“This is not good enough, people!” Peter Briggs’ voice echoed across the conference room, his comb-over flopping ineffectively with the force of his frustration, revealing the shiny bald scalp beneath. Sweat beaded at his temples as he slammed a fist onto the table, his graying hair clinging awkwardly to his moist forehead. The room felt too hot, too stifling, much like the weight of the crisis at hand.
“We’ve got two days left before we have to present our report... and to the goddamn President no less!" His voice cracked with the weight of that statement, and he paced angrily in front of the boardroom table, glancing at the unimpressive stack of papers in front of him. "And all you can tell me is that Venus is missing? Tell me something I don’t know! How can something the size of—"
“A planet, sir,” John interjected, finishing his sentence with a smug grin, clearly unaware of the tension in the room. John’s mouth had a habit of moving faster than his brain, and Peter’s glare confirmed that he had crossed the line—again.
Peter’s hand curled into a tight fist as he forced down a surge of irritation. John was brilliant, yes, the kind of mind that could see patterns no one else could. In another world, Peter might have respected him. But right now, he wanted to throw him out of the nearest window. “Out. Now,” he growled through gritted teeth, his anger barely contained.
John, completely unfazed, rose from his seat, pulling out a yo-yo from his pocket. He whistled the theme to Indiana Jones as he walked out, the doors closing behind him with an audible click. The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Peter remained standing, breathing heavily, his eyes scanning the remaining faces around the conference table. Twelve pairs of eyes, all equally nervous. These were the best minds on the planet—physicists, mathematicians, environmental analysts, and representatives from the military and NASA. But right now, they looked like schoolchildren terrified of disappointing the headmaster.
“Alright,” Peter finally said, his voice measured but tight with frustration. “I want every department’s report in my hands by six o’clock tonight. No exceptions. Every possible theory, no matter how far-fetched. And I want a full impact analysis—both immediate and long-term. Do you understand?”
There were murmurs of assent as the team scrambled to gather their papers. In a flurry of activity, they filed out of the room, leaving Peter alone in the dimly lit conference room. He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm the migraine threatening to bloom behind his eyes. There was too much at stake for him to let his frustration boil over like this, but the sheer absurdity of the situation was getting to him.
How do you lose a planet?
As the door swung shut, Peter leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the empty table. For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to feel the crushing weight of the task at hand. In two days, he would be standing in front of the President of the United States, explaining how an entire planet—a planet that had been a constant in the solar system for billions of years—had simply vanished. No fanfare, no explosion, no trace. Just... gone.
"Venus," he muttered to himself. "How the hell did we lose Venus?"
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Jessica Simpson remained behind after the others had gone, the clicking of her heels breaking the silence in the room. Her small frame barely made a sound as she approached Peter, though her tight business suit and the faint perfume of something floral suggested she was trying to keep up appearances despite the looming disaster. At barely five feet tall, Jessica had a way of carrying herself that demanded attention—though Peter was certain her political connections had more to do with her rise than her competence.
“Peter,” she began softly, her voice a mixture of sympathy and exasperation, “you can’t keep treating John that way. He’s the brightest mind we have on this project. If we’re going to solve this, we need him at his best.”
Peter sighed, rubbing his temples again. He wasn’t in the mood for this conversation. He had bigger problems than managing John’s fragile ego, and Jessica’s maternal tone was grating on him. “John needs to learn how to shut his mouth when the adults are talking,” Peter muttered.
“He’s not a child, Peter. He’s young, sure, but he’s not a kid. We’re not going to solve this mystery by making him feel small. What we need is his genius, not his insecurity. Encourage him, guide him. He can help us—if you let him.”
Peter finally looked up at Jessica, his eyes narrowing. This again. He’d been dealing with her soft diplomacy for weeks, ever since they were put on this project. She was trying to mother him into submission, coax him into being something he wasn’t. In her mind, this wasn’t about the science. It was about keeping everyone’s emotions in check, making sure no one’s feelings got hurt.
It was a quaint notion. And completely irrelevant to the task at hand.
“You know,” Peter said quietly, a small, forced smile creeping onto his face, “this tactic of yours might have worked twenty years ago, back when you still had the charm to pull it off. But I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to be handled today, Jessica.”
Her eyes flashed with anger, her carefully composed mask slipping for a brief second. “You weren’t many people’s first choice for this job, Peter,” she said, her voice cold now, the warmth completely gone. “You keep this up, and you won’t have any supporters left.”
