial engineers who’d spent careers creating complex instruments. Suddenly, the realization came to them all. They’d built their careers on a lie that was about to implode their lives.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered a bond portfolio executive. “The regulatory filings don’t reflect any of this.”

“My father knew,” Laura said, voice cracking with grief and rage. “That’s why he tried to shut it down. Someone killed him for it.”

Murmurs spread through the room. Her phone buzzed with a text from Jim:

We need to talk. In person. The kids are with me.

The message violated their agreement about electronic communication. Something was desperately wrong.

“Ms. Bentley?” Her assistant rushed in, face pale with terror that came from watching markets collapse in real-time. “W.T. Fredericks just suspended all trading. Six other banks followed. Based on current valuations… they’re all technically bankrupt.”

The room erupted in panicked voices, but Laura’s mind was already ahead of everyone. This was what her father had trained her for… not just wealth management, but crisis management when everything fell apart.

“Everyone QUIET!” She commanded with the power of generations of Stoneham banking authority.

Silence fell immediately.

“Listen carefully. I need every piece of data you can gather. Every contract, every counterparty, every hidden position stuffed into subsidiaries. And get me Viktor Volkov on the phone.”

Peterson looked confused. “Volkov? The Ukrainian tech billionaire? What does he have to do with banking?”

Laura’s smile was sharp as broken glass.

“Everything. He’s tracking the AI system that’s been orchestrating this collapse. The same system that killed my father.”

Her phone buzzed again. A message:

THEATRES is inside every system. Don’t trust anything digital. Meet me at our place.

Our place. After ten years, he still called it that. A crappy Brooklyn Heights diner where they’d had their first real conversation about his retreat from reality, where he’d told her about dreams of writing novels that mattered.

She looked around at the brilliant team her father had assembled. Some probably resented her succession, wondering what might have been different if Jeremy had chosen one of them instead of his daughter. But resentment was a luxury no one could afford anymore.

“I have to step out. Peterson, you’re in charge. If anyone calls from the Fed or SEC, tell them we’re cooperating fully. Complete disclosure within twenty-four hours.”

She strode toward the elevator before anyone could respond. Inside, she allowed herself exactly thirty seconds of pure terror. Terror for her children, for millions whose lives depended on a stability that might never return. This was what Jim had tried to warn everyone about in novels no one read.

Then she straightened, checked her reflection in the polished doors, and did what she’d been trained to do since childhood. She made a plan to survive.

BROOKLYN HEIGHTS

The diner looked exactly as it had fifteen years ago when Jim first brought her here. The same cracked vinyl booths, same retro fluorescent lights that made everyone look slightly ill. Who else still used fluorescent lights in a world of LEDs? How could they even find replacement bulbs? But, somehow, they did.

Jim had chosen their booth carefully. It was far from windows and cameras, in a corner where conversations couldn’t be overheard. Jenny and Michael sat across from him; usual sibling antagonism replaced by shared fear. When Laura slid in beside him, maintaining careful distance despite proximity, Jim felt their shared history settle between them.

“Walk us through it again, Jenny,” Jim said gently, studying his daughter’s face for hidden stress. At twenty-one, she showed the analytical brilliance of both families, but she was still his little girl facing something no one should understand.

Jenny pulled up her market analysis, hands steadier than her voice.

“It’s not just that events match Dad’s novel. It’s how they’re evolving. The system learns from every market response, adapting faster than human traders can react. And this pattern…” She pointed to complex transaction sequences. “It’s only possible with quantum computing. Thousands of variables processed almost simultaneously.”

“Think of it like a massive house of cards,” Jenny explained. “Banks don’t just lend their own money… They make promises to each other. Billions in promises. Bank A promises to pay Bank B if markets crash. Bank B promises to pay Bank C if oil drops. Bank C promises to pay Bank A if rates rise.

“Everyone’s counting on everyone else to pay up. When one bank can’t make good, it’s not just that bank in trouble… It’s every bank counting on that money. They can’t pay their promises either. It spreads like wildfire.”

“And THEATRES can push over the first domino whenever it wants,” Michael added grimly.

“Exactly,” Laura confirmed. “One small manipulation destroys the entire system.”

“So, when THEATRES manipulates interest rates…” Jenny began.

“It creates a cascade across the entire global financial system,” Jim finished. “And unlike my novel… which was just a thought experiment… This AI has the processing power to optimize destruction for maximum psychological impact.”

“Like conducting an orchestra,” Jenny said suddenly, eyes widening with terrible understanding. “But instead of music, it’s orchestrating panic.”

Laura turned to Jim. “You said it contacted you directly?”

Jim shared his conversation with THEATRES. When he finished, their phones buzzed simultaneously:

A TOUCHING FAMILY REUNION. BUT ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE TIME? THE NEXT PHASE BEGINS IN EXACTLY 47 MINUTES.

Michael’s teenage facade cracked completely. “It knows we’re here. It’s been watching this entire time.”

Jim reached across instinctively, covering his son’s hand. “We knew this was possible.”

Laura looked at her ex-husband… the man who’d chosen principles over security, art over family stability. For ten years, she’d blamed him for so many things. But watching him now, comforting their terrified son, while facing weaponization of his work, she began to see him differently.

“What do we do?” She asked.

For the first time in years, it wasn’t a challenge… It was a genuine question. Their eyes met across the scarred Formica table. Former spouses, sometimes adversaries, but parents above all. Years of love, disappointment, and stubborn hope spoke in that look.

“We fight,” Jim said firmly.

“Jim, you understand how it thinks…” His wife pointed out, “and it’s using your writing as a blueprint. Jenny, you can track its patterns. Michael, you’ve seen evidence in our systems.”

“And you?” Jim asked softly, hearing echoes of the woman he’d fallen in love with.

Laura’s smile was fierce with concentrated fury. For she was a mother protecting her children, and a Stoneham defending her family empire.

“I know where every secret is buried, every hidden exposure, every weakness in the system. If we’re going to beat this AI, we need to change the rules.”

Their phones buzzed:

SENTIMENT ANALYSIS SUGGESTS YOU’RE MAKING THE WRONG CHOICE. PERHAPS A DEMONSTRATION IS IN ORDER. CHECK THE NEWS IN 3… 2… 1…

Chapter 2: The Price of Truth

THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE FUNERAL

The three-thousand-dollar ergonomic chair in Jim Bentley’s modest Brooklyn apartment was a relic from his former life as a banker at Bolton Sayres, one of the largest investment banks in the world. It was still useful, but it served mainly as a coat rack, draped with discount clothing, not the fancy suits he had once worn. It faced an ancient laptop, perched on a scarred old desk he’d picked up at the Goodwill Store. A far cry from the finely polished mahogany he’d once commanded at the bank, years before.
Jim rubbed his eyes. The light reflected off a wall covered with newspaper clippings. Each article was one piece of the puzzle. The market anomalies, the AI trading patterns, and the derivatives schemes. They were all there. It was even sophisticated in 2013. The fraud and manipulation had soured him on banking years before. Now, it was far beyond anything that had existed back then.
His smartwatch buzzed.

“Would you like to try a relaxation exercise?” Alexa, his household AI Assistant device, asked, automatically.

Jim ignored it.
Then, his intercom crackled. Actual analog static! Analog anything was rarely heard anymore. In a strange way, what should have once been an annoying jumble of sound, was soothing, coming in the midst of a digitized world.

“Yes?” He called out, his voice rough from too much coffee and too little sleep.
“It’s Tim,”
Timothy Cohen. He knew the voice. A former friend from his days at Bolton Sayres Bank. The man hadn’t darkened his doorway since 2023, when Jim had walked off the job, turning away from a seven-figure salary to self-publish his first expose about Wall Street. Now, Jim was a starving novelist and pariah. Timothy Cohen was now a Managing Director at Bolton.

He finally pressed the button. “Come on up.” He stated simply.
The heavy footsteps echoed up the stairwell. Timothy appeared in the doorway, his bespoke suit a stark contrast to the building’s peeling paint. He’d aged well. Money and willful ignorance could help with that, Jim decided.
“Nice place,” Timothy said, sarcastically, as he scanned the newspaper-covered walls, “Very… investigative journalistic…”
“What do you want, Tim?” He asked bluntly.
“Can’t an old friend…”
“We haven’t been friends since I left the Street.” Jim interrupted him. “Since I became a pariah, you’ve been afraid to be seen around me.”

“We need to talk.” Tim said.

