Graham Orson was a man accustomed to command and control, though he rarely exercised either through blunt force. His power, after all, was best wielded subtly, in quiet boardroom deals and soft-spoken phone calls. Every morning, he’d rise at exactly 5:00 a.m., his internal clock as precise as the luxury watch that adorned his wrist. His personal trainer would arrive by 5:30 a.m. for a grueling hour of weights and cardio, followed by a meticulous breakfast of egg whites, kale, and coffee brewed from beans imported specifically to meet his particular palate. Every decision, from his diet to his business dealings, was optimized, calculated, and strategized. Orson, after all, didn’t leave things to chance.
By the time he reached the office in the heart of the financial district, the boardroom felt like an extension of himself. Gleaming glass walls, meticulously arranged leather seats, and his personal espresso machine in the corner; it was a world he controlled. And in this world, he made billion-dollar decisions with the subtle flick of a hand. He knew precisely the weight of his influence, how his word could lift or ruin a corporation, drive headlines, or shift entire markets. Power, to Orson, was something intangible, yet potent. He managed it the way an artist managed their brushstrokes: deliberately, sparingly, always with an eye on the final picture.
On this particular day, he’d just settled into his seat, reaching for his afternoon espresso as his assistant summarized the latest numbers on a potential merger. Then, in an instant, he felt the solidness of his surroundings evaporate, and the polished confines of his boardroom dissolved into a vast, pulsating blue glow.
Startled, Orson looked down at his hand. The coffee cup was still there, though the warmth felt out of place in this unfamiliar space. He felt a rising panic and forced himself to breathe, to regain his composure. His surroundings were spacious, almost impossibly vast, yet strangely close. There were no walls he could see, only a pervasive, soft blue light that seemed to hum as though alive.
A voice interrupted his stunned silence. “Please do not be alarmed.”
Two figures stood before him, their deep-blue skin glowing faintly under the light. They observed him with a curious intensity, their bulbous eyes wide and their antennae—delicate and almost translucent—swaying as they noted his every move. One of them, dressed in what appeared to be a robe-like garment adorned with intricate patterns, inclined his head in greeting.
“Mr. Orson, we have selected you to participate in an exchange of knowledge on behalf of your species,” the figure said, his voice gentle yet resonant.
Orson adjusted his grip on his cup, clutching it like an anchor to reality. “I… suppose I can fit this into my schedule,” he said, though his voice sounded far more uncertain than he intended. He’d dealt with CEOs, government officials, even royalty, but nothing had prepared him for a conversation with extraterrestrial beings.
“You are a chief executive officer in the field of pharmaceuticals, are you not?” the alien asked.
Orson nodded, finding his voice. “Yes, that’s correct. I oversee development, production, and distribution of medicinal products. I’m responsible for ensuring the needs of our customers are met.”
The alien’s eyes widened. “Your field involves the creation of substances designed to enhance biological health,” he said, as if testing his own words. “This seems a position of great importance. Are you, then, the ultimate authority within this domain?”
Orson managed a small chuckle. “Not quite,” he replied. “In my role, I’m accountable, yes. But there are many others who play a role in how decisions are made. We have a board of directors, and beyond them, shareholders who actually own the company.”
The alien—Orson would later come to know him as Xylox—tilted his head in what appeared to be puzzlement. “Then, who ultimately bears the burden of responsibility?”
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As Orson tried to explain the intricacies of human corporate structures, more questions followed, probing further into the complexities and ambiguities that defined his work. With each answer, the Terratarians’ questions grew increasingly precise, almost surgical in their intent. They dissected the nature of responsibility in his company, layering one query atop another, forcing Orson to rethink what he often took for granted.
“How do you distinguish between profit and purpose in your position?” Xylox asked, his antennae twitching with apparent confusion. “If financial gains can overshadow the health needs of your clients, is there a line you refuse to cross?”
Orson shifted in his seat. “It’s… complicated,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We have to balance our financial obligations with the expectations of those who rely on our products. It’s a duality, you could say—one part service, one part business.”
“And who decides the weight of each part?” the other alien inquired, leaning in. “Surely, if you acknowledge that both are essential, you must have clear guidelines.”
Orson swallowed, realizing the simplicity of the Terratarians’ perspective made his own position seem muddled. “There are no explicit guidelines. We navigate based on circumstances, but it often comes down to the financial pressures from shareholders.”
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A prolonged silence followed. Xylox tilted his head, his wide eyes unblinking. “In our society, those tasked with responsibility are held accountable for the welfare of those they serve, without exception. Your system, with its diffuse accountability, seems to avoid this direct commitment.”
Orson felt the weight of that judgment, its simplicity and clarity striking in a way his own justifications did not.
In Orson’s contemplative silence, Xylox asked, “If your directives do not originate solely from you, then from whom do they emerge? Is it this ‘board of directors’?”
