Callisto Venturi woke up inside one of the most sophisticated smart hotels in NYC. Thanks to substance decriminalization passed by the New York congress, partying in the city had reached new heights. From that height he had dropped, based on how he was feeling, directly onto his head.

Fortunately, thanks to a pilot program his company had implemented on semi-autonomous vehicles, driving intoxicated was nearly impossible. Remote navigation took over if the driver exceeded certain consumption or behavior limits correlated with intoxication or loss of focus. Once he got back to the hotel, the Ritz’s plush comforts had cocooned him past consciousness into what was a better night’s sleep than the taste in his mouth said he deserved. He swallowed a few times to try to get some moisture into his mouth.

As he looked around the room a flat-screen TV flashed its power-on word, but for Cal ignored it to continue floundering in the honey-scented silk sheets that he had paid way too much for last night. The interview had been a joy, although his moderate friends would have called his performance overdramatic.

The rest of the night was a blurred recollection of bouncing from person to person, asking and answering questions. At some point he had picked up a scrappy and bouncy sidekick, who by the sounds of the bathroom, was the reason that he had woken up. How long has it been since Grace Bergman hasn’t woken me up? I must have gotten reclusive there for a while.

I should turn on my phone and let Grace remind me of what I should be doing today, but I’ve gotta take advantage of this room. A long soak in a deep tub that he could be sure was completely spotless was a treat that he couldn’t deny himself, especially after a night like the last. The computer that ran the room saw him look at the television and when he spoke it’s power-on word, “bloodhound,” it powered up the TV’s menu.

Unless the hotel had undergone some serious renovations in the last 3 months, he had written the code that governed remoteless TV remote control. As he cruised the visual-auditory entertainment market with his voice, he tried to remember everything that he could about the girl in the shower.

Name? Ouch. Maybe he could reverse engineer it.

Stats? Red hair, twenties, brick house, and a researcher on the ‘stream.

Last night they had played a horrible trick on the miserable old man who had interviewed him… something to do with tricking him into thinking they were secretly engaged. It was a wonder they hadn’t given the old man a heart attack. She had been the one to suggest the Ritz, but it had always been his favorite of the old-school hotels even before Venturi Industries did the renovation.

There it is, Liz.

When his attention settled back on the television, sports highlights were counting down on the screen. He smiled to see that five of the top ten plays were from his Ultimate league. The top play was a defensive bid from a short guy cutting off the disc in front of the taller offensive player. The guy’s toes must have been four feet off the ground. His head was probably six.

If the TV was running his code, it was possible that his whole kernel of an OS was running. “Room, locate cell phone, report.”

“Your phone is in the pants next to the right side of the bed, Mr. Venturi.”

Maybe the technical wave sweeping the planet was a good thing, but when he considered the time that he had saved by running that small script, he was a little disgusted with himself. Especially when he compared it to the resources that had gone into making the program which could answer that question.

Leaning over to pull his phone out of his pants pocket, he saw the time and almost fell off the bed. He almost never slept past seven and it was 9:30. What a night!

He ignored the alerts on his phone to catch a couple minutes of the news. They showed some stock footage of the year’s first ice harvest, coupled with some for-public-consumption explanations of the process. The image of the ship, it was the Peacemonger, towing the ‘berg in the Newfoundland Straights was one that still inspired his imagination. On the deck of the ship some of the crew were throwing a few discs back and forth. The helicopter-mounted camera zoomed artistically into the scene where the ship’s captain was watching with a muted expression on his face.

Damn that was a good throw. This disc had actually swept outwards so that it was no longer directly above the ship.

The reporter held a microphone up to the Peacemonger’s Captain: “This was a successful trip. Most of the cooling research that we brought to improve the overall freshwater take was verified. It is possible that when we return to the VI building off Manhattan we will have taken the biggest haul ever.”

The reporter asked, “I’m sure not everything went according to plan on this trip. Can you discuss the challenges that you’ve faced?”

Captain: “There was actually some crucial research on the regenerative process on the iceberg itself. It will remain unverified until the research crew we deployed there finishes their explanation, but it is likely the sliver regeneration technique works 5-10% more slowly than our initial projections.”

