The Elderon Chronicles Box Set

by Tarah Benner

  “Will Erik be joining us?” I ask, setting down my water glass as the geisha woman exits the room.

  “I’m afraid he had another appointment,” says Natalie. “Erik is an independent contractor we hire to recruit talent. I’ll be your point person from here on out.”

  “What sort of talent are you recruiting?” I ask, glancing around the conference room for some clue as to what the hell this company does.

  “All sorts, though Erik specializes in immersive journalists and content creators.” She smiles. “He’s very good at what he does, so when my employer asked him to vet you and he gave the green light . . .”

  “Your employer asked him to vet me?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And who is your employer?”

  Natalie smiles. “Erik told me you would have a lot of questions. I work for a company called Maverick Enterprises.”

  I’m in the process of taking another sip and almost choke on my water. “Maverick?” I repeat, utterly dumbfounded. “As in the space company that just bought Futurewise Media?”

  “The same,” says Natalie, clearly impressed. “Maverick acquired Futurewise Media last week, mainly to scoop up Topfold. We plan on rebranding the company as Maverick Media, and given your performance this morning, the timing could not be better.”

  I feel my face heat up, and I quickly take note of my exits. If I was summoned by the same media overlords I eviscerated in my Layla Jones rant, it can’t be good.

  “Relax,” says Natalie. “We’ve seen the story. It was Mr. Van de Graaf who requested that we meet with you.”

  “Strom Van de Graaf?”

  “No. His son, Tripp.”

  “Tripp Van de Graaf asked you to meet with me?” I say, dumbfounded. “Tripp Van de Graaf . . . Chief Experience Officer at Maverick Enterprises?”

  Natalie gives a demure smile. “Correct.”

  I just stare at her. I have no idea why Tripp Van de Graaf would want anything to do with me, but this is quickly becoming the weirdest meeting I have ever been a part of.

  “Why . . .” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, is Mr. Van de Graaf suing me?”

  “Quite the contrary. Mr. Van de Graaf was quite impressed with your . . . spunk. And he thinks we may have been too hasty removing the human element from the journalistic process.”

  “You think?”

  Natalie is still smiling, but I can tell that she isn’t impressed with me.

  “As you know,” she continues, “Maverick Enterprises is cornering the market on space tourism and galactic living. We’re disrupting space travel by making it safe, comfortable, and accessible, but our biggest project over the past five years has been developing the first low-orbit space colony designed to be inhabited by civilians.”

  “Wow,” I say, wishing more than anything that I had my Optix to record this entire conversation. “That’s great, but . . . what does this have to do with me?”

  “I told you we wanted to make you an offer,” says Natalie. “Mr. Van de Graaf would like to invite you — or, rather, Layla Jones — to join our galactic press corps.”

  “What?”

  “Maverick Enterprises recently made a sizable investment in BlumBot International, and frankly, we can’t afford a full-scale press revolt against the entire robotics workforce at this time.”

  I shake my head. I don’t know which I find more insulting: the fact that Tripp Van de Graaf wants my airhead alter ego to go to space instead of me, or that his company is trying to hire me to show that they don’t have a vendetta against humans.

  “You want me to take a job in space?”

  “That’s correct.”

  I cock my head to the side and smirk. “Thank you, but I’m not interested in being a part of some badly disguised PR maneuver.”

  “This isn’t a PR move,” says Natalie. “Trust me. I am head of our PR division, and I strongly recommended that we go another way. But Mr. Van de Graaf insisted on showing his support for human journalism.”

  I just stare at her.

  “Why me?” I ask finally. “I mean Layla. Why not hire some journalist who hasn’t come after your company?”

  Natalie takes a deep breath. I’m guessing she asked Tripp Van de Graaf the same thing. “Our goal is to demystify space,” she says. “To show people that living there isn’t all that different from living on Earth. It’s a luxury adventure with all the comforts of home.” She shrugs. “Layla Jones has a loyal following. She’s accessible. Her immersive stories are fun, and people like her.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight . . . You want to hire Layla Jones to make space seem more fun?”

  “Exactly. Elderon is colony one. If we are successful, we’ll be constructing a dozen more just like Elderon over the next six years.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know,” says Natalie. “This is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “It’s a five-year contract,” Natalie continues in a brisk voice. “That’s standard for all of our corporate residents.”

  “So these are all corporate people?”

  “So far more than eighty-six companies have signed on to establish satellite offices on Elderon. Most of these employees work in the STEM fields — tech, healthcare, engineering . . . Of course, they’re all relatively young, unattached . . . We’re not really equipped for families just yet. This is just a charter mission to show the public that long-term space living is both possible and enjoyable.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “As far as salary, our wages are extremely competitive. We offer a signing bonus of fifty thousand, and of course your travel expenses, food, and lodging would be covered. Our employee medical plan is excellent. Dental and vision come standard. You’ve already been vetted by our security algorithms, but we will require you to undergo a complete medical evaluation before you can be cleared for launch.”

  “Security algorithms?”

  “We use artificial intelligence to comb through all potential employees’ social media posts and vet their personal connections. We run a full-scale criminal background check and flag any suspicious online behavior.”