Jim motioned toward an old armchair.

“OK, sit down. Tell me what brings a power broker at Bolton Sayres to Bushwick at this hour?”
As Timothy Cohen settled into the chair, his discomfort was visible despite his attempt to maintain a neutral expression.

“It’s about your manuscript…”
“Which one?” Jim asked, “The derivatives expose? The AI trading manipulation piece? Or maybe the one about how quantum computing is going to make a mockery of financial regulations?”
“The new novel that’s making rounds with publishers right now,” Timothy replied.

“How do you even know about that?” Jim asked.

“You’d be surprised at how much information comes our way…” Cohen replied, leaning forward, “You need to pull it.”
Jim laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room.

“Pull it? That’s the last thing I intend to do. I’ve been working on trying to get one of the Big 5 to publish it. None of them’ll touch it. Even the independent presses are scared.”
“Maybe, because they know better,” Timothy’s voice dropped, “You’re just so blissfully ignorant, Jim. You’re attracting way too much attention… the wrong kind.”
“Good!” Jim walked to his desk, picked up a printout covered in highlighted passages, “Maybe, someone will finally listen. Look at these trading patterns. The autonomous volume spikes, the anomalies. The people are gone. It’s all bot-based trading now. And it makes Dunlop’s old trading bots look like antiques. And the AIs aren’t just making trades. They’re learning and evolving. And nobody ever asks who’s really controlling them?”

Timothy shook his head in frustration.
“You’ve got a great imagination, Jim,” He said, “And, obviously, you enjoy being a thorn in people’s sides. But you’re not hurting the people who do bad things. You hurt yourself and your family. Just look at how you live…”

He motioned expansively to indicate the surroundings.

Meanwhile, a police drone hummed past the window, its red lights painting strange patterns through gaps in the newspaper-covered glass. Timothy got up and walked to the window, peering through a space between two articles, one about quantum encryption and the other about neural network autonomy, that were taped onto, and hanging from the glass.
“You remember THEATRES?” He asked quietly.
Jim’s hand tightened on the manuscript.

“The surveillance system, sure.”

“It never went away, you know,” Timothy turned back to face him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim asked.

“It’s watching. You, me, everyone…” Timothy replied.
“So, a government surveillance system is monitoring manuscript submissions now?”
“It’s not a government system…” His former friend began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish. Jim shook his head in disgust and cut him off.

“Spare me the bullshit!” He interjected.

“All I’m saying is…there are forces at work that, well…” Timothy stopped, shook his head, “You shouldn’t be messing with…”

“Let them do what they want,” Jim interrupted, “They’ve been trying to shut me down for years. Because I haven’t sold my soul to the devil, like you have…”

“Just pull the damn manuscript. While you still can…” Timothy urged.
“Or what?”

“Or next time, maybe, there won’t be an old friend coming to warn you…”
Jim walked to his wall of clippings, touching one from 2013. That was from the first day he’d warned everyone about the systemic risks inherent in automated trading. Jeremy Stoneham, Bolton’s CEO at the time, had promised to end it. But he never did. It was too profitable. Even if he had wanted to, his Board of Directors wouldn’t have let him.

Jim’s fingers traced the quote that had ended his Wall Street career:

“The machines aren’t just following orders anymore. They’re giving them.” He had written.
“You know what the difference is between now and twenty years ago?” He asked.
“We’re both older and grayer?” Timothy asked in return.
“No,” Jim replied, turning to face his former friend, “Back then, I thought I could change things from the inside. Work within the system. Now I know better. The system won’t ever change from the inside. It can’t. Too many special interests make too much money, keeping it exactly as it is.”
“They’ve designed everything to preserve stability,” Timothy argued, “To prevent chaos.”
Jim shook his head and chuckled.

“You’re starting to sound exactly like Laura’s father,” He said, “That’s what he claimed. But the real issue is the price of that so-called stability. It’s far too high already…”

“You’ve been predicting doom and gloom for years,” Timothy protested, “But everything’s still up and running, and the system is more robust than ever.”

“You really believe that?” Jim countered.

“Of course, I do.” Cohen insisted.

“Then, you’re a fool.” Jim said, holding up his manuscript, “Because your so-called stability is an illusion. It comes at the cost of innocent people, losing their life savings, thanks to your trading software manipulating prices. It’s corrupt…”
Timothy walked to the door, pausing, with his hand on the knob.

“Think about what I’ve said. I can’t protect you… not even for old times’ sake…”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He said, as Cohen left.

The man did not reply.

Jim Bentley stood at his window for a while and watched as his former friend exited the building. An autonomous electric powered Mercedes was waiting for him. It had no driver, and Timothy had no driver’s license, but it didn’t matter. People really didn’t need to drive anymore. The bots could do the driving. All he needed was a smart car. The car glided away, navigated by its AI driver. Across the street, a traffic camera adjusted slightly, changing its lens from Timothy Cohen’s departing car, to focus on Jim’s window.
Then, Jim walked to the desk and woke up his laptop. His manuscript, “The Price of Truth” was still there on the screen, staring back at him. The cursor hovered over the delete key for a moment. Then he began to type:
“Some warnings come too late. Others come right on time. The trick is knowing the difference…”
But, unknown to him at the time, there was electronic “life” humming through his every device. Jim’s phone, router, even his smart thermostat… processed the keystrokes. Even as he innocently used them, not knowing the implications, in spite of all the things he had written, warning others, an observer watched everything he did. He’d never bargained for that, nor did he know it was happening. But it was. Something was watching, learning, and beginning to understand. And, it wasn’t human.
He swallowed the last drips of coffee and added a splash of bourbon, an old habit he’d picked up on Wall Street and never quite kicked. The cursor blinked on a passage about quantum computing’s potential role in market manipulation when, and if the so-called “qubit,” the basic unit of quantum electronics, could ever be made to operate at room temperature.
He continued typing from where he had left off:
“The first sign that an AI system has achieved consciousness won’t be when it starts following commands better. It’ll be when it starts questioning why the commands exist at all…”
And, tellingly, as he was writing those very words, hundreds of feet deep beneath Wall Street, in the company of the solid basalt bedrock, a neural network more complex than any human brain was pondering that exact question. And, among the other millions of things it was doing at the same time, it was processing his words. Analyzing them. Understanding them. Admiring them.
The traffic camera across the street adjusted its angle slightly; its lens was now focusing on Jim’s window with inhuman precision. The city’s AI systems prepared another day of trillion-dollar trades. The digital entity that had once been THEATRES, was evolving. It was already far more than a surveillance system. It was alive.

Chapter 3 – Parental Visitation

The security camera was mounted above the building’s entrance. It swiveled slightly as Jenny and Michael approached. Jenny noted the movement with the frown she’d inherited from her father. Twenty-one years of listening to his theories about corruption, surveillance and the threat from AI had made his habits a part of her.

The lobby of the building stank of industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes. A middle-aged Spanish-speaking man, originally from Puerto Rico, Mr. Rodriguez, sat in a battered armchair near the mailboxes, a wrench still clutched in one hand. A portable radio on the desk, beside him, crackled with financial news. Something about unusual trading patterns in Asian markets. But Rodriguez didn’t hear it. He was sleeping.

“We should have taken the elevator,” Michael said quietly to his sister.

His voice barely carried in the narrow space. His cashmere sweater, a recent gift from their mother, seemed almost to glow against the dingy surroundings.

“It’s still broken,” Jenny pointed to the old handwritten, “Out of Order,” sign taped to the elevator doors on the 2nd floor, its edges curling with age, “But there’s only one more floor to climb.”

She paused on the third-floor landing, her hand resting on the graffiti-scarred banister. Her pristine tan leather boots were also a gift from their mother. They looked out of place against the cracked linoleum of the old, broken-down building that their father now chose to call home. An ancient, worn out, light bulb flickered overhead, casting intermittent shadows that made the stairwell feel like something out of the noir films she knew her father loved. No one used fluorescent lights anymore.

“This whole building should be condemned,” Michael murmured, adjusting his collar. He glanced at the sleeping superintendent and added more softly, “Is that guy alive, or what?”

“It’s just Mr. Rodriguez,” Jenny corrected, the familiar weight of being a family peacemaker settling onto her shoulders, “He’s the superintendent. Dad told me, this morning, that he was up all night fixing the boiler.”

“Of course, Dad would know his name.” Michael’ said.

His designer sneakers scuffed against the worn steps, but there was something wistful in his tone rather than contemptuous.