The visuals cut away from the interview to replayed footage from the Peacemonger’s public cameras. Billowing steam drifted up from the flanks of the sliver while it slid gently into the cradle that was waiting for it on the ocean’s surface. The reporter’s voice covered the footage, “That research was originated by this foundling whose appearance has become a huge human interest piece.” Two black specks appeared on the far end of the sliding iceberg. As the camera tried to enhance the image and the dots slid closer, it became obvious that one was a standing man.

Venturi had known of the story before it had gone to the media. It had captivated him as it had captivated the rest of the country. There was something about the man that had seemed familiar to him, but the degree of the man’s emaciation was extreme. He had scheduled the interview mostly to satisfy his own curiosity. He’d had hunches in the past, and listening to them had served his company well. They showed the picture of him staring smilingly from the hospital bed, and Callisto knew that the Companion who was healing him had taken the picture.

The reporter followed up, “It is truly amazing to watch his rescue from the ice-cold water. Has anyone been able to identify him yet? How is the man recovering?” Callisto wondered the same thing.

A quick search on his phone told him that Annagail was in the hotel. It seemed she had brought Questro with her. She would be able to tell him more about the foundling.

The Captain: “Visual matching and DNA scans still haven’t revealed anything about his past. If you want to see how he is recovering, why don’t you look for yourself.” The camera cut to a 4 second clip of the man, considerably more fleshed, holding the disc in the air, executing an x-step, and releasing a bomb of a backhand pull.

“Room, rewind video to the foundling holding the disc in the air. Play.”

Callisto watched the pull again, noticing absently that his heart was pounding like mad. Then again. Then he zoomed in on the skinny face. Holy shit back from the dead.

When Liz walked out of the bathroom she didn’t understand the blank look on her lover’s face. But she knew from her time among successful men that she should get used to not understanding immediately. As he ghosted into the shower without a word, she realized that she didn’t know anything about what to expect after last night.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

She might see him again, or never again.

And that was fine with her.

****

Annagail and Questro were having brunch in the hotel’s restaurant when Callisto stalked into the room. He made a bit of a spectacle by walking directly towards the buffet table rather than waiting to be seated. A few touristy patrons took out their cameras and tried to snap photos, activating the hotel’s privacy security. Intense, directional flashes of light spoiled the exposures and stunned the would-be paparazzo until they could be removed by thick-bodied suits.

Some of the hotel’s clientele were very serious about their privacy.

Callisto didn’t notice the two of them until after he had sat down and killed his first plate. When they finally managed to catch his eye, he carried his plate over to their table, via the buffet, much to the chagrin of the restaurant staff. There were benefits to being one of the most powerful celebrities in the world, and tolerance of his eccentricity was one that he maniacally protected.

“Can I get a fruit smoothie please? Half a banana, some berries and pound of papaya. Thanks.”

“Callisto, do you know how impossible you are? Where do you expect the hotel to find a papaya at this time of year? You are the epitome of entitlement.”

Somehow Questro’s jibe seemed to bounce off his skin like so much splashing rain. He smiled a peculiar smile, “Thank you my dear, it is one of the founding principles of my company that a man who creates value is entitled to get it in return. Since people cannot help but contribute, it is a small step to a place where all men are entitled to all luxury.”

Questro’s voice practically purred with amusement, “Oh do stop Cal. I’m sure you know that you are good at pushing my buttons after all these years. But I don’t think you know just how blasphemous those words would sound to a clinical psychologist. Have you ever tried altering behavior with exclusively positive reinforcement?”

“I’ll positively reinforce your cognitive bias!” Said pithily with a smile on his face, the words soothed the couple’s mock-ruffled feathers. “Now I don’t know to what I owe the pleasure of both of your company, but I’m sure that I will need it.”

What is he playing at? He asked me here. Annagail thought. Though they didn’t yet know it, both Q and Anna had reached the same conclusion simultaneously. Callisto is working an angle; his acumen is on high alert; these are not pleasantries.

After exchanging a glance that was heavy with meaning, Questro took Anna’s hand as she spoke. “Go on.”

The waiter walked up with Callisto’s ridiculous beverage on a gleaming tray. As he left, “Oh that’s good, would you care for one?”

“No Cal, we’re fine. What is going on here?”

