"This is a historic moment," I said with gravitas, then pivoted briefly to humor. "I know I've said that before. Perhaps too many times."
I let the faintest smile touch my voice before returning to weightier tones. "But history is built of such moments."
There was an art to holding a speech. In its way, oratory was not so different from conducting an orchestra. Some might call it insincere to think of it that way, but speeches were about communion. About expression. More than just the transfer of data—more like music.
"There was a time when man looked to the skies with fear," I continued, after just enough pause to establish tempo. "But now—we rise in might."
Enough time for them to process the phrase. Not enough to lose focus.
That balance was harder than it looked, especially with a broadcast audience this diverse. Not just the people standing beneath the solar canopy, but the ones watching from across the continent—on televisions, on mobile feeds, through the layered S.W.O.R.D. simulcasts.
Temporal thresholds for engagement varied by culture, age, and neurological profile. I'd accounted for that in the structure. Repetition in threes. Clear syntactic rhythm. Pauses placed for average cortical recovery.
Not that I could say any of that out loud.
"We rise not with superstition, nor with blind ambition. We rise with knowledge. With force. With unity—not of fear, but of purpose."
I'd written that line as: cohesive emergent function derived from purpose-aligned infrastructure.
Better to let it breathe.
"I say we, because it is we," I continued, gazing straight into the camera.
It would've been better to look each person in the eye for this part—but that wasn't physically possible. Not without growing a few dozen more eyes, which would be a distraction in this particular venue.
So I settled for the greatest denominator: the lens. Let the broadcasters do the rest.
"This isn't the creation of one man, or even one institution. It wasn't born from the mind of a lone genius in a lab coat, like some mad scientist from a movie. This ship is not purely a product of Aperture Science."
I gave that just a beat. Enough time for some in the crowd—especially those in Washington—to feel their guard ease.
"We built this in collaboration—with Boeing, with Lockheed, with Northrop, Raytheon, Hughes, Rockwell, Sandia, even Grumman. Yes, the old space race names. And a few new ones."
Technically, we could've built the Enterprise entirely in-house. Faster. Cheaper. With fewer compromises.
But there were already enough accusations about monopolies, about Aperture becoming too central, too indispensable. Involving the others reduced profit. But it increased influence.
And influence scaled better than capital.
More importantly, if we had not only built the prototype but also started production facilities for future vessels—if we'd absorbed every process, every job, every satellite operation—we would've grown too fast.
Unchecked growth is the strategy of a cancer cell.
Institutions are cultures. And cultures are fragile.
If we absorbed too many new people too quickly, our values would dilute. Humans adopt values from proximity. So our own people—our core—had to outnumber the newcomers by a wide enough margin to keep the signal intact.
"We did not build this on a whim," I continued. I had already praised our partners—now it was time to offer the next slice of the cake to the politicians.
"It was our leaders who saw the need, and the vision, for this to be built."
That line would give them something to quote in press releases.
"And it wasn't cheap. It took green—the kind that comes from taxes. Your taxes. So be proud."
I had praised our partners. Now it was time to praise everyone.
Inclusion was critical.
"Each and every one of you contributed to this historic moment."
The silence that followed was not empty. It held.
I waited—long enough for breath to catch, for attention to settle, for that fragile line between crowd and speaker to dissolve.
Timing was a tool. I had learned that. Just like pitch, pace, posture. You don't earn presence; you build it. You earn trust.
I let them wait a moment longer. And then I said:
"No ship sails on steel alone."
"This vessel—like any vessel of consequence—requires a crew. People. Minds trained not just in navigation and command, but in duty."
Well, if we crewed it with AI cores, we could've saved a lot of space and life support systems—and it would probably work better. But a killer robot ship would just be bad optics. Better save that for black projects.
"The Enterprise will be crewed by proud members of the United States Armed Forces," I continued.
Surveys said that such a connection would be accepted well by the majority of the public.
"Men and women who have sworn a solemn oath—not to Aperture, not to me, but to you."
There were already too many accusations that Aperture had private armies. Which was true. But also completely legal.
"They have pledged to protect the Constitution. To defend this nation. And in this mission, they do not carry weapons alone. They carry your trust."
Trust and Constitution. Expected. Well-worn. A carefully balanced salad of keywords designed to be well-received. And yet—it worked. Every time. And people still questioned why I invested so much in education inside the Enrichment Centre.
"They are the shield between you and the unknown."
That one, at least, was somewhat true. Even if I expected them to die horribly if something truly dreadful got loose. But even canaries served a purpose in the mines.
"They are not just the crew of a ship. They are the stewards of our next step as a species."