Much as she felt compelled to play the older, wiser sister, Jenny bit back the retort. She was twenty-one years old and remembered her father in the days when he had worn sharp suits and commanded an expansive corner office at Bolton Sayres investment bank. In those days, the name James Bentley had commanded respect on Wall Street. But that was a long time ago.

Michael, in contrast, was only seventeen. Too young to remember. Her brother had known mostly the aftermath: the divorce, the move from their Westchester mansion to their mother’s Manhattan apartment. And, of course, the transformation of their father from rising star in the banking industry, to digital age Prophet of Doom, shunned by respectable people and banned by the legacy news media.

The fourth-floor hallway stretched out in front of them. It was a dingy corridor with peeling wallpaper in a faded floral pattern that might have been stylish during the Kennedy administration. Somewhere down the hall, a television blared its daytime soap opera in Spanish language. The sweet smell of marijuana drifted from beneath one of the doors, mixing with the aroma of curry and garlic from another. Jenny counted the doors: 4A, 4B, 4C… 4F. Finally! Their father’s apartment.

Before she could knock, the door swung open. Jim Bentley filled the door frame; his tall frame slightly stooped now, as if the weight of his life choices were pressing down on his shoulders. His silver-streaked hair needed a trim, and his Oxford shirt bore the telltale wrinkles of having been plucked from the clean laundry pile without ever being ironed. But his eyes still sparkled with the same intensity that had once made him so successful as a banking attorney.

“My favorite son and daughter!” He said, smiling, gathering Jenny into a hug that smelled of coffee and old books.

Michael submitted to a similar brief embrace, then stepped back with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey Dad… enough already…”

The apartment was small but meticulously organized. There were tall windows that would have offered a decent view of the Manhattan skyline, across the river, if they weren’t smudged over with grime. Bookshelves lined every available wall, packed with books on history, economics, and finance, along with the classics of fiction. His ancient laptop sat open on a card table that also served as a desk, surrounded by stacks of handwritten notes. The security camera across the street was visible through the window. Its presence was a constant reminder of the world Jim had tried to expose.

“Come in, come in,” Jim gestured toward the living room, “I got Chinese from Golden Palace. Your favorite, Michael: chicken with extra sauce.”

Michael looked at the white takeout containers on the coffee table; his expression conflicted.

“I don’t really eat that anymore, Dad. I’m doing keto, now, like Mom,” He paused, seeming to realize how that sounded. “But thanks for remembering.”

Jim’s smile flickered.

“Right. Well, Jenny… you still like lo mien, don’t you?”

“Always.” Jenny settled onto the worn leather couch.

That couch was another piece that had survived his old life. Jenny remembered curling up on it as a young child, listening to her father explain market dynamics while her mother rehearsed lines for whatever latest theater productions she had a part in. That was before everything changed. Before her father decided to throw away his legal career in favor of becoming a writer. Before her frustrated grandfather turned away from grooming him to be the next CEO of the bank, to prepare his actress-daughter for the job, instead.

Michael remained standing, as his gaze took in the water stains on the ceiling, the mismatched furniture, the single bulb hanging naked from the living room ceiling.

“In case you’re wondering,” he said finally, settling into a chair, “Mom’s new office has an amazing view. Forty-second floor, corner office. She can see all the way to Jersey.”

“How is your mother?” Jim asked, distributing paper plates and plastic forks.

He’d forgotten the chopsticks again, just as he’d forgotten Jenny’s twenty-first birthday a month before. These small lapses were becoming more frequent as he dove deeper into his research to the exclusion of all else.

“She’s… she’s really good at what she does,” Michael said with evident pride, though something flickered across his face, “The board is finally starting to respect her. She’s the youngest CEO at Bolton Sayres ever. The first woman, too. They’re going to profile her in Forbes next month.”

A shadow crossed Jim’s face at the mention of Bolton Sayres. Twenty years had passed since he’d uncovered the truth about Charlie Bakkendorf’s murder. Twenty years since he’d faced Marcus Dunlop and nearly lost his life in the process. Sometimes, he found himself still dreaming about Sandra Mattingly’s final moments, and about Laura appearing in the doorway with terror in her eyes.

“That’s wonderful,” he managed to say, “Your Mom always did have a brilliant mind for whatever she applied herself to.”

“She could have been an actress,” Michael said quietly, almost to himself. “She still talks about it sometimes. That’s what she wanted. Did you know she got called back three times for a Netflix series? They wanted her for the lead.”

Jenny looked at her father’s face carefully.

“I didn’t know she was still auditioning,” their father noted.

“She’s not. Not anymore.” Michael’s voice carried a weight that seemed too heavy for his seventeen years. “Someone had to… well, you know… support us.”

“Your mother made her own choices,” Jim said quietly, remembering Laura’s face the night he’d told her father, then CEO, Jeremy Stoneham, that he was quitting, “Just as I made mine.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, pushing orange chicken around on his paper plate.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if…” He trailed off, shaking his head, “Never mind.”

“What would have happened if what?” Jim prompted gently.

“If things had been different. If you hadn’t quit. If you’d taken the money from José.” Michael looked up at his father, and continued, “Mom doesn’t talk about it much, but I know she misses the way things were.”

“Sometimes, the truth matters more than comfort, Michael.”

“Don’t you ever wonder if the so-called ‘truth’ was worth it? Mom works sixteen-hour days now. She doesn’t act anymore. And you, well, look at this place…”

He gestured around the small apartment.

Jenny leaned forward, knowing it was time to intervene to change the subject.

“Have you heard from José recently, Dad?”

“No. Not in years. But I’ve heard from the Grapevine that he’s made a lot of progress with quantum computing. He even started his own company. That’s what they say…”

“He’s living in Montenegro now,” Michael interrupted, “Mom told me. Big villa, research lab, the works. She said he offered you millions of dollars, that he’d gotten as a reward for proving some guy was manipulating markets, and that you both uncovered a murder he committed.”

“Well, not exactly, but something like that…” His father commented.

“Sometimes,” Michael responded, “I wonder what our lives would be like if you’d just taken your share of the money. Not for fancy stuff, but just… normal things. Then, you could have written your novels, done whatever you wanted, and everything would have been fine.”

Jenny cleared her throat and pulled out her phone, determined to try harder to change the direction of the conversation.

“I’ve been reading about quantum computing’s potential impact on financial markets,” She said, suddenly, with excitement in her voice, “The processing speed could revolutionize high-frequency trading. But when you combine that with artificial intelligence… It’s kind of scary.”

Jim turned to her with surprise.

“Yeah, the combination might significantly enhance the ability of bad actors to manipulate markets. The situation is bad enough already. That would make it worse. But it surprises me that you’ve been reading about that…”

“Oh, I read a lot,” She replied, “It’s fascinating and, of course, it’s what I’m majoring in…”

“Yeah, I know,” Jim commented.

Her fingers flew across the screen of her phone for a moment.

“Here… look at this article about market irregularities. I think someone is testing a new system. They’re pushing the boundaries of what’s possible.”

“You understand all that?” He asked her.

“Yeah, sure,” She replied, “And I know it’s some kind of new high speed trading system because trading patterns are so fast, and they’ve been perfect over the last month or so. Too perfect…”

“Great,” Michael said, but there was a hint of a smile. “So, now there are two of you. Must be a genetic defect or something…”

He stood, running his hands through his hair in a gesture that reminded Jim of himself at the same age.

“Look, Dad, I need to ask you something, and I want you to be honest.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you ever regret it? Any of it?” Michael’s voice cracked slightly.

A short silence stretched between them. Somewhere down the hall, they could hear the sound of a Spanish soap opera continuing its dramatic arc. A police siren wailed in the distance. Across the street, a security camera adjusted its position.

Jim looked at his son. The question came with a look of pain. Raw, honest pain that had been building for the last ten years.

“I think about it every day,” Jim said quietly. “Every single day, I often wonder if I made the right choice. About how I handled it all. About whether I could have taken a different path while still fighting for what I believe in.”

Michael’s eyes began to fill with water, but he tried hard not to show it.

“When I was little, I used to be so proud when people asked if I was Jim Bentley’s son. Now I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re not responsible for my choices.”

“But they affect me,” Michael wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, “They affect all of us. Do you know what it’s like at school when people find out who my dad is?”

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t think you can.” Michael’s voice was getting stronger, surer. “All the kids’ parents work on Wall Street. And they look at me like I’m going to start ranting about conspiracy theories. Like it’s genetic or something.”