  Wow. Talk about creepy.

  “So I would be an employee of Maverick Enterprises?” I ask, still processing everything she’s thrown at me.

  “Technically speaking. We want our journalists to retain their independence, just so long as the stories aren’t defamatory or damaging to the company in any way.”

  “You realize that’s not independent journalism, right?”

  Natalie lets out an impatient little huff. “Look. The way we see it, we’re investing in high-quality human journalism. If that helps us diffuse the rumors . . .”

  “Like the rumor that Maverick is just a front for secret government espionage?”

  “Exactly. We’re hoping to distance ourselves from all that nastiness. Maverick Enterprises is a private corporation striving to advance scientific research by bringing the brightest minds together under one roof and offering proof of concept for our space colonies. We just acquired BlumBot International and a German logistics firm to make Elderon the most cutting-edge global community anywhere in the galaxy.”

  “So Maverick isn’t using Elderon to spy on the Russians?”

  Natalie shoots me a cold glare. “As I said, Maverick Enterprises is a private global corporation whose mission is the peaceful advancement of science and technology.”

  “Right.” I pause. My head is spinning from all the corporate doublespeak. “Do you have a pamphlet or something that I can look over?”

  “Of course. I already sent you a contract with all the details. All we need is your biometric authentication, and Mira will be in touch to schedule your medical evaluation.”

  I guess that Mira is the geisha woman.

  “I know this is a lot to think about,” says Natalie. “But the offer expires in twenty-four hours. The mission begins in just over a month, so if you do
n’t accept, we’ll need to find another candidate to fill the position as quickly as possible.”

  “Okay . . .” Twenty-four hours really doesn’t seem like enough time to decide what I’ll be doing for the next five years, but what else can I say?

  A moment later, Natalie stands up, and I get the impression that the meeting is over. She crosses to the door and offers a cool slender hand for me to shake. “Mira will see you out. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  6

  Maggie

  Kiran can hardly believe it when I recount my meeting with Natalie. He tells me to do it — integrity be damned. Who cares if I’m working for the man who decided to replace writers with machines? At least I’ll be working in space.

  Part of me can’t imagine taking a five-year vacation from my life. The other part of me thinks it’s the best thing that’s ever fallen into my lap.

  I always wanted to live in New York, but in the three years that I’ve been here, the city has chewed me up and spit me back out. It’s time for a fresh start.

  It’s only a fifty-five-minute train ride to my parents’ house in Westfield, New Jersey, but I haven’t been back to see them in months. My excuse is always work — one that my dad inherently understands — but I still feel guilty.

  The house where I grew up is a Cape Cod–style bungalow built in the 1940s. It’s got a covered red-brick porch where my mom likes to host her ladies’ Bible group and where I used to make out with Patrick Hanson after debate.

  When I get there, I have to steel myself for whatever battle may ensue once I walk through that door. Dad will be easy — he’s always been easy. Mom is another story.

  I open the door, and the scent of burnt casserole and passive aggression meets my nostrils.

  “Hello?” I call, sticking my head inside to get the lay of the land while I still have an exit.

  “Hey, stranger!” comes my dad’s booming voice.

  I break into a grin and step inside. A second later, he comes striding into the foyer wearing a pair of threadbare slippers and his lopsided reading glasses. He’s over six feet tall and moves through the house like a rhinoceros.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Good to see you, Maggie Bear!” he says, enveloping me in a bone-crushing hug.

  “You, too.”

  I pull back. His beard looks grayer than I remember. The little hair he has left is sticking up in the back, and his eyes are tired from spending too much time at the ancient Olympia typewriter he uses. My dad doesn’t trust technology.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “Great,” he says emphatically. “Really great.”

  “You still working on the new book?”

  “Yes! And you know, it’s really beginning to take shape. It’s amazing how things change once you start writing. I went into this pursuing the story of the treasury hack. But I started digging, and I realized that there are people high up in the department who should have realized what was happening —”

  “Magnolia? Is that you?”

  I suppress a groan. “Yeah, Mom.”

  I hear her moving around in the kitchen, as though she’s surprised that I’m here after I called, messaged, and called again to tell her that I was on my way. She sticks her head around the corner, as if she’s still not sure who it is. “Oh, you’re here!”

  “Yeah. Six thirty . . . like I said.”

  She scoffs and waddles toward me, wiping her hands on her faded apron. Underneath she’s wearing a billowy beige sweater, black slacks, and clanky gold earrings.

  She hugs me, but it isn’t the same as my dad’s full-body hug. It’s a hug of disappointment. “Good to see you, honey.”

  “Good to see you, too. Today your day off?” My mother is an ER nurse, and she sometimes works the graveyard shift on Fridays.

  “Uh, no. Not today.” Something like a secret flickers behind those light-gray eyes, and I instantly get the impression that something is off.

  “Anyway,” my dad continues. “The story’s less about the Russians and more about the dirty officials in our government getting rich off foreign money flowing into this country —”

  “Whoo!” says my mother, plastering on one of her “everything’s fine” smiles and fluffing her short brown curls. “Haven’t we had enough of that? It’s almost dinnertime!”