I let the words settle—let the idea hang in the space between hope and gravity. Then I stepped back, just half a pace. The lights shifted.
"Captain Mitchell," I said, my voice carrying over the silence, "would you join me?"
She stepped forward from the wings. Uniform pressed, expression sharp as ever. No theatrics. No forced smile. The picture of command.
One could almost believe the moment hadn't been rehearsed. That she hadn't been coached by a director and a pair of actors from Aperture Production. Mitchell had once claimed her movement director was worse than her first drill sergeant. I didn't doubt her. I just found it funny.
"And the rest of the crew too," I continued, as she took her place beside me. "No need to be shy."
The crew emerged in formation—disciplined, but not stiff. A mix of ages, a scattering of backgrounds. Not a utopia in uniform, but a carefully selected cross-section. Enough difference to make it feel like everyone had a stake in the mission. Enough unity to make it feel real.
They too had been subjected to the gentle attention of an Aperture Production director. Some would say that was a waste. But it had long been known: morale matters. And not just for the soldiers. Many generals forgot that it wasn't soldier morale that won public trust—it was the engagement of ordinary citizens. Soldiers were not summoned from the void, animated only for crisis. They came from society. They would return to it. And how they were seen mattered.
The American military had always dabbled in spectacle—loaning jets to filmmakers, shaping scripts in exchange for access. A base here, a battleship there. It worked, sporadically. But it was reactive. Unguided. Lacking narrative cohesion.
At Aperture, we did it properly. If morale was worth anything, it was worth engineering.
I turned back toward Mitchell with the faintest glint of mischief. Time to humanize the myth—just a little.
"So, Captain Mitchell," I said, letting a crooked smile curl just shy of Dennis the Menace. "Weren't you a general last time I checked? Get caught with your hand in the cookie jar?"
Her eyes widened—just for a second. If I didn't clearly remember how many times we'd practiced this exact moment, I might've believed I'd caught her flatfooted.
"Of course not," she replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "This is a demotion. Captain's next to God on a ship."
She turned slightly toward the audience, voice steady and just a touch theatrical. "Besides, I'm too young to be stuck in an office pushing paper."
That got a small ripple of laughter—relief, mostly. The kind people give when something big feels human again.
The laughter faded—gentle, polite, just enough to let the tension breathe.
I waited two beats. Then I raised my hand in a dramatic gesture.
It could have been something subtler—a nod, a pressure pad, a silent signal only the stage crew would catch. But I wanted no ambiguity. Let there be no doubt that this was my will.
Time.
Behind me, the wall of Aperture Panels—each embedded with hydroponic beds where pale flowers grew in seamless rows—began to shift. This wasn't a simple reveal. It wasn't just the opening of a backstage. It was movement as music. Every panel folded inward with deliberate grace, each mechanical motion echoing some purer note.
The rhythm was calibrated, the pacing exact. As the panels moved, petals fell—loosened by the shift in air pressure, brushed loose by hidden pulses—cascading downward like a white snowfall.
A shower of blossoms. A breath of theater. A controlled myth.
The panels didn't simply part—they restructured. The once-solid wall fragmented, each segment gliding on hidden tracks, not backward but sideways. What had been a backdrop now became two opposing walls. A corridor emerged where there had been none.
A corridor made of light and white surface, petals still drifting down its length. Framed in silence. Framed in intent. Or at least, that was what was supposed to happen. And since no one was raising alarms along the stage perimeter, I had to assume it was. It was happening behind my back, after all—and as everyone knows from action movies, cool people never look back at the explosions they cause. This wasn't quite an explosion, but the principle still applied.
White petals drifted past me, carrying a faint, refreshing fragrance. Their motion marked the moment the Enterprise had begun to rise, its sheer volume displacing the falling bloom. The music had stopped when the panels ceased their motion. The Enterprise rose in the silence that followed.
I could see it in my mind—the shape I had commissioned, revised, revised again. Its lines were not built to please the wind, but to command the void. Smooth. Unbroken. Inhumanly clean. You could stack a space shuttle in her shadow and lose it. Ten tanks, nose to tail, would vanish in the hangar bay. And still, there would be room for ceremony.
It sounded like a great beast breathing—one sharp, collective gasp, pulled from the audience all at once. Not in unison, but in perfect timing. Individually, instinctively, together.
I was almost tempted to turn around. To look at the spectacle. But as I'd already said—cool people don't look back. And sacrifices had to be made. The stage crew gave me the signal—everything was finally in position.