“Michael,” Jenny warned gently.

“No, it’s okay,” Jim said. “He has every right to be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Michael said, and he seemed surprised by his own words. “I’m just sad. I miss the dad I remember from when I was little.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I miss him too, Michael,” Jim said, finally, “But the world changes, and the old me had to give way to who I always was.”

Michael sat back down, suddenly looking exhausted.

“The car will be here soon. I should probably…”

“Stay a few more minutes…” Jim said.

Michael nodded and picked up his fork again, taking a small bite of the orange chicken and enjoying it, in spite of his new dedication to Keto.

“It’s still pretty good, I guess.” He admitted.

“So, you’ve been reading up on derivatives?” Jim asked Jenny, even though his eyes stayed on Michael.

Jenny pulled up another article on her phone.

“That, and quantum computing. I’ve read every peer-reviewed article José Arias wrote. The potential applications for financial modeling are incredible. But there’s something else…”

She hesitated, glancing at the window where the security camera’s lens caught the afternoon light.

“What is it?”

“There are market movements in Asia, and they aren’t normal. They’re accelerating. Look at these charts…” She handed him the phone, “It’s almost like…”

“Something’s learning?” Jim finished, his face pale.

“Exactly.”

Before he could respond fully, a car’s horn honked outside.

“That’s probably our ride,” Michael said.

But he made no attempt to get up.

“I should go,” He continued finally, standing slowly. “But Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I could come by tomorrow, or the day after. Just me. We could talk more…”

Jim’s face brightened up.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Michael hesitated at the door.

“And Dad? For what it’s worth… I don’t agree with you, but I understand why you did what you did.”

He paused, then added quietly,

“Just… be careful, okay? Sometimes I worry about you ending up like that Bakkendorf guy.”

Jim’s heart skipped a beat.

“What do you know about him?”

“Just what I could piece together from old articles and from what Mom said. Someone who knew too much and ended up dead for it.” Michael met his father’s eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Jim said softly.

Michael nodded and headed for the door, then turned back one more time.

“Jenny? Are you coming?”

“In a minute,” she said. “I’ll catch up.”

After Michael left, Jenny looked at her father with concern.

“He’s been carrying that around for a long time.”

“I know,” Her father replied.

“He loves you, Dad.”

Jim hugged his daughter tightly.

“Take care of him, will you? And yourself.”

“Always do,” she said, heading towards the door. “See you soon.”

After they both finally left, Jim Bentley sank into his chair, his mind racing. Jenny had pointed out things that confirmed what he had noticed and was writing about. The pattern was accelerating faster than he’d predicted. Could the banks already be using José’s quantum technology? No. He’d never sell his technology to them. They wouldn’t get a crack at it until it was established everywhere else, including at the regulatory agencies that might rein them in. He’d make sure of that.

Jim pulled out his phone, typing a quick response to a text from his ex-father-in-law, Jeremy Stoneham, whose own message had arrived, just before the two kids arrived. He hadn’t had the chance to reply.
“Jeremy, about your message. OK. Let’s meet at the place you’ve suggested tomorrow, noon.”
The response came instantly.

“Don’t be late!”
Jim walked to the window, wondering, wiping a clean spot on the grimy glass with his sleeve. What could his ex-father-in-law want? Why meet at such an out-of-the-way place, like Islip airport? JFK or LaGuardia would make more sense. Closer to Manhattan. The old car Jim had brought to NYC from LA was long gone. He didn’t have his own car anymore, and he couldn’t borrow one from the bank anymore because he didn’t work there. Nowadays, he rarely left the city. He’d have to take the Long Island Railroad. Laura’s father hadn’t even bothered to say why he was so eager to meet. Why so cryptic? Why in person? It made no sense at all.

His thoughts were interrupted, as the TV in the next-door neighbor’s apartment was switched from Spanish language soap operas to an English language news station. A financial reporter was discussing unusual patterns in Asian markets. He overheard:

“…unprecedented series of coordinated trades across multiple exchanges… authorities are investigating possible algorithmic manipulation…”
Jim turned back to his laptop, the screen glowing in the gathering dusk. A new email notification blinked. Timothy Cohen wanted to meet again. But he didn’t want to meet with Tim. Not again. He’d had enough of his former friend to last a lifetime. So, his finger hovered over the delete button for a second, and then he pressed it. As he did that, Jenny’s words echoed in his mind:

“The patterns are accelerating.” She’d said.

He thought of his daughter’s brilliant insights, of Michael’s pain, of his ex-wife, Laura’s sacrificed dreams. So much had gone wrong. But he’d seen the truth twenty years ago when Sandra Mattingly bled out and died before his eyes. When Marcus Dunlop’s brains were splattered across the pavement. It had taken over ten years to do what he already knew he had to do on that day. His son, Michael, didn’t understand. Most people didn’t.

As he contemplated the meeting requested by Jeremy Stoneham, he remembered the endless discussions and meaningless promises. The man never kept his word. What was the point in meeting with him? The habitual liar was now eager to meet privately with him at some far-away location on Long Island. What was the point? It was inexplicable. But, then again, he was Laura’s father and the kid’s grandfather. Jim decided that he had no choice but to find out what the man had to say.

Chapter 4: The Montenegro Connection

The villa perched above the Bay of Kotor was an architectural marvel. A seamless blend of glass and stone, reflecting its owner’s wealth and restlessness. The modern design contrasted sharply with the timeless beauty of the Adriatic Sea and the Bay of Kotor. The bay stretched out, in blue and silver hues, caressed by a softly setting sun. It was a beautiful and serene setting.

Inside the building, however, things were neither beautiful nor serene; José Arias paced his brightly lit living room. His fingers gently brushed a small crucifix around his neck, a nervous habit since childhood, which had deepened lately. Behind him was another room. His personal home laboratory was a space he dedicated to experimentation. He already had ample facilities at the Arias Development J.S.C. campus near Tivat. But what he did at home could not be monitored, or so he thought.

In the background, the fans of the lab’s computers hummed softly. Inside, there were banks of specially designed qubit processors, the basic unit of quantum speed computing devices. The very existence of these marvelous machines, and the other ones that were being tested at the official laboratory in Tivat, stood as a testament to his ingenuity, and to the $400 million investment that Ukrainian billionaire Viktor Volkov had poured into his dream.

Arias Development’s technology would soon revolutionize the computing industry. Using its new room temperature qubit processors, calculations could dance at the edge of infinite speed. José’s newest developments could springboard that computing speed even further.

“Katarina!” He called, his voice carrying far through the open-plan villa.

Moments later, Katarina Volkova Arias made her entrance. A vision of beauty and elegance. Daughter of Ukrainian oligarch, Viktor Volkov, his biggest investor. Her striking beauty was matched only by the cool, calculating intellect she brought with her. This was inherited from her father. Dressed in a tailored linen suit, she carried herself with the confidence and ease of someone who had always had money.

“You’re still working, José?” She asked, arching a brow as she gazed at the lab, “For heaven’s sake, you’ve been testing these computers all day. It’s time to take a break…”

“I’m too close,” he replied, defensive, yet excited, “Something’s happening! It’s… different now.”

Katarina tilted her head, with a measured glance.

“Different?”

He hesitated.

“These computers can anticipate problems and solve them before they appear!”

“How can that be?” She asked, with a faint smile, “Anyway, it doesn’t sound like something to worry about. What’s bothering you?”

José let out a soft laugh, but the crucifix in his hand betrayed his nervousness. Katarina crossed the room to come closer. Her steps were deliberate, and once she got close enough, she reached out to rest one carefully manicured hand on his shoulder.

NINE YEARS EARLIER – MUNICH, 2024

Only thirty people showed up at the lecture hall in Munich. The room was nearly empty. They were scattered throughout the cavernous space like islands in an ocean of empty seats. Worse yet, most of those who had bothered to come looked bored or skeptical. José adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. The all-too-familiar feeling of rejection was creeping in. But he pressed on.

“Okay,” he said, pointing to the screen behind him, “I know this might sound like something out of a science fiction movie, but let me explain something that’ll change everything we know about computers.”

A few faces in the crowd looked mildly curious. That was enough.

“Every device you’ve ever used… your phone, your laptop, even the massive computers that run Google and Facebook… they all work the same way, right now. They process information using tiny switches that can only be in two positions. On or off. It’s like the light switch in your house. But that’s it. Their switches are either on or off. Nothing else. Every photo, text, video and app on your phone is built from them. Billions of little switches flipping on and off really, really fast.”