Peter chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Miss Simpson,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension, “please close the door on your way out. Some of us have work to do.”
Jessica’s lips tightened into a thin line, and she turned sharply on her heel, storming toward the door. The heavy slam echoed through the room, but Peter didn’t flinch. Instead, he sat back in his chair, exhaling deeply. That was two people who had slammed the door on him today. Maybe he’d go for a third.
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“Ah, Mr. Briggs,” a voice boomed from the doorway. General Benson entered the room like a tank rolling onto the battlefield—broad shoulders, crisp uniform, the slight swagger of a man used to command. “Sorry I missed your little gathering earlier,” he added with a sneer, making it clear that he didn’t think much of Peter’s civilian leadership.
Peter raised an eyebrow but remained silent, waiting for the General to continue. He wasn’t about to play the General’s game, not today. Benson clearly had something on his mind, and Peter would let him get to it.
The General stepped forward, sliding a thin file across the table toward Peter. “We’ve had more developments since V-Day,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Disappearance of Venus aside, we’ve also got a few other... anomalies that might be connected.”
Peter opened the file, skimming the top pages. His eyes narrowed as he read, noting the brief, cryptic details. Reports of missing people, strange sightings, astronomical anomalies that didn’t make sense.
“What is this?” Peter asked, glancing up at the General. “Are you telling me this is an attack?”
Benson clenched his jaw, his hands resting on the back of the chair. “We don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But with the kind of power needed to make a planet disappear, it’s not unreasonable to assume we’re under some sort of attack. We need to consider every possibility.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Peter flipped through the pages again, his mind racing. Missing people. Astronomical shifts. Something was wrong, far more wrong than they had initially thought. “This is Major Adams’ work?” Peter asked, glancing at the name in the report.
The General nodded. “I’ve put him in charge of investigating these other concerns. He’s running a small team out of HQ, digging into the situation.”
“Good. Have him report to me. I want him here, working under my supervision.”
The General’s expression tightened. “I’m sure my team can handle the investigation—”
“No,” Peter interrupted sharply. “This is a civilian operation. I want Adams and his team working here, under my direction. We need to coordinate everything from one place.”
Benson’s fists clenched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Peter smirked.
Three for three.
John sat at his workstation, his eyes locked onto the computer screen. Every so often, his gaze would lift to the ceiling, as though searching the air above for an elusive thought, only for it to return quickly to the task at hand. His fingers drummed absentmindedly on the desk, a rapid, rhythmic tapping that accompanied his deep concentration. Then, like clockwork, he’d nod to himself, reach a conclusion, and key in a few more commands on the keyboard. The process had been repeating for hours.
It was this almost trance-like state that allowed Peter Briggs to enter the room, walk over to John’s side, and sit in the chair opposite without John noticing. Peter sat silently, watching, mildly fascinated. At least he’s working, Peter thought. Whatever personal grievances he had with John, he couldn't deny the man’s intellect. Twenty-five years old, and already lauded by the academic world as one of the brightest minds alive. Hell, just a few months earlier, John had published a paper theorizing how time itself emitted measurable energy. Most of the world’s top physicists were still scratching their heads over it, barely able to grasp the concept, let alone understand how John had outlined a way to manipulate it.
Without Venus vanishing from the sky, Peter knew every major tech company and government on the planet would be working overtime trying to replicate John’s theories in the lab. But the sudden disappearance of the second planet from the Sun had shifted all priorities. And now, Peter needed John to turn his genius toward that crisis.
“John,” Peter interrupted, his voice barely concealing his irritation, “it’s after seven. Where the hell is your report? It was supposed to be on my desk an hour ago.”
John, still staring at the screen, simply raised his hand and wagged a finger in Peter's direction, never once taking his eyes off the monitor. “Two seconds, dude. I think I’m onto something,” he mumbled under his breath, almost as though speaking to himself.
Peter stopped mid-sentence, suddenly struck by the possibility that John might actually be on the verge of solving the greatest mystery humanity had ever faced. The disappearance of Venus had baffled every scientist, military official, and analyst for the past week. Could John be figuring it out right here, right now?
Peter watched John intently, hoping for a breakthrough, his impatience momentarily checked by the thought that this young man—this unorthodox, eccentric genius—might be the one to solve it all. If John cracked this, if he had the answer, then Peter would be the one presenting it to the President. He'd be untouchable, a national hero. His career would skyrocket. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed, and still, John remained absorbed in his work.