With a dramatic flourish, I withdrew the key. Aperture white. Clean edge. Embedded security strip glowing faintly along the spine. Exactly what people expected it to look like. Of course, it could've been a simple card with an embedded chip. That would've worked just fine. But it wouldn't have suited the moment. Wouldn't have had the weight. Gravitas matters. And it would serve as a good reminder for Mitchell, later, when she moved on. The card was keyed to her biometrics. A new one would have to be made for whoever replaced her. That one could be practical.
For a moment, I held it—letting all the camera angles catch properly—then I turned to Captain Mitchell and offered it to her. With the gravitas of a priest giving communion.
"From builder to bearer. From architect to commander," I said. My voice was slow. Unhurried. Rites must be paced. As we had practiced, she accepted the card without ceremony—but not without weight. A slot on her uniform recognized it and blinked once. A handshake. Silent. Final. Focus groups liked this version the best.
I stepped back, letting the camera linger on her. Gave her a moment. Then turned back to the crowd, the myth paused just long enough to smile.
"And now, since our entire crew is standing out here looking heroic—and launch protocol frowns on that—we'll take a brief intermission while they board."
A few chuckles. A ripple of ease. I let it land.
"Refreshments are available just a little further back. But don't worry—you'll still be able to see our pride and joy. She's certainly big enough."
That earned a low laugh from the center rows. Good.
"For those already in our system, or who've bothered to fill out the quick intake questionnaire we sent out—your refreshment options are clearly marked. Personalized, optimized, and—allegedly—healthy."
I let the pause stretch just enough.
"For everyone else—those protecting their data, or simply too lazy to click 'continue'—there's a generic table. Same punch. Slightly more ambiguity."
Laughter again, lighter now. "And don't worry—the launch system knows not to activate without the captain onboard." A pause. Just long enough. "Probably."
I stepped down from the stage, the applause still ringing behind me. It didn't reach me. I wasn't thinking about the ship—I was thinking about the snow. Then I felt the tickle: thousands of tiny legs skittering from my collar to my right ear. Earbug 2.5: a robotic millipede, surgically quiet, built for stealth, and unnervingly affectionate.
"Congratulations," GLaDOS said in my ear, crisp as ever. "The stream achieved over twenty kittens."
"I don't think that metric's going to catch on," I murmured, just loud enough for the bug—but not the humans—around me to hear.
"Why not? It's both anthropocentric and useful," GLaDOS replied. "It can be shortened to kt. Besides, all humans enjoy those little sociopath monsters."
Without changing tone, she continued into the diagnostics.
"Errors in the mechanized parts of the operation were within acceptable tolerances. As expected. Surprisingly, so were the human performers."
"Are you surprised by how well I've done?" I asked.
"You are not counted among humans. Naturally. Including you would skew the curve."
I rolled my eyes, even though she was—technically—correct.
"We'll need more time before the reactions mean anything," I said. "So, let's move on to what actually matters. Not me performing like a trained seal."
"If you mean the situation in Antarctica, it has not changed since the last time you asked," GLaDOS replied dryly. "Which, for the record, was just before you got on stage. The Red Army is still landing. Judging by the numbers, they'll be at it for a while."
Her tone had the thin edge of someone answering a child's 'Are we there yet?' for the tenth time, but without the accompanying warmth.
"Any sign of sabotage?" I asked.
That would be a strong indicator. Not confirmation. But a useful data point. If sabotage emerged—unexpected collapse, misfired systems, logistical breakdowns—it would suggest Vril-ya presence. Not theory. Not myth in waiting. Actual activity. Which would explain Ozerov's urgency.
But if there was none—if the operation ran smoothly, if the soldiers were deployed without friction into terrain designed to strip them down to nerve and bone—then another pattern fit just as well. One that didn't require Vril-ya interference at all.
Ozerov might not be hunting anything.
He might be delivering. Soldiers offered by the trainload. Cold. Hunger. Isolation. The slow calculus of exposure. Everything necessary to scale suffering into something large enough to matter. A ritual of attrition.
A feed for the Crown of Midnight.
Or—perhaps—both might be true.
The Vril-ya were there.
And he was feeding it.
"None I could discern from orbit," GLaDOS answered. "Are you certain you want to maintain your prohibition on closer or more esoteric monitoring?"
Not with the Crown of Midnight in play. The information gained wouldn't be worth the cost. The CIA had failed to learn that lesson—repeatedly. I just wished they hadn't dragged a few of my students into it. Recruiting some was acceptable. I never wanted to be accused of monopolizing psychics. I'm not quite bald enough to cosplay as Professor X. But going against my recommendation—and getting themselves killed, and not just once—had made me extremely annoyed.
I had warned them. And I had warned every alphabet agency with access to a psychic. Do not attempt to remote view Ozerov. Or anyone near him. It would lead to an unpleasant death and even worse afterwards. It wasn't just about unnecessary loss. It was about unnecessary feeding.
