I totally should have joined corporate intelligence instead of CX Development.

A full day of gathering intel on the Order's missionaries made me realize that I was awesome at sneaking around and spying on the clueless. And it was mildly thrilling, although that could have been a misperception based on how little else there is to do when you're locked in a giant basement.

I kept my distance at first, listening to the monks' discussions with the random nobodies scattered throughout the shelter. Some of the conversations revolved around ideas of 'greater purpose', but the majority were about getting off drugs or breaking a gambling habit.

It didn't take long to find out that the Order indeed offered refuge for people who wanted to clean up their lives. And I learned that the beaded strings they wore around their arms or tucked in their belts weren't just religious fetishes — they were the 'key' Bum was talking about. Some form of electronic ID.

Snatching the beads and running for the door wasn't an ideal plan. Too much heat, and with my luck, the desk troll upstairs would be waiting for me with his Dingo in hand, eager to blow my brains out. Better to stretch those blossoming spy skills and try a bit of subterfuge.

That meant another evening of bad food and restless sleep, but I needed to be sure I had my story straight.

When a pair of missionaries showed up the following day, I made my approach.

"Hello," I said, stepping up behind the pair of orange robes.

They turned, one man and one woman, each with hair styles halfway between modest and on-trend. Both flashed me a ready smile.

I smiled back — but in a pitiful way.

"Hello to you, wanderer," the woman said. "Can we be of service?"

I cleared my throat. "Well. I lost my employ status a few days ago because Edison found out I was hooked on stims."

"Oh, my," the robed man sighed, shaking his head. "How unfortunate."

"Yeah, very," I continued, "and I'm three days clean, but there's temptation here. People smuggle in chems, you know? It's not a good environment."

I could tell by their concerned looks that my lies were landing. I definitely missed my calling.

"Come," the woman said. "Let's sit and talk."

She led me to a relatively quiet corner of the ward, her counterpart falling in behind us. We sat at one of the small, dirty tables, and I brushed my arm over the tabletop to clear away a layer of cig butts and ashes. The swear words carved into the paint were too deep to wipe away, but still gave them a couple of extra swipes.

The woman grinned at the futility. "I'm Sister Maggie. This is Brother Jorge."

"Thanks for talking to me," I said, forcing my eyes away from the dirty limerick sliced into the silver tabletop. Apparently, there once was a woman from Cascadia who possessed something worthy of verse. I'd have to read the rest later.

"And you are?" Brother Jorge asked.

"I'm Jakob. Jakob Qadir."

"Lovely to know you," said Sister Maggie. "Tell us why you've decided to stay clean, Jakob?"

"Weird question," I replied, eyebrow raised. "Uhm. Because chems ruined my life, and I don't want to live like this."

Of course, I wasn't a stim addict, and I had very limited experience with chems. Com-rooting was as close as I rode that line, and it was an entirely different animal.

"Why did you start using drugs?"

"Felt good," I replied, hoping that brevity would mask the deceit.

Sister Maggie smiled. "And what's wrong with feeling good? Why turn away from it now?"

Another strange question. I was beginning to think she was secretly trying to sell me chems. But kicking around the question for the purposes of putting on a show made me think about it in real terms. Why did it matter if someone used drugs to feel some happiness and relief?

Looking around the shelter at all the zombos and burned out addicts gave me a hint to the answer.

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I scratched my chin stubble. "Because feeling good is pointless if you end up like this. It's like cheating at a game, you know?"

Both missionaries smiled wide.

"Excellent," Brother Jorge said. "Purpose versus pleasure."

I shrugged.

"It's one of the Noble Truths of our Order," Sister Maggie added. "So, ya know, it's important."

"Seems pretty simple to me," I said.

"All things are simple," she said, grinning, "but few are easy."

"Sure. Yeah," I said. "I don't think staying here will help me with the whole 'purpose' thing. But they won't let me leave because of the lockdown."

The woman leaned close to her counterpart and whispered something into his ear. I cocked my head and frowned, not thrilled with the idea of secrets being passed right in front of me.

Brother Jorge nodded at whatever she whispered before leaning his elbows on the table. "And what is your purpose, Jakob?"

All the wrong answers sprung to mind.

Getting my car out of storage was top of the list. Driving out of Hope fast enough to break the sound barrier was second. Then starting over in some other mega. Lonestar wasn't far, though I'd have to cross hundreds of miles of afterworld wilderness to get there.