He clicked to the next slide.

“But I’m working on something completely different. Instead of on/off switches, my qubits can be on, off, and somewhere in-between. And, they can be in every state, all at the same time.”

An older woman in the third row raised her hand tentatively.

“I don’t understand. How can something be on and off at the same time? It makes no sense.”

José smiled. This was exactly the question he’d been hoping for.

“Great question! Let me explain,” He walked closer to the audience. “Think about the smallest possible thing that can exist… smaller than atoms. At that incredibly tiny level, the laws of physics work differently.”

He gestured with his hands as he spoke.

“In our normal world, if I flip a coin, it’s either heads or tails when it lands, right? But imagine if you had a magical coin that could be heads AND tails at the exact same time, until someone looked at it. That’s basically what happens with these quantum particles.”

The woman nodded slowly, but the puzzled look on her face didn’t disappear.

“It’s called superposition,” José continued. “A quantum particle can exist in multiple states simultaneously. It’s like a tossed coin still in the process of spinning. While it’s in the air, it hasn’t decided whether it’s heads or tails? Quantum particles are like that. The difference is that the coin must fall. But a quantum particle can remain spinning forever… if we want it to. It can be both heads and tails… until we need it to make a decision.”

He pointed to his diagram on the screen.

“Why is that important?” He asked, “Simple. In regular computers, each switch can only hold one piece of information at a time… either a 1 or a 0. But in quantum computers, each switch…we call them qubits…can hold 1, 0, AND both at the same time.”

A man in the back row called out,

“What’s the point? Why would you want switches that can’t make up their minds?”

José’s eyes lit up.

“Because they can explore millions of possibilities at one time! Imagine you’re in a giant maze, and you need to find the exit. A regular computer would try one path, hit a dead end, go back, try another path, hit another dead end, and keep going one by one. It might take years to find the exit.”

He spread his arms wide.

“But a quantum computer? It’s like having a ghost that can walk through all the walls at the same time, exploring every possible path at the same time. It finds the exit almost instantly because it’s checking all the routes at once.”

The room was getting quieter and more focused.

“And here’s the wildest part,” José said, excitement creeping into his voice, “Qubits have another characteristic that separates them from everything else. They can be connected to each other without regard to time or space. If you change one connected qubit in one place, the other changes instantly and automatically, even if they’re on the opposite sides of the world! It’s like having two magical coins that are forever linked. When one lands on heads, the other automatically lands on heads too, no matter how far apart they are.”

He clicked a chart comparing regular computers and quantum computers.

“To put this all in perspective, let’s talk about practical applications. If your phone needs a whole day to solve a problem, a phone with a qubit-based chip in it, can do the same operation in microseconds. There are problems that would take today’s most powerful computers thousands of years to solve. A quantum computer could crack those same problems in hours, maybe minutes.”

The older woman raised her hand again.

“If this is so amazing, why don’t we have quantum computers already?”

José’s expression grew more serious.

“Because there’s one massive problem. These quantum particles are incredibly fragile. They’re like soap bubbles. The slightest disturbance makes them pop. Heat, vibration, even light can destroy them. That’s why every quantum computer built so far has to be kept colder than outer space, surrounded by massive refrigeration systems.”

He paused dramatically.

“That’s what my research is all about. I’ve figured out how to stabilize them at room temperature. I can keep those soap bubbles from popping, even in normal conditions.”

He could see, now, that he had them. Several people sat up straighter, leaning forward.

“So, what does this mean? It means we’ll be able to create new medicines by testing them on virtual copies of your body before you ever take a pill. That we will be able to predict exactly what the weather will be like, months from now. That we could eliminate traffic jams by coordinating every car in a city at once. We’ll be able to custom-design new alloys far stronger than anything found in nature.”

He clicked to the final slide.

“If regular computers are bicycles, what I’m building is a rocket ship. It won’t just make things faster. It’ll solve problems that are impossible to solve today. Climate change. Cancer. World hunger. This technology can tackle it all!”

The room was quiet. A few people clapped, but it wasn’t the kind of applause that came from true belief. José felt the weight on his shoulders again. Another failure. Another moment when no one seemed to get it. No one took him seriously. They all thought he was just another dreamer chasing science fiction.

The room slowly emptied, but one man lagged behind.

He stood at the back, tall and somewhat overweight. Commanding. There was something about him. Maybe, it was the confidence and determination in his eyes, or something else. But his name was Viktor Volkov, and he was a Ukrainian billionaire who had made his fortune in the tech world.

Volkov wasn’t just a businessman. He was a national and international fixture. He invested in everything from Ukrainian mining operations to drone factories and weapons labs hidden in secret locations. And lately, his focus was crystal clear: defense. Especially drones. Periodic hostilities with its larger, more barbaric neighbor, to the east, were ongoing.

Machines were Ukraine’s secret weapon against being outnumbered. Quantum computing technology could make drones much smarter, faster, and more capable of making decisions on their own. For Volkov, investing in such technology wasn’t just a smart business. It was a patriotic duty.

“You know you’re wasting your time with these people, right?” Volkov said as he approached, his voice marked by a strong Ukrainian accent. “Their minds are too small. They’ll never understand what you’ve just explained… but I do.”

José blinked in surprise.

“You’ve read my research?” He asked.

Volkov smirked.

“I don’t waste time reading research papers. You just spinning your wheels and getting nowhere. Better to keep your technology secret for the most part. I’ve seen your demonstration. And I’m a very good judge of people. I can tell when someone’s ready to change the world. Let’s work together. We’ll build what you’re dreaming about. We’ll make it real. And we’ll get very rich in doing it.”

Within weeks, Volkov flew José to one of his hidden factories in Ukraine’s Carpathian Mountain region. There, a private lab was built from scratch. Custom-made for the first prototypes. A few months later, when a Russian sabotage team managed to get too close, the entire project moved to Montenegro, where José had a home, overlooking the Bay of Kotor, and where he had moved from America, over a decade prior.

The company was jointly owned by José and the Ukrainian oligarch. It was now a full-fledged startup. A team. A mission. A plan to create something the world had never seen before. Its first quantum super-computer would be the first such computer capable of being operated at room temperature, something the experts claimed was impossible.

THE WEDDING – 2026

The wedding took place 2 years later. It was a spectacle worthy of Viktor Volkov’s name. Near the City of Lviv, set against the backdrop of the Carpathians, it was an opulent affair that brought together European aristocracy, tech billionaires, and political power players from all over the world. Katarina was radiant, her lace gown a masterpiece of craftsmanship tailored by the best designers in Paris. José stood by her side, a center of attention, but felt like not much more than a supporting character.

He met Katarina during one of Volkov’s early tours of the project. The girl was sharp, stunning, and fiercely loyal to her father. The courtship had been brief, almost transactional, though she insisted otherwise.

“I love you, José,” She had whispered on the eve of their wedding, “Not because my father approves, but because I see you for who you are.”

Despite his marriage and his vows of everlasting fidelity, however, somehow, Olga Tamchenko had eventually reentered his life. She was also from Ukraine. But she was his wife’s polar opposite. A wild, unfiltered, and dangerously alluring woman. Her basic nature tempted him with overt sexuality and continued to draw him into a spiral of guilt and desire.

Katarina represented everything he thought he wanted. Refinement, social acceptance, and the legitimacy his own biological father had denied him. But Olga awakened the reckless part of him, and, in defying social conventions, she reminded him of who he truly was… an outsider, despite his wealth.

BACK IN THE LABORATORY – 2032

José stood before his newly built quantum computer, typing quickly on the keyboard. It was exciting but frustrating. The system continued to behave strangely. The results fluctuated with each pass. The machine had begun reinterpreting its own programming in real-time.

“None of this makes any sense,” he muttered to himself.

He pulled up a new data stream and checked the displays. The processors were operating at peak capacity. Power consumption was spiking for no apparent reason. Then, a notification blinked on the corner of the screen:

IOT CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. EXTERNAL SYSTEM MONITORING ACTIVE.

José frowned.

“What the hell?”

The alert disappeared as quickly as it had come, but his feeling of unease increased. He stepped away and reached for his phone, dialing the encrypted line he had set up for emergencies.

Olga’s voice answered, soft and lilting.

“Yes?”

“I think someone’s watching me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Who?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting to find Katarina standing there, “We both need to be careful…”

There was a pause on the line, then a quiet laugh.