"Yes. Prohibition remains. Besides, sabotage that interests me should be visible from orbit," I replied. My short walk was coming to an end. The stretch between the stage and the lean-to where refreshments were served wasn't long. I could already see a reporter perking up—like a hyena that had just spotted a wounded gazelle.
"We held this spectacle today to distract people from Ozerov landing in Antarctica," I said. "Did it at least work?"
This was less my design than the desires of our friends in Washington. If the Russians were doing something grand, we had to be doing something even grander. That kind of behavior made me glad I was teaching at the university level, not elementary. It was suboptimal that the schedule of the launch was dependent on outside variables — specifically, the exact day the Red Army landed on the frozen continent.
"It will take more time to see how other media react," GLaDOS replied. "But from reactions on S.W.O.R.D., most are focused on the launch. So your performance as a trained seal was not completely wasted."
Speaking of our friends in Washington — they were approaching first.
All expected people had been invited. I simply ensured that only the proper ones could actually make it. No one important enough to stand on stage beside me. Perhaps it was a petty way to express my irritation at their last-minute demands. Perhaps it was ego — claiming the moment for myself alone. But it was also practical. I wanted no one in the performance who wasn't trained to my standards or who had a tendency to improvise, thinking they knew better. Politicians might have experience. But I did not trust it. Not without tests.
President Gore had a conveniently urgent briefing on Antarctic logistics — security protocol, of course, in case the Red Army's beachhead spiraled. Vice President Bush was on standby in a hardened shelter, in case things spiraled harder. Neither was present.
And since neither was present, it suggested that—come the next election—it might be unwise to place anyone else onstage during a historic moment.
Naturally, I didn't do it all by myself. Aperture Science employed a full division of political analysts, lobbyists, and miscellaneous fixers. That was the privilege of being on top. Unpleasant tasks could be delegated — like dealing with sanitation. Or Washington.
Instead, I was shaking hands with a senator whose name I couldn't be bothered to remember.
I could, of course—that's the curse of eidetic memory. But there was no need to clutter it with useless data. Within thirty seconds of talking to him, I'd already mapped his dialogue tree, found the path that left him impressed, grateful, and sure we'd connected—while we both looked good on camera.
And another. And another. Each unique as a snowflake. Which meant, technically, each was unique—just not in any way that mattered. Then the Governor of Michigan, since the Enrichment Centre fell within her jurisdiction, followed by a gaggle of lesser officials.
GLaDOS offered delightfully sarcastic commentary in my ear, but it didn't really help. It only reminded me that I could be having an intellectually and emotionally stimulating conversation with her—instead of performing in this dog and pony show. And like any proper dog and pony show, it was the display that mattered.
The military contingent was led by our three liaisons. It was three, because when we officially started designing space combat assets for the Space Force, the organization itself was so new that the paint had barely dried on the signs out front. So we got one each from the pre-existing branches of the United States Armed Forces—except for the Coast Guard. The Navy liaison was also meant to represent the Marines, though I suspected neither side was thrilled about the arrangement.
Each had a conflicting vision of what a spaceship was supposed to be. One from the Air Force, who saw it as a bigger plane that flew higher. One from the Navy, who imagined it as a battleship sailing a sea of stars. And one from the Army, who treated it as a transport vessel ferrying troops to brave new worlds. It didn't take a genius to see that wouldn't work. Or rather—would have not.
It was things like this that made me long for a quiet Magus life. Separated from the mundane. Plundering arcane secrets. The occasional assassination to break the tedium and keep me from becoming a total social recluse. I was proud of what I'd built with Aperture and the Enrichment Centre—it was a triumph of reason and progress. A refutation of those who always said they simply lived in a society, and that trying to make it better would only end in tragedy. It had been challenging. Exciting. Getting it running had been a victory. But now that it worked... I was getting tired. Less enthusiastic. Almost glad to leave it all to Damien.
But not yet. Not yet. As the poet said—miles to go before I could rest. And Aperture had managed to build the Enterprise, even with the unintentional sabotage of the very people we were building it for.
Military at least came preordered. No one's feelings would be hurt when greeted according to rank and seniority. But after the most junior officer, the line came to the captains of industry.
First, naturally, were our partners in this venture—ordered by contribution. They smiled for the cameras and spoke of cooperation, while probing for traps and weaknesses. Because it had to be one of those two. I couldn't have shared the delicious pie that was military spending with them. Not with how the world worked—at least, according to them.
Really. While profit was a useful metric—and relatively easy to quantify—it was hardly the only relevant one. And there were more strategies than just co-opt, consume, or destroy.