Midway through imagining what it would be like to drive through the ruins of the old United States, a realization jabbed me in the frontal lobe.

Despite everything that just happened at Edison, I still harbored thoughts about getting another corporate job. Climbing ladders. Getting back into the tier-six lifestyle. Friends, scrip, and rooftop parties.

Instead of seeming familiar, those thoughts suddenly felt alien.

"I…don't know," I said, shaking my head. "No idea what my purpose is."

"It's important you find out," Sister Maggie added. "Without purpose, you're adrift. No anchor, no tiller, no charts to navigate your life. That's how people crash into rocks."

"Rocks like addiction," her cohort added.

"No doubt," I nodded. "So, can you help me get the anchors and charts and all that? Before I crash into more rocks?"

Brother Jorge chuckled. "That's kind of our whole deal, yes."

The pair of robes stared at me for a long, silent moment. I alternated between sitting tall on the stool and slumping into a pose of complete surrender. Three days of bad sleep were starting to show through.

After visually weighing me for what felt like fifteen minutes, Sister Maggie put her hand on my shoulder and leaned in close.

"Do you believe in God, Jakob?"

I flinched away from her touch as thoughts and memories poured into my mind. I recalled my Critical Philosophy classes in primary school. Then Intro to Logical Spiritualism in the academy. Then the Existential Science courses I had to take for my advanced engineering degree.

Quantum physics. The 21st Century breakthroughs in Simulation Theory. How everyone from Newton to Hawking became footnotes on the path to Ordered Constructivism. This was the stuff we needed to know because it affected our work.

But we mostly stuck to the practical lessons. Lectures about gods and theology didn't make you a better researcher, technician, or UI developer.

"Which god?" I asked, scrunching my face in a genuine look of confusion.

Sister Maggie laughed, setting her hand back into her lap. "There's no wrong answer to my question, but there are interesting ones."

I forced a smile. Every time I steered the topic toward getting out of the shelter, they hit me with more questions. My subterfuge wouldn't take if I couldn't control the conversation, and the frustration of hitting all these philosophical road blocks was starting to piss me off.

All my thoughts shook loose from their moorings and drifted toward my red backpack still locked away somewhere upstairs. My slate would still be in there, and all I needed was a few seconds with my com-rooting app to get my mind straight.

If I had that, I could outtalk these robes in a heartbeat. I'd have them begging me to join their temple or monastery or whatever. But I didn't have my slate, and I was quickly losing my grip on the sitch.

No choice. I had to change my tack before everything got worse.

***

I managed to hold it together through another twenty minutes of circular questions and half-truth responses. After that, all three of us stood to go our separate ways.

I made sure to turn the conversation sappy toward the end, even going so far as pushing out a few tears. I'm sure my cold frustration sweat helped sell it.

All the performative crap was set up for my fallback plan, making sure I had a good excuse to go in for a comforting embrace.

When the missionaries stepped forward to hug me, I made my move. In the distraction of wrapped-up arms and fake tears, I slipped Brother Jorge's beads from his belt, depositing them in my pocket.

I stepped back, wiping my cheek with the back of a hand. "Thank you for everything."

They bowed their heads, and as soon as they turned to finish their rounds, I bolted for the lift. Bum was already bouncing on his toes nearby, and a quick 'let's go' wave brought him to my side.

"I hope this works," I muttered, running my fingers over the smooth beads in my pocket.

When the lift doors slid open, I knew the plan had a chance of working. We jumped in, and I mashed the button for the street level exit. Bum gave the entire shelter the middle finger as the lift doors shut.

"It's letting us skip the admin level," I told him as I pulled our off-the-grid hats out of my other pocket. "This might actually work."

I passed Bum his foil hat before slipping mine over my ears. The lift ran slower than a tier-one with a head injury, so I had plenty of time to help Bum fix his over his scraggly hair.

"You getting offline notifications?" I asked him, giving the mylar hat one last tug.

"Yup."

"Good," I said. "Means it's working. If you get the signal back, it means you're pinging the MiFi network. And that means HMPD guns comin' our way. Got it?"

Bum grinned, not even trying to mask his enthusiasm about getting out of the shelter. "Roger dodger."

Once the lift spit us out in the alley, I let out an immense sigh of relief. Even the smell of rain-moistened garbage couldn't dull the feeling of freedom.

Although the nearby clatter of automatic weapons fire did put a nasty edge on it.