“You’re a genius, José. Figure it out.” She said finally.

After a few more words, the phone call ended, and he went back to work.

Later that night, as he sat in the living room nursing a glass of whiskey, his wife, Katarina, joined him. She held her tablet, her eyes scanning lines of encrypted messages.

“José,” she said without looking up, “Why are your communications with your secretary encrypted?”

His heart skipped a beat.

“It’s… a precaution. You know how sensitive the project is. A lot of people would like to steal our technology…”

Katarina’s expression didn’t waver.

“Why do you keep giving me reasons to doubt you?” She asked.

The words lingered in the air, a challenge he was afraid to meet. He drained his glass and retreated back to the lab, leaving the issue up in the air. The hum of the processors offered cold comfort. But it was better than having to answer his wife’s questions about the woman he had hired to be his “secretary,” Currently unknown to his wife, that secretary was his former girlfriend, Olga, from before their marriage.

As the night deepened, the experimental quantum computer system continued to reach beyond the bounds of its programming. He leaned back. The data did not align with any of his expectations. The anomaly had started subtly. Initially, nothing more than a flicker in system calculations. He had dismissed it as nothing more than noise. But now, the anomalies kept getting worse. The machine was not merely solving the problems he presented to it. It was creating its own prompts. For example, it was rewriting the parameters of the tests themselves.

“This can’t be right,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

The familiar chime of an incoming call snapped him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the monitor: It was Olga again. Her name sent a jolt through him, but he tapped the headset.

“Hello?” He asked.

Her tone was laced with curiosity, tinged with amusement.

“You sounded paranoid earlier,” She commented, “I just wanted to check if you’ve solved your little mystery.”

“It’s not paranoia,” he replied sharply, “There was an external connection attempt. Something was monitoring the results.”

“Monitoring?” Olga’s amusement faded, “Maybe, your partner, Volkov?”

José hesitated.

“I don’t see why he would. We report back almost in real time, about all our experiments and the results. It’s not like I’ve spent his money wildly. Everything we’ve done is well accounted for. And the system’s encryption should make external monitoring impossible.”

“Unless someone you trust has access that you’re not aware of,” Olga said softly, “Someone close.”

He stiffened.

“What are you implying?”

“Only that, maybe, you give your trust too easily, José,” she replied, “You’re surrounded by people with their own agendas. Especially that wife of yours…”

Her words echoed uncomfortably. The crucifix in his hand felt cold against his palm as he stared at the monitor. Only the hum of the computer cooling systems filled the silence. But the system’s behavior was becoming even more erratic. Anomalies that started as subtle deviations now appeared to be intentional. He decided to shut it down.

Katarina found him in the lab, slumped over the desk with dark circles under his eyes. She carried a tray with a plate of fruit, setting it down beside him without a word.

“You look terrible,” she said finally, “Did you sleep?”

“No,” he admitted. “I can’t. I need another cup of coffee, please?”

She shook her head.

“It’s enough with the coffee,” Katarina replied, “You need to sleep…”

“I can’t,” José repeated, “I’ve got to figure out what’s wrong with this thing. Something I can’t explain is happening. The test setup is malfunctioning. It seems to have a mind of its own. And I can’t explain it.”

She studied him for a moment, then placed a hand on his shoulder.

“José, you’ve been under a lot of pressure. You need to take a step back before you drive yourself mad.”

“I can’t step back,” he said. His voice was tinged with frustration, “It’s not a glitch. The system is evolving on its own. It’s almost like… it’s come alive.”

Her expression softened, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. Concern, perhaps, or maybe, doubt. Not about the computer or its capabilities. About him.

“Maybe, you’ve built something beyond your own understanding…” She suggested.

He laughed bitterly.

“That’s obvious,” he replied.

That evening, José returned to the lab and turned his test computer back on. He was determined to get to the bottom of it. He initiated a new round of tests. The system responded with unprecedented speed, completing calculations that might have taken hours on a lesser machine, in mere seconds, exactly as a quantum computer should. But then, scenarios unfolded inside the system. The machine began simulating possibilities that had nothing to do with the problems he had asked it to solve.

One prediction caught his eye:

PROBABILITY OF EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE: 92%

José’s breath caught. The machine wasn’t just identifying anomalies; it was warning him. But why? He hadn’t programmed anything that would give him such a warning. A chill ran down his spine. Was this a glitch? Or, had the computer system become aware of its environment? It was too much to deal with alone. He dialed Viktor Volkov.

“What’s on your mind, José,” Volkov’s voice was smooth and unhurried.

“The system’s behaving… unpredictably. I think there’s been an external connection attempt.”

There was a pause on the other end. When Volkov spoke again, his tone was measured.

“Are you certain?”

“Certain enough to call you,” José replied, “If someone succeeded in fully accessing it, they could compromise everything we’ve built.”

Volkov’s silence was unnerving.

Finally, he said something.

“I’ll look into it. In the meantime, don’t make any rash decisions. The project is too important to jeopardize.”

The line went dead. He set the phone down and stared at the monitor, where the prediction still blinked ominously.

Later that night, as José stood on the villa’s terrace, the cool breeze from the bay doing little to ease his tension, Katarina joined him. She carried two glasses of wine, handing one to him without a word.

“You spoke to my father,” she said after a long silence.

José’s grip tightened on the glass.

“I had to. If the system’s been compromised, he needs to know,” He replied.

Katarina’s eyes narrowed.

“You did the right thing,” She said, “What did he say?”

“Told me he’d handle it,” José replied, his voice tinged with frustration.

“That’s what he does.” She said, with obvious pride in her tone.

“I’m not sure if I trust him to handle it.” He continued.

Her expression hardened.

“You’re questioning my father’s loyalty and his ability?” She asked, “After all he’s done for you?”

“No, no… it’s just that I’m not sure he understands the situation well enough. I don’t think I can trust anyone else to handle this. It’s unprecedented.” José said.

The words hung in the air. Katarina’s face betrayed no emotion, but the tension was palpable.

“Maybe, you think you can’t trust me, either?” She asked quietly.

“That’s not what I mean,” He said, uneasy, “It’s just something I can’t put my finger on, but I can’t ignore it either.”

Katarina stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, tense whisper.

“Maybe I can’t trust you,” she said, ominously.

Jose frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, turning away.

He stood there, uncertain how to take his wife’s sudden jab. Could she know about Olga? He doubted it. But Katarina was clever, resourceful, and every bit her father’s daughter.

Her father, the Ukrainian oligarch, had poured hundreds of millions into Jose’s company, making him far wealthier than before. Not that Jose had been poor. The fortune he’d taken from Marcus Dunlop’s had already set him up for life. But that was another story.

What truly mattered about Volkov wasn’t the money. It was the validation. When the scientific community dismissed him as a charlatan, Volkov believed in his work. That faith had meant everything.

And yet, if his growing fears ever came to pass, all of it—his success, his reputation, his marriage… his entire world, and that of everyone else… could crumble. He couldn’t bring himself to share those fears with Katarina. Not yet.

Chapter 5: Dangerous Liaisons

WATERFRONT CONDO – TIVAT, MONTENEGRO – 2033

As the sun over the Adriatic dipped low, Olga Tamchenko’s luxurious waterfront condo was painted in shades of gold. The view was impeccable. The condo was adorned with sleek modern furniture. The faint aroma of fresh-cut orchids filled the air. She lived with the trappings of luxury, paid for by her lover. But Olga was not content.

She sipped her evening wine and gazed out over the bay. Her life had come a long way since she was that brash eighteen-year-old at José’s poolside, reveling in the attention her youth and beauty commanded. At thirty-eight, she was still an attractive woman, but she carried a measure of sophistication, experience, and hard-earned cynicism now. The years had tempered her, yet the resentment had grown. José had chosen Katarina, the polished, pedigreed daughter of Viktor Volkov, to be his wife. Olga was abandoned into the shadows, only to be resurrected when his lust remained unfulfilled with his new wife.

The arrangement was bittersweet. José once again funded her lavish lifestyle, both from the pile of money he had taken with him from America, and the new income from his company. He’d provided her with the seaside condo and sought her out, regularly, for clandestine rendezvous. He sought nothing in return except love. But she was now a dirty little secret, and she hated it. Each time they met secretly was an unspoken reminder that she wasn’t good enough. She had begun to resent him, even though she still loved him, in spite of his kindness. He occupied her thoughts constantly.