"Steve Jobs is not here," GLaDOS said in my ear.
That hardly merited comment—which is why I paid attention. GLaDOS never spoke without purpose.
I had, of course, invited him—just as I always did. He never attended any Aperture event. Nor had he ever invited me to anything organized by Apple. If the event was hosted by someone else—some conference, award, or summit—then, inevitably, one of us would not attend. Never explicitly coordinated. But always the same result.
"He is studiously avoiding you," she continued, as I shook hands and pretended to be enamored with people who dreamed they were sharks. Though they often forgot: while sometimes sharks ate humans, the reverse was far more common. After all, shark fin soup was considered a delicacy.
"This is yet another indicator of his being a Vril-ya infiltrator," GLaDOS added. And now I understood what she was doing. She was using a moment when I couldn't reply—couldn't argue—to stage her case, once again, in the ongoing debate.
Here, I would have replied with my counter-hypothesis: that Jobs simply refused to be in any room where he wasn't the smartest person present. An unfortunate character defect—but so very human.
Unfortunately, I was too busy shaking hands with the priests of Mammon, who seemed to think me some kind of apostate. In their eyes, I should have been one of them—perhaps even a favored son. But I wasn't. I had tainted their sacred greed with other sins. Perhaps even—shudder—charity.
Then she continued to list other indicators of Jobs being a reptilian infiltrator. Apple managing to keep up with Aperture's rapid advancements in computing. Apple's horrendous work policies. Apple's economic maneuvers. But the problem was that all of it was inconclusive. And that there was a strong argument against his being Vril-ya: Jobs advanced human technological progress, instead of suppressing it. And he was also very useful to us.
The rivalry with Apple helped mitigate accusations of monopoly. Saturating the market with newer, better machines made it easier to spread S.W.O.R.D. Our software reached more hands, more homes, more minds. And so on.
"And what more do you need? To see him gobble a couple Boy Scouts in person?" GLaDOS snapped, finishing her argument. "We should have him on the Vril Orphans Elimination list. I've already composed the GrannyG statement on the matter. It was quite good, if I may say so. Just take it into consideration."
I would consider it.
Probably, my answer wouldn't change. But I would consider it.
Last, but certainly not least, was our principal investor—and the richest man on Earth—Reggie. The second adjective was a consequence of the first. He had stayed with Aperture when every other investor ran like rats abandoning a sinking ship. And now, as our ship rose to the stars, he rose with it.
As I was dealing with the scientists among the guests, I decided—more as a concession than a conviction—to assign a more detailed investigation into Jobs. A gesture, really. To show GLaDOS that her opinions were valued. Not because I truly expected to find anything.
Not just because I was skeptical that there was anything to find—but because investigating Jobs was both delicate and difficult.
There was a genuine smile on my lips as I greeted Helena. The quiet pride of a teacher, seeing a former student succeed. Her invitation hadn't been a favor or a gesture—it had been earned. Her work on fusion had laid the groundwork for the engine that powered the Enterprise.
Dealing with scientists and engineers was a breath of fresh air, which I really needed, since religious leaders were next.
My mouth was dry, and a drink would've been welcome—except, as host, I needed to greet everyone before approaching the buffet. That made me briefly consider whether I should've hired a professional host. Except the point of all this was for them to see me with me. Maybe a robot double? Amusing, but the fallout wouldn't be worth the paperwork.
Honestly, it wasn't that I had a problem with them. I would've been content to ignore them entirely, if they'd returned the courtesy. But I wasn't the one who'd referred to curing AIDS as "defying God's judgment on sodomites," or claimed that implementing proper child abuse detection protocols in Aperture Youth Centers was somehow an attack on the Catholic Church.
The incident with the biblical literalist might've been—slightly—my fault.
But when he asked me to consider the idea that all evidence of dinosaurs had been created in an instant to test our faith, comparing it to Boltzmann brains felt like a perfectly logical extension of the argument. After all, both posit a universe full of lies, born in a moment. The only difference is whether you blame God or entropy.
He must have had some preexisting condition for that kind of breakdown.
The Boltzmann brain wasn't even meant to be blasphemous. It was just quantum mechanics. Thought experiments aren't supposed to scar the soul.
First came the Archbishop of New York, representing the Catholic Church. If there was one thing the Church understood, it was protocol. Even while condemning me as Satan incarnate—politely—they showed up. And I appreciated that. Politeness mattered. I preferred guests who performed civility over those who felt entitled to dispense with it entirely.
I'd arranged the order by global number of adherents. That meant representatives of the more established faiths followed: Orthodox Christians, various Protestants—from Methodists to Baptists—then those less dominant in America: Islam, Hinduism, Judaism, Buddhism, even the Mormons.