“So, John,” Peter finally broke the silence, barely able to contain his anticipation, “have you figured it out? Do you know what happened to Venus?”
John blinked, as though waking from a dream, and looked at Peter with an expression that suggested he'd only just remembered the older man was there. “Oh, Venus? Nah, man. No clue about Venus.” He gestured vaguely toward a green folder sitting on the desk next to Peter. “That’s in your report, dude. All done. Over an hour early, might I add.”
Peter stared at him, baffled. “Then what the hell have you been doing?”
John’s face lit up with excitement as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ve finally cracked the BB equation!”
“The what?” Peter was still trying to process the fact that John wasn’t even working on the Venus problem.
“You know, BB? Bonker Brotolli. Or Burrows, I forget his real name. Anyway, the dude was a genius back in the seventies before he went totally bananas. He published a bunch of equations, but none of them made sense. People thought he’d just gone off the deep end. They didn’t balance properly—like something was missing. They called them the Bonker Brotolli equations.”
Peter’s patience was fraying by the second. “And this has what, exactly, to do with Venus?” His voice was rising now, the frustration bubbling over.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I’ve been working on them in my spare time, and I think I figured them out, dude. They’re elegant, you know? Freaking beautiful once you get it.”
Peter’s hand hit the desk with a loud thud. “Let me get this straight. You’ve had me sitting here for God knows how long while you worked on a goddamn hobby?”
John blinked at him, nonplussed. “Well... yeah, I guess.”
Peter’s face flushed with anger. “I don’t care how smart you are, you’re fired! Get your things and get out—now!”
John shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the outburst. “You don’t want to see this?” he asked, pulling out a dinner plate-sized contraption from his bag. It was a mess of wires, glowing crystals, and circuit boards that looked like they’d been scavenged from an old arcade machine.
Peter’s fury doubled. “No, I don’t want to see your stupid gadget. Get out!”
“Come on, just a sec,” John insisted, flipping a switch on the device. A low hum began to emanate from it, the crystals slowly pulsing with light. “I just need to adjust the—”
The hum grew louder, the crystals glowing brighter with each passing second. Even John backed away, slightly alarmed at how quickly the thing was escalating. Peter, instinctively protective of his own safety, took a step back too, eying the device as though it might explode.
The humming intensified to a piercing whine, filling the room with a sharp, grating sound. Both men covered their ears, squinting at the blinding light now spilling from the contraption. The crystals vibrated faster, reaching a crescendo of brilliance until—pop. The light flickered out, and the device fell silent, the crystals now dull and cracked.
John scratched his head. “Huh. Thought it’d do more than that.”
Peter was beyond livid. “This! This is why I’m firing you. We’re in the middle of the most important scientific crisis in human history, and you’re playing with toy circuits! Clean this mess up and get out!”
John just grinned, unbothered by Peter’s tirade. He grabbed his backpack, took a bite of the half-eaten pie from his desk, and sauntered toward the door. “Later, dude,” he called over his shoulder, tossing the rest of the pie onto the floor as he walked out. “You might want to call the janitors.”
Peter stood there for several moments, his fists clenched, jaw tight, feeling his face flush with anger. If anyone else had been present, they would have sworn his skin glowed brighter than the contraption John had just powered up. For a full five minutes, Peter remained frozen, paralyzed by his frustration. His head throbbed, his heart pounded in his chest, and his mind replayed the scene over and over again, making his blood pressure rise higher with every passing second.
Finally, he shook his head and glanced at the clock. Nearly 8 p.m. Six hours left until his flight to Washington, D.C., and his crucial meeting with the President. He needed to review these files, finish the preparations, and arrange for Major Jim Adams to attend the briefing.
Peter called down to security to ensure Adams’ clearance was in order, knowing how tight the protocols would be for a meeting of this magnitude. Satisfied, he picked up John’s report and shuffled toward his office, every step feeling heavier than the last. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed into the plush leather armchair in the corner, tossing the file onto the floor beside him. His headache was growing worse by the minute, the stress and the day’s events all piling on top of him.
He barely read the first page before his eyes drooped. His body sank deeper into the chair, and the dull ache in his skull finally began to fade as sleep overtook him. The report slipped from his hand, landing softly on the floor, its pages splayed across the carpet like fallen leaves.
Peter's breathing evened out, and in the quiet of his office, he finally succumbed to exhaustion, unaware that the most significant discovery of his career had just popped and fizzled out in front of him.
The room was silent, save for the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock and the faint hum of machines in the background.