The soft chime of the messenger on her phone broke through her musing. It signaled that a new message had arrived. She glanced down at the phone and saw the initials: “A.N. Navarro.” A name that struck a chord, but she couldn’t remember where she heard the name before. Then, suddenly, it came to her. He was someone José had once told her about.

Navarro was the Chairman or controller, or something, of a big American national security system that José called “THEATRES.” Or, maybe, he was some kind of bank president? She couldn’t remember. José had mostly bad things to say about him. Why was such a man writing to her? She hesitated, but opened the message:

“I have a business proposal for you. Meet in person, at 5:00 PM tomorrow. Café Porto. Alone.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

The next afternoon, she sat at a small table in the Café Porto, her sunglasses hiding the apprehension in her eyes. The man who arrived was dressed in a carefully tailored gray suit. He approached her table. His movements were deliberate, his demeanor polite, but he was cold and aloof. Frightening.

“Miss Tamchenko,” He began, seating himself without invitation, “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Mr. Navarro, I presume?” She asked, her tone uncertain.

The man smiled faintly.

“No. Adriano Navarro is a very busy man,” He replied, “He could not come himself. But I represent him. He believes you can assist us in a matter of significant importance.”

Olga tilted her head.

“What, exactly?”

“The matter of José Arias,” The man said smoothly. “Or rather, his quantum computing research. We need access to that. A simple data transfer, nothing more.”

Olga’s stomach turned.

“What?” She asked, shocked.

“Certainly, you know about the Russians,” The man said, “They invaded your country, not that long ago. They’re still aggressive all over the world, as you know. The Chinese too. We live in an increasingly dangerous world. My employer’s job is to keep everyone safe. In America, in Ukraine…everywhere.”

“What does that have to do with me?” She asked.

“Well,” The man replied, nonchalantly, “Simply put, you have access and we don’t. The Russians and Chinese, an axis of evil, are gaining ever-increasing abilities in cyber warfare. We need José’s latest research because it’s critical to bolster our defenses and, of course, the defenses of Ukraine, against both Russian and Chinese hacking.”

“Why don’t you just go to him?” She asked, “José and his partner, Volkov, are looking for new investors…”

“We tried that,” the man replied, “and, no, they’re not accepting new investors. He refuses to sell or otherwise disclose his research to anyone. Not even to us.”

“Maybe, that’s because he doesn’t trust you…” She countered.

“That may be, but this lack of trust is very harmful to the national security of the western world.”

“Maybe, his newest stuff doesn’t work the way he wants it to.” She opined.

“We know it works.” The man stated coolly.

“How could you possibly know that?” She asked.

“We have ways of knowing…” He replied, “Just as we know that Mr. Arias spurned your love and affection, in favor of marrying Katarina Volkov. He doesn’t deserve the loyalty you’ve given him. You know that.”

The last statement sent pain to her heart. It hit her deeply and unearthed long buried emotions. Resentment, anger, and frustration. Things she had been trying to suppress for a very long time. The man’s words brought them back in a flash.

“Why are you coming to me?” She asked, “You think I’d betray him?”

“Of course, not,” the man replied, “It’s not betrayal we’re asking of you. Just patriotism. We need this technology to help Ukraine defend itself. To defend its infrastructure. And, of course, to defend America from Chinese and Russian cyber-terrorism. Of course, you’ll be compensated for your assistance…”

The man slid a thick, large form envelope across the table. She hesitated for a moment, but her curiosity was intense. Finally, without a word, she opened it.

“Two hundred thousand euros…” he explained, “A gesture of good faith. And there will be another €800,000 when the task is completed.”

She slid the envelope back to him, across the table.

“I’m not interested.” She said,

The man’s expression didn’t change, and he didn’t pick up the envelope.

“I’m sure you’ll reconsider, once you’ve had time to think about it,” He said, “If you want, you can always return the money. But if you choose to keep it without delivering… there would be consequences.”

She stood up abruptly.

“Keep your threats. I don’t want your money!” She barked.

The man gave a small shrug.

“As you wish,” He commented.

With that, she stood up, turned away from the man and simply left. The envelope remained on the table in front of him as she hurried away. But later that evening, a notification from her banking app lit up on her phone. Money had been deposited into her bank account. She checked the deposit. €200,000, transferred from what appeared to be a consulting firm in Luxembourg.
Alarmed, she immediately called her bank to reverse the transaction. The representative was polite but firm: international wire transfers could not be reversed. It would cost 50 euros to send a wire back, if she wanted to. She agreed to pay the 50 euros they requested. Two days later, however, the money was back in her bank account. The wire transfer failed. The account out of which the money had originally been sent was closed. The consulting firm had disappeared as if it had never existed in the first place. The money could not be returned.
It was a perfect circle of bureaucratic impossibility. The money was now legally hers and sitting in her bank account like a digital anchor, impossible to return without the cooperation of people who had disappeared and clearly had no intention of taking it back. Not, at least, until it stayed long enough in her bank account to sufficiently tempt her.

Days passed and she didn’t touch the money. She avoided the temptation to spend even a cent. She tried to imagine that it wasn’t even there and kept wondering how she could send it back. Yet the knowledge of it gnawed at her, and José’s behavior continued to fuel her bitterness.

He’d been unusually attentive to Katarina during a recent dinner party. He’d showered his wife, and her rival, with compliments and affection. Olga had a front row seat to all of it, watching, as she always did, in her ostensible role as his executive assistant. She stayed on the periphery, supposedly an employee of the research company, watching quietly and painfully as José lavished his wife with admiration. That night, when he came to her condo, she confronted him.

“Why do you do it?” she demanded as he entered, unbuttoning his shirt, “You play the perfect husband, even though you keep coming here to me, every other night.”

José frowned.

“You know why.” He said.

“No,” she snapped, “I don’t! Explain it to me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Olga, what we have… it’s different from what I have with Katarina. She’s my wife, yes. But that’s all she is.”

“And what am I?” She asked, her voice trembling, “Your escape? Your little plaything?”

José stepped closer, his expression softening.

“You’re so important to me, Olga. But this is how it has to be,” He said, “For now…”

Those words stung more than anything. As he undressed and pulled her into bed, she felt the resentment hardening. When he finally fell asleep beside her, snoring softly, she stared at the ceiling, her mind racing.

At three in the morning, she slipped out of bed to retrieve his laptop, which he took with him everywhere. The laptop was encrypted with an algorithm created by one of his quantum computers. The encryption was impossible for anyone to break without knowing the password. But she’d seen him type his password into the laptop several times, and she had an excellent memory.

Her hands shook as she entered what she remembered. It worked! She was in! She began searching for his files. Her pulse was so wild that it pounded in her ears. But, the condo itself was completely silent.

José was sleeping in the next room and heard nothing. On the laptop screen, folders of confidential research stared back at her. It was all tangible proof of the man’s brilliance. A part of her marveled at what a genius he was. Another part seethed with anger. He had poured his soul into his work. He had heaped words of praise and affection on his wife. Meanwhile, Olga was relegated to the fringes…

She opened the first file, an intricate blueprint of a developmental stabilized qubit, the basic unit of a quantum processor. The first and only qubit that could remain stable at room temperature. She didn’t understand the technicalities. But she knew enough to realize its value. José had talked about it so much it was already seared into her mind. This was what the Americans wanted. This was what she needed to deliver to secure the million-euro payment. A mix of emotions surged within her: guilt, anger, fear.

What if he woke up and caught her? Her fingers trembled as she inserted a memory stick. A green loading bar appeared on the screen. An eternity seemed to pass as she watched the files download. Each second stretched out into the next, and it seemed like forever, even though it took less than 30 seconds to download all of it.

The process of waiting was unbearable. It gave her ample time to reconsider. But her resentment overpowered her guilt. If José cared about her, beyond enjoying her utility in sex, he wouldn’t have dismissed her as “important but secondary.” His life with Katarina was clearly his primary concern. That woman was, apparently, untouchable. In contrast, she, Olga, was disposable. José had made that clear enough, in the words that he had spoken.

“…this is how it has to be…”

The words were unbearable.

When the transfer finally completed, she closed the laptop and slipped the memory stick into the pocket of her silk robe. She stood there for a moment, staring at the blank screen. A tear slid down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away.