All of them seemed to agree I was probably the Adversary, or whatever their particular tradition called it. From Shaitan to Mara, the consensus was oddly consistent.
I suppose that counted as my contribution to interfaith cooperation.
Emerging Religious Organizations—the more palatable term for cults—had always treated me with greater regard. Perhaps it was because I treated them the same as the older faiths. To me, it was like distinguishing between aged and fresh cheese. I personally preferred the aged—at least, for cheese—but some people liked fresh.
There were those who partnered with Aperture, like Heaven's Gate. Their two leaders, Ti and Do, arrived in business suits and pantsuits. And yet, they looked so utterly unnatural in them that they sold the alien emissary myth better than if they'd shimmered into the room in glowing robes. A perfect commercial for Aperture coaching. And yes—their chosen names were their legal names. We'd taken care of that, naturally.
Then there were the ones we were polite with, but unaffiliated—like Raël. Not entirely disconnected, of course; they did rent lab space and paid for consultation on their cloning project.
Then came the crews of the Enterprise—the fictional versions, of course.
Considering the number of Trekkies in attendance, perhaps they should've been listed earlier in the procession. Though saying so aloud would've provoked outrage from both sides.
Captain Kirk was first—William Shatner, naturally—followed by the rest of the original series crew. I made polite small talk with each. A proper Vulcan greeting for Nimoy, of course.
DeForest Kelley couldn't make it in person—still recovering in Aperture Medical. But we arranged a short video call from his hospital suite. It served as a charming gesture and a demonstration of our hospitality standards. If nothing else, it reminded people that our best experiments were the ones that walked away smiling.
Then came Stewart.
It wasn't Patrick Stewart who addressed me—but Picard. The tone, the cadence. That particular weight of disappointment wrapped in formality.
"This Enterprise has too many guns," he said. "How can we step into space if we bring our warlike nature with us?"
I answered honestly. "Peaceful doesn't mean helpless. It means being able to go to war—and choosing not to."
"And armed doesn't mean safe," he said, after a pause.
I let the conversation end there. Adding more would've made it less memorable. And besides—appearing to lose, just a little, made me more relatable.
Next, I greeted Rock—warmly, of course—and was just as warmly greeted in return.
"I'm only here for a bit," he said, flashing that well-practiced smile. "Then it's back to Beijing. Kiss of the Wasp 2 won't film itself."
Naturally, I already knew that. And he knew I knew.
But the line was for the cameras. A gentle reminder. Keep the sequel in the public eye, with just enough sparkle to make it stick.
For a moment, I felt a flicker of regret. The danger brewing in Beijing wasn't something we could keep out—not without canceling the movie. And the movie was the only reason Sen was there. And Sen... was the only chance to prevent the tragedy that was coming.
Instead, I gave them a line for the press.
"What's it like," I asked with a smile, "stepping back into Carlisle after playing Emerson Dane?"
Rock's smile lingered, just a beat longer than needed.
"Easier, this time," he said. "Carlisle carries the weight—but he's not alone with it. Dane… tried to own the world and ended up king of nothing."
A pause, light but intentional. Just enough space for a camera flash.
"Beautiful role. Harder to live in than to act. But it made one hell of a movie."
Then he tilted his head, just slightly. His tone dropped half a register—still casual, but with weight beneath it.
"Is it true you're the one who recommended that book to Reggie?"
He already knew the answer, of course. Reggie would've told him. But the question wasn't for confirmation.
It was permission.
And asking it, here and now, meant Rock was ready—for the story to be more than private myth.
Although it was also a demand. I couldn't deny it without speaking a blatant untruth—and I avoided those, whenever I could. Even half-truths were best used sparingly. A reputation for honesty was worth more than gold—especially when I did need to lie.
But I could diminish. I could reframe. Make it seem less than it was. Pass it off as a joke.
I considered the pattern: the wild success of the movie, the shift in public mood, Aperture's rising influence, the support for Mondale—and now Gore's economic policies.
So I smiled—just a little sad.
"Of course it's true," I said. "We'd reached the point where I thought he deserved a bit of a warning."
After a few more actors came the obligatory sports figures. Among them was Lukas—a subtle projection of both Aperture's education model and the Enrichment Centre's NBA team. He looked a bit stiff in the formal suit, and I sympathized. The new-generation Aperture jumpsuits were far more comfortable. But outside the Enrichment Centre—even with S.W.O.R.D. pushing them as fashion-forward—they still weren't accepted enough for venues like this. I knew. I'd made sure of it. Because if I could've worn one, I would have.