  I freeze, trying to throw her a dirty look that my dad won’t see. It’s a bizarre feat of facial gymnastics that always leaves my face sore after two hours with them.

  She’s acting as though I’m a guest — as if she has to explain away my dad’s behavior. She’s always making excuses for the conspiracies he sees as his life’s work, but I’m more embarrassed for her than I’ve ever been for him.

  “You can finish telling me in the kitchen,” I say quietly, resting my hand on his back and following Mom out of the too-small entryway.

  I take a deep breath. I will not kill my mother before I fly off to space.

  We go into the kitchen, and I feel as though I’m being suffocated by my childhood. Everything looks exactly the same: dark oak cabinets, hideous bear-shaped cookie jar, and faded plastic magnets that say things like “Home Is Where the Heart Is” and “God Bless This Mess.”

  Every nook and cranny of the dining room is stuffed with old-fashioned ceramic pitchers, decorative plates, and tiny lamps with red gingham shades.

  “Can you grab drinks for everyone?” she asks.

  “Sure. You want a beer, Dad?”

  “He doesn’t need a beer.”

  I shoot my mom a dirty look.

  “Need, no. Want, yes.”

  I grin and grab him a bottle from the refrigerator. I pour myself some iced tea and get my mom one of those fizzy zero-calorie fruit waters that I can’t stand.

  She hefts the casserole out of the oven and brings it over to its little potholder pillow on the table. It smells like tuna. She can never remember that I hate tuna. There’s also two salads: one green, one fruit.

  “Looks great,” I say, trying to be nice.

  “Well, it’s not every day that I get to cook for my daughter.”

  I suppress a cringe and grab the salad tongs. Whenever I’ve been gone for more than a few weeks, she resorts to talking about me in the third person.

  “Shall we?” she asks once everyone has food on their plates. She’s holding out her hands. She wants to say grace.

  I force a nod and take her cool, smooth hand and my dad’s rough, wrinkly one.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for this food. Thank you for bringing Magnolia safely home . . .” Clawlike squeeze from Mom. “May you bless and keep this family . . . especially Magnolia. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I grunt, yanking my hand out of hers and digging in.

  There’s a long silence filled with the sound of forks on plates, and I get the same heavy choking feeling I always get in my childhood home.

  When I was a kid, I was usually alone. Dad was most often in his office or shut up in the bedroom, and Mom was always, always at work.

  “The house looks nice,” I say to break the tension.

  “Your father repainted. Our realtor says we should remodel, but I don’t know . . .”

  “Realtor?”

  I look at my mom, but she carefully averts her gaze. “We’re thinking of putting the house on the market.” There’s that high-pitched voice again, strained with discomfort.

  I stare at her. “Why?”

  She shrugs, but she won’t look me in the eye. “I just think it might be nice to downsize.”

  “Downsize?”

  “Mmm,” she says, taking a tiny bite of salad. “Move into one of those cute condominiums in Plainfield.”

  “Plainfield?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Why?”

  “I just think it might be good to have a change.”

  I look from my mom to my dad. “Are you guys in trouble?”

  “No,” says my mother. “Why would you say that?”

  “Becau
se you’re putting the house on the market and moving to Plainfield.” I say the word as though it’s left a bad taste in my mouth and wait for someone to clue me in.

  “It’s fine,” says my mother.

  Dad says nothing.

  My parents’ money troubles are nothing new. Mom has been pulling grueling twelve-hour shifts for as long as I can remember. My dad has always been a working writer, but he hasn’t sold anything since Kings of Washington. No publisher would touch him.

  My dad’s medical bills have always been a burden, and when I was a kid, his spending was, too. Since he was diagnosed, he’s only been allowed one credit card with a low limit, but there must be something Mom isn’t telling me.

  “I may have been laid off,” my mother confesses.

  “What?”

  “They’re making some . . . changes at the hospital.”

  “What sort of changes?”

  My mother goes back to her fruit salad, nervously stabbing a piece of pineapple with her fork. “They’ve brought on a new fleet of bots,” she says. “They do a lot of the things that I used to do, and now they’re restructuring the entire staff.”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what to say.

  “So, Maggie . . . How is your writing going?” asks my dad, changing the subject so quickly that it nearly gives me whiplash. “Is that editor of yours going to publish your redistricting story?”

  I take an enormous glob of tuna casserole into my mouth to buy myself some time. I give a high-pitched grunt and nod. I can’t tell them that The Journal was taken over by AI software. It would break Dad’s heart, and my mother would have a panic attack.

  But my dad is still waiting for me to elaborate. His questions are never perfunctory. He wants all the nitty-gritty details.

  I know I have to tell them why I really came over, but it seems like sacrilege to tell them that I took a job with Maverick Enterprises. The company that Maverick just bought probably created the bots that rendered my mother’s position obsolete.

  I swallow and take a swig of tea to postpone what I know I have to say.

  “Well . . .” he probes. “When is it coming out?”

  “Soon,” I lie.