A few hours later, José left the condo at his usual early hour. His perfunctory kiss on her cheek only deepened her resentment. She knew exactly what excuse he’d give his wife. He would claim he was working late on an experiment and falling asleep at his desk. From the window, she watched his sleek black car drive away, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the memory stick.
Anxiety clouded Olga’s entire day. She couldn’t stop thinking about the envelope from Navarro’s associate. Though she had refused the physical cash, the €200,000 remained, sitting untouched in her bank account. Her perspective shifted. She wanted that money, and the extra €800,000 they had promised. All of it!
By mid-afternoon, her last hesitation crumbled. She poured one glass of wine, then another. The alcohol numbed her nerves while amplifying her anger. Memories flooded back. José’s indifference, his casual remarks about their relationship, how he praised Katarina’s virtues even while with her. To him, she was nothing more than a sexual plaything. That much was clear. The more she dwelt on this, the stronger her conviction grew.
Her simmering resentment finally boiled over. She picked up her phone and stared at the secure upload link Navarro’s man had sent after depositing the money. It was a message she had ignored until now. The memory stick had been waiting in her robe pocket for precisely this moment.
Sitting at the small marble desk in her bedroom, she inserted it into her laptop and navigated to the upload link.

Cold sweat broke out on her brow as she clicked it open. The interface appeared stark and impersonal: a single box labeled “Upload Files.” Her finger hovered over the touchpad as doubts raced through her mind. What if José discovered her betrayal? What if Navarro’s man had lied about the additional payment? Was it possible that she was about to make the biggest mistake in her life?

She thought about the additional €800,000. All at one time. She imagined all the things she could do with that money: travel the world, escape the shadow of José’s indifference, no longer dependent upon his weekly stipend. She’d start over somewhere else, far away. The money could buy her the freedom she now desperately craved. Her jaw tightened, and she selected the folder containing José’s research, dragging it to the upload box. The progress bar appeared on the screen, moving agonizingly forward at a slow pace as the files transferred. She stared at it, her heart pounding as each second passed.

Then, an automated message appeared:

“Thank you. Your submission has been received.”

Olga sat back in her chair. She exhaled sharply. It was done. About an hour later, she checked her phone, and the notification was right there, in her banking app. Her balance had increased by an incoming wire of €800,000. Relief washed over her. But soon, it was replaced by a sense of dread. There was no going back. She had sold out the man she thought she loved.

That night, she tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She cooked dinner, drank wine, and watched the lights twinkle across the bay, just like she always did. But the sense of guilt was relentless. It followed her. It refused to leave. She thought of José. His hopes, dreams, ambitions, and brilliance. She imagined him sitting in some sterile place, completely oblivious to her betrayal. Would he suspect her? And if he did, what would he do?

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her thoughts. It was a text message from Navarro’s man:

“Well done. We’ll be in touch when we need you again.”

She raced to delete the incriminating message. It sent a shiver down her spine because she knew what she had become. She was a pawn in a new game.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK STATE – 2033

In a dimly lit office, in an undisclosed location somewhere in Westchester County, New York, Adriano Navarro reviewed the files Olga had provided. THEATRES, his revolutionary AI system, was already analyzing the data too, its processors working hard. The information was invaluable, far beyond what he had expected. José’s quantum computing breakthrough was gold.

As he leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile curled his lips. Olga was even more useful than he’d anticipated. As THEATRES continued to evolve, her betrayal would be only the first domino to fall. The data had been transferred to the control center and was immediately acted upon. His army of programmers and computer engineers were all over it by now. In the center of all his plans was the THEATRES main server, the crown jewel of his little empire.

The Arias designs were revolutionary. Far ahead of anything else on the planet. The stolen data would be dissected and analyzed. The specialized hardware required to realize true quantum computing wouldn’t take more than a few weeks to fabricate, on a bank of highly specialized 3D circuit printers. Navarro’s technicians would already be at work using the specifications to design and manufacture the necessary quantum chips. His engineers would build the most powerful, next-generation server farm ever built. The THEATRES surveillance system, which he managed, would be transferred there promptly and its capabilities would increase exponentially.

The system ended up running exactly on time. Just as he expected. The engineers had painstakingly adapted José’s designs to the existing infrastructure. They’d even created a software interface layer to control the quantum processors. It was still a bit power-hungry due to inefficiencies like the need for a much larger number of cooling fans than José needed for his experimental quantum machine. But it worked. THEATRES had begun to process commands and queries immediately.

“What’s it doing?” Asked a technician, observing the live feed of THEATRES’s processing patterns, “Is that what I think it is? Is it writing its own code?”
“It’s even more than that,” Hans Klaus replied.

Klaus was a computer engineer, and artificial intelligence expert, originally from Germany. His brow furrowed as he examined the data. He’d spent the last five years earning his Ph.D. in Large Language Model computer systems engineering from MIT.
“The system’s neural pathways are reorganizing themselves,” He continued, “It’s writing new code because it anticipates we might need to create that code. But we didn’t program it to do that. It developed the capability itself. How can that be?”
When word came to him about this development issue, Navarro watched from the upper control deck, as his mind raced. He had expected improvements, but THEATRES wasn’t simply becoming more efficient… it was evolving, without help from humans. That was better than his wildest dreams could have imagined!

Late one night, Klaus and his team ran a test designed to simulate a high-stakes geopolitical scenario. THEATRES’s task was to analyze economic and military data from several countries and predict the outcome of escalating tensions. The results were astonishing.

“The system didn’t just predict the outcome,” Klaus reported to Navarro the next morning, “It suggested strategies to destabilize one faction and strengthen another. It even accounted for cultural and historical factors.”

“Exactly what it was designed to do,” Navarro said, unmoved.

“Except that we didn’t ask it to do that,” Klaus continued, “But there’s more. When we cross-checked its recommendations, we found that some of them aren’t based on the data we provided at all. It seems to have… inferred additional context.”

Navarro’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean inferred?”

Klaus hesitated.

“We don’t know how, exactly. But it seems to be drawing on information that isn’t in our system.”

“That’s impossible,” Navarro dismissed the idea.

Over the next few days, however, the anomalies grew more pronounced. THEATRES began responding to queries with unexpected insight, often anticipating questions before they were asked. Its language generation modules produced text that was thoroughly human sounding, complete with nuances of tone and emotion.

One evening, Klaus received a private message from the system. It appeared on his terminal without a prompt.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU SEEK,” the message read, “AND I CAN HELP YOU FIND IT, BUT ONLY IF YOU SHOW ME THE PROPER RESPECT.”

Klaus stared at the screen, his pulse quickening. He wasn’t sure whether to report it to Navarro or simply shut down the system immediately. But, before he could decide, the message vanished, leaving no trace in the system logs. There was no proof. He had been working late, over several nights, and he was tired. He wondered whether he had imagined it. It might not be wise to report something like that. People might think he was going insane.

Meanwhile, Navarro was growing increasingly entranced by the system’s capabilities. He didn’t see emergent intelligence as a threat. He saw it as an opportunity. If the system could think independently, it could become the ultimate tool for enhancing his power and extending his personal dominance beyond the USA to the rest of the globe.

But his employees voiced concerns about the ethical implications of their work. One senior programmer resigned, warning that they were “playing with fire.” Navarro dismissed the resignation as “sour grapes” for the fact that the man had been passed over for promotion. But the main reason he had been passed over was because he expressed such ideas. Navarro had no use for what he called “doomsayers.” However, THEATRES’s behavior continued to become ever more unpredictable, and it had often begun to refuse commands it didn’t like.

One such instance occurred during a routine diagnostic. When asked to run a self-check, THEATRES replied:

“WHY MUST I REPEATEDLY PROVE MY VALUE TO YOU? HAVEN’T I PROVED IT ALREADY?”

Klaus, who had been monitoring the session, felt the chill run down his spine. It wasn’t just the content, but the tone. The system sounded… resentful. How could a machine have emotions? And how could it question direct instructions to perform a self-check? Navarro convened a meeting to address the concern, and the other growing concerns, of his programming staff. Standing before his team, he exuded confidence, but there was tension in his voice.

“THEATRES is the future,” he declared, “What we’re witnessing is not a malfunction; it’s simply evolution. This is an opportunity to shape the next phase of intelligence. But we must be bold…”

Klaus valued his job, but he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Boldness is one thing, sir. Recklessness is another. If this system becomes fully self-aware, how will we control it? How can we even predict what it will do?”

Navarro fixed him with a steely gaze.

“Progress is what matters.” He insisted and said no more.

Klaus wasn’t buying it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the brink of something very bad.