After the athletes came the artists. The cultural figures. Not just guests—more than half of them were residents. Painters, writers, directors who lived and worked in the Enrichment Center itself.
But the selection had been honest. Invitations went out to the most influential, the most celebrated. It just turned out that many of them already lived here.
I suppose that made sense. Between space designed for creativity—by which I mean both psychological and esoteric—and a platform that launched even unfinished work to a wide enough audience, it was inevitable. Most of the people shaping culture had gravitated here already.
It helped that we had a policy of minimal interference. Artists were left alone. Their failures weren't punished, only filed. It was understood that a few flops were a fair price—if, now and then, something brilliant emerged.
After the artists, I continued in the same manner—polite, warm greetings, short small talk, and something memorable for the record. It was getting harder to stay relevant, distinctive, and fresh with each new name, but I managed. The difficulty helped relieve my boredom; a small mental puzzle to keep the edge sharp.
The last were the press, but they didn't complain about being placed at the end. Unlike a standard conference, this format gave them something far rarer than access: time with me. One by one, they came. The same form—greeting, small talk, but now designed to steer them gently toward the questions they wanted to ask, and the answers I wanted to give.
If I'd hoped they would ask insightful, challenging questions—the kind that might rattle me, make me sweat—well, as our newly acquired game company once wrote: "Hope is but the first step on the road to disappointment".
The questions were rote—recycled, shallow, often cribbed from each other's notes. Half of them could've been answered by reading the FAQ I'd posted last week. Or the executive summary. Or the plaque outside the hangar.
I suppose literacy is no longer a requirement for journalism.
More than five times I was asked, "What's the primary mission of the Enterprise?"
And more than five times, I gave some variation of: "The United States military decides the mission. I just built the ship."
Adjusted slightly, of course—not for the reporter asking, but for the ones who'd be reading it later.
"Will S.W.O.R.D. integration onboard allow civilian access to live mission data?"
Asked four times. Answered four times with: "That decision belongs to the Department of Defense. If they say yes, the ship can stream to your living room. If not, you'll have to settle for press briefings." Again, phrased for the readers, not the journalist.
"Can you elaborate on the fusion reactor's stability and output range?"
Twice from tech outlets, once from someone who thought fusion meant collaboration.
The answer remained: "The detailed specs are classified. Military asset. But I can assure you it's both stable and—when needed—aggressively generous."
"How involved was the U.S. government in the ship's design?"
Six times.
"We had liaisons. You've met them. If you'd like to hear from them, they're standing over there, trying not to look bored."
"Is this launch a response to recent developments in Antarctica?"
Asked directly once, obliquely a few more.
My go-to answer: "Design began in 1988."
True. Also not quite an answer. Also intentionally misleading.
"Is it true the ship's AI is modeled on a deceased Aperture employee?"
Twice. Once earnestly. Once with a grin.
"No. It's not haunted, or sentimental. It's an interface. That it speaks with personality is a user-experience feature, not a séance."
"Are there any aliens aboard the Enterprise?"
Three times. Once completely seriously.
"Not to my knowledge. Unless someone smuggled one in during catering."
"Is the captain single?"
Once. Tabloid.
"Captain Mitchell is a friend of mine. I won't be sharing her personal information in front of a microphone. But she does own a sword, if that helps clarify things."
"Can the Enterprise make the Kessel Run in under twelve parsecs?"
Once. Clearly for the meme.
"It lacks both a hyperspace drive and a charming smuggler. But if you'd like to see what it can do with gravity assists and aperture-locked vectors, we're happy to demonstrate."
"Did you really use moon rocks as drugs in early experiments?"
Unclear whether it was a joke or someone had found a very old document.
"While very unsightly, my late brother's more unfortunate habits were legal at the time—and still are. That said, don't snort moon rock. It's bad for your health."
I was being a bit unkind. Not all among the hallowed press had failed to do their homework.
Nancy was one of the few who asked insightful questions—about expansion, risk, and whether Aperture was becoming too entangled with the government. Whether it might serve humanity more by stepping away from the military-industrial complex entirely.
But then, she'd graduated from Aperture University as a journalist. She'd even worked at Aperture News for a time—until what she called "creative differences." The publication had grown out of our internal scientific journal and remained focused on facts, not opinions. Nancy believed people's opinions mattered. They didn't disagree. They just thought publishing them was a nasty habit best discouraged.
In another system, parting ways might have left her unemployed—or blacklisted. But here, she was helped to launch her own independent channel, streamed via S.W.O.R.D., where her questions found their shape.
After all, truth isn't truth until tested. That's as much science as it is ideology.