“Yes, but even the board is held accountable by the shareholders,” Orson explained. “They’re the ones who actually own the company. Their interests—financial, mostly—are what guide most of our decision-making.”
“And these shareholders, do they engage directly with the operations of your company?” Xylox inquired, his antennae twitching in what Orson guessed might be curiosity.
“No, not directly. Shareholders invest for returns and elect the board to represent their interests. They’re there to see profits, not necessarily to oversee day-to-day operations.”
Xylox paused, the edges of his large eyes narrowing. “So, the ones with ownership are distant from the effects of their decisions? And yet, their interests steer your direction?”
Orson nodded. “They trust people like me, along with the board, to manage those day-to-day concerns. I’m a steward of their interests, in a sense.”
There was a silence as the Terratarians absorbed his words. Orson could feel them dissecting his every answer, parsing through nuances he himself had long stopped thinking about.
A second alien, whom Orson hadn’t heard speak before, chimed in. “On our planet, accountability is direct. Each authority is wholly responsible for their assigned domain’s prosperity. How do you ensure long-term growth without this direct form of accountability?”
Orson shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of their gaze. “Our system has checks and balances,” he said. “It’s more complex, yes, but it spreads risk and ensures decisions aren’t made unilaterally.”
“Risk?” Xylox asked, his voice laced with what sounded like incredulity. “What forms of risk are considered paramount in your system?”
Orson cleared his throat, buying himself a moment. “Well, there’s financial risk, of course. If we mismanage funds or make an unwise investment, it’s the shareholders who pay the price. We also have to consider public opinion, as it influences our reputation and, by extension, our success.”
Xylox blinked, antennae twitching. “Do you not prioritize health outcomes above financial returns? You mentioned that your products are for the enhancement of biological well-being. Shouldn’t that take precedence?”
Orson hesitated. “It’s… not that simple. Health outcomes are important, of course. But there are costs involved. Research, clinical trials, regulatory compliance—they’re expensive. We have to balance effectiveness with profitability.”
The Terratarians’ brows furrowed as they exchanged looks. Finally, Xylox spoke, “It appears your structures are designed to preserve a balance. But in preserving this balance, does it not risk creating delays or deficiencies in the availability of necessary health interventions?”
Orson took a deep breath. “In some cases, yes. It can be frustrating, even inefficient. But it’s the system we’ve developed to ensure everything is tested, validated, and safe.”
The second alien frowned. “So, the potential for delays due to your ‘balance’ is acknowledged, yet tolerated. Does this not diminish the very purpose of your organization?”
“Not exactly,” Orson replied. “It’s a balancing act, and we strive to meet both public needs and market demands. It isn’t perfect, but it works.”
Xylox considered this carefully, a look of bemusement spreading across his face. “On our planet, if there is an obstacle, we act collectively to remove it. This complex system of approvals and layered authority appears to create a web of inaction.”
Orson forced a smile. “In an ideal world, we’d do the same. But our approach has to be sustainable. And our checks and balances prevent catastrophic decisions from affecting millions.”
The room fell silent, the two Terratarians exchanging yet another look. Xylox broke the silence with a soft sigh. “It seems we have much to learn about how humans define responsibility. Though your role is one of stewardship, true authority eludes even those at the top.”
Orson’s mouth twitched, struggling to find the words. “Our world is complicated. We each play a part.”
After a moment, Xylox nodded solemnly. “Then, Mr. Orson, we thank you for helping us understand.”
As Orson nodded, relieved that the interrogation seemed to be drawing to a close, Xylox stepped forward, holding out a small, metallic item. It was an intricately crafted bracelet made from a pale, shimmering metal, with a luminous stone embedded in its center that shifted colors gently in the dim light.
“This,” Xylox explained, “is a relic from our early society. It once served as a symbol of direct accountability. When worn, it would record one’s oaths and intentions, reminding the wearer of their duty.”
Orson took the bracelet, feeling the weight and coldness of the metal in his palm. “Thank you,” he said, barely able to comprehend the significance of the gift. “I… must admit I am flummoxed. How does this work?”
Xylox twisted his arms in what appeared to be delight. “It utilizes a simple touch-based interface, Mr. Orson. We would not ask you to commit to a promise or vow here, but if you were so inclined, you would be able to tap the access gem with any appendage and it would remind you of your commitments in a psionic burst.”
Orson slipped the bracelet on and turned to the host. “Well I prefer to know details, so how about this: I promise to use this gift in the most efficient manner I can devise.” Without waiting, Orson tapped the small gemstone-looking appendage on the bracelet, and his jaw promptly fell open. “Oh God…”
Xylox inclined his head, the faintest suggestion of a smile on his otherwise impassive face. “It should be noted for the younger audience that by using this device, Mr. Orson has had memories called up of every promise he has made in his entire life. Mr. Orson, we hope it serves as a reminder—a reflection of the responsibility you bear, both to your world and to yourself. Safe travels.”