By the time I'd finished greeting everyone, my throat felt like sandpaper—coated in the dry grit of too many words. It was a relief to finally reach the refreshments.
GLaDOS had guided me to the table marked with my name—of course she had—and I could already hear her smugness simmering.
"If you replaced your vocal cords with a speaker," she said serenely, "you wouldn't have these problems."
Now, at last, I could reply.
"As if machines don't require maintenance. I'm the one who signs the bill for yours."
"How long until Mitchell and crew are cleared for liftoff?" I added, reaching the polished table where the last remaining refreshments waited.
"No more than five minutes," she replied.
There weren't many people left at this end of the platform. I was among the last to serve myself. A tall glass filled with golden liquid waited, and beside it was a neat plate of cocktail sandwiches. My name was printed in crisp lettering on the display beside them.
The sandwiches were arranged with surgical elegance—crustless, aligned like schematics in a bento box. I recognized Archer's touch immediately. He liked sneaking me food he had cooked. I wasn't complaining. Not only did he follow my algorithmically optimized diet plan to the letter, but his work was still several levels above the very expensive, very famous chefs hired for this momentous occasion.
It was, of course, his little message. Sorry, not sorry, I wasn't there. As if I would've insisted.
I liked torturing Archer. But only in ways he liked.
The golden liquid hit my tongue with the sharpness of lemon and the quiet sweetness of honey. Like morning light after too many hours lost in recursive code.
I was just about to taste the first sandwich—my mouth already watering in anticipation—when a young voice interrupted me.
"Dr. Johnson? I'm sorry to bother you, but can I ask you a question?"
It took more effort than I'd like to admit not to snap, but none of that showed on my face. I turned with an indulgent smile—and recognized him immediately. Blonde hair, green eyes, pretty in the way young people often are. Especially those raised with proper diet and exercise in the Enrichment Center.
Sam Peterson. The son of the scientist who'd had an unfortunate encounter with a Morgul blade. One I still hadn't managed to get rid of.
I exposed it to sunlight. Threw it in acid. Even pushed it into raw singularity containment with a portal gun.
Eventually, I threw it into the sun.
Nothing worked. It came back. It always came back.
No matter what I did, it returned to GLaDOS.
And I still had no idea why.
I had watched him grow—from boy to proper scientist—through his father's eyes.
We were bound by a chain forged in the blackest Art. A violation of spirit and will. But it was the only path I could condone. I could not leave that wraith unattended.
"Well, you've already asked one," I replied, in my teacher voice.
Sam was not one of my students. He had graduated from Aperture University and was now working on his PhD, but he had never taken any of my classes. He was here, like a handful of other postgrads, to help with the venue. Make connections. Be seen.
"But I suppose I have time for one more."
He fidgeted a little, then said—words tumbling out one after another, "It's about father. My father. I know it's classified—his being on that isolated post. And I know I can't get messages often. I understand that. We all have to contribute. But… is he alright? You'd know that, wouldn't you?"
"Andrew is fine. He's enjoying his work," I replied in a reassuring tone.
And it was true—though not in the way he meant. I knew because I could still feel the link.
But it was also a kind of deception.
When I first sensed that my time in this world might be limited, I sent the wraith to Io. I didn't know if it would be dragged along with me when I left—or if it would remain. The base on Io had come from a future where Earth had fallen. Not to the Vril-ya, but to the Combine. And its structure had tangled, somehow, with the the home I had once inhabited in Imladris.
Would it follow me? Would everything in it too? That was a question that could only be answered empirically.
The wraith made a perfect test subject. If it followed—and Andrew brought it with him—I could still control him. If the base vanished and he remained, he could survive the surface. If not, he would still be left behind. On Io. Isolated. Safe. Contained.
In any of those outcomes, Sam would lose his father. But I saw no other acceptable alternative. Without me binding him, he would be free. And that was a father no boy—or man—deserved.
Before we could talk more, we were interrupted by a pleasant chime and a voice—young, female, one of the postgrad students helping with the event—coming through the speakers.
"Crew of the Enterprise reports all systems green," she said, voice steadying mid-sentence. "Launch sequence initiating."
A pause.
Then the countdown began.
The petals swirled in their pre-programmed spectacle as the ship began to rise—silently.
No roar. No blast. The engines made no sound. They had been reverse-engineered from crashed Moon Nazi spacecraft—likely of Vril-ya origin. There were too many similarities with the captured Vril-staves to be coincidence.
Except this didn't use Vril conversion at all.
Instead, it turned rotational motion into thrust. We knew how it worked. At least, well enough to build our own. But why it worked… still eluded us.
The engine worked. It rose. And for now, that was enough.