He took another long drag of his smoothie, and set it down with a carefully orchestrated smile that said, I will count the moments until I taste you again. When he looked up, there was no longer levity on his face. Annagail prompted him, “Come on Cal, why all the theatrics? I am practically your oldest friend, and he knows you even better than I. What is going on?”

“How carefully have you been following the news in the last few weeks?” Callisto exhaled each word precisely. Annagail had been watching him carefully and thought that she could detect anxiety, which made practically no sense to her. He was arguably the most powerful man on the planet. The VI building off of Manhattan Island had done wonders for his reputation. No one had wanted to test what the economic resources that Venturi Industries could wield would do if contracted to build weapons. Callisto’s carefully crafted image was just blasé enough to permit each side to think that he wouldn’t make weapons for us, but he might for them.

Maybe Q didn’t read that anxiety, Annagail thought. Her husband was answering, “Hardly at all, you wouldn’t believe how busy I have been in the past ten days. I will have a pile of innovation equity to mock you with soon.” Cal’s eyes caught on Questro’s, but Q kept speaking. “Anna’s been working with astronauts around the clock, I don’t think she’s seen any more than I have.”

“That is interesting news indeed, Dr. Peraster. The last I had heard you were suffering from a sort of researcher’s block.” There was the slightest hint of a smile on Cal’s face. He and Q had always had something of a rivalry.

“You should see the new projects in my lab. My research-blockers have been thoroughly flushed by a dose of the original Potthast Stream. Whoa man, are you ok?”

Callisto had choked on his smoothie. “Not as smooth as I thought.” His usually effulgent skin had changed to a shade of pale more normally associated with professional video gamers.

“All right Cal, it’s obvious that you want to talk about my new research, let’s get out of here to someplace a little more discreet.” Callisto nodded, but instead of rising, said simply, “Ritz, can we get a full privacy screen on this table.”

Sounds from the other guests dimmed to a monotone rumble. The clarity of their features was disrupted by something that made them look as indistinct as badly drawn cartoons.

Callisto drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t want to be the one to suggest privacy, thank you. The visual distortion is greater from the outside—plus the hotel is entirely liable should our privacy be corrupted.” When his eyes opened again they looked old and afraid. Q drew back slightly.

Annagail began, “Tell us what has you so anxious, Cal. You know that we are your friends, and we have more money than we could ever use.”

“I know you are, and I am lucky for it. It’s the amnesia case that I asked you to come to the city to see. He’s become something of a minor celebrity since his rescue. According to the captain he’s rather distant with everyone but his Companion, but he gets along well enough with the crew.” Cal replied.

Nodding, Annagail responded, “That sounds positive; if his social skills are still intact, it could be a simple matter to reintegrate him into society. Not easy per say, but simple. That still doesn’t explain why you are freaking out.”

Questro hadn’t taken his eyes off of Cal throughout the exchange, “You know who he is.” He said. It wasn’t a question.

Ruefully, Callisto nodded confirmation. “Dammit Professor, you always could read my mind.”

They looked at each other for a moment, the three of them. Each one was wondering who had the next lines.

“You don’t want us to know who you think he is. What if you are wrong?” Questro guessed.

Callisto whispered. “If my inference is incorrect, then you might install some cognitive dissonance into his reestablished self-image based on my assumption.”

Annagail quickly defended herself, “I thought you had more respect for my professionalism than that.” She allowed a beat to pass before continuing. “Come on, Cal. You know that I will always put the welfare of the patient above all else. Do no harm.”

Questro nodded agreement with his wife. “Cal, what if you are not wrong, and our lack of knowledge seriously impairs our ability to serve as his Companions. You might be withholding a piece of life-saving info. You know as well as I do that no treatment precludes relapse.”

When Cal just shrugged, Questro’s face tightened and he looked down at the table. Annagail knew the look and gesture as his kick into mental overdrive. Apparently Venturi’s obtuseness had had the same effect as her imposition of distance two weeks ago. She needed to stall to get him some time, so she started into the CEO again. “Be logical Captain, you wanted this privacy for something. We’ve have too much history of blood and sweat spilled together on the field. You had to know that your thoughts aren’t opaque to the two of us. What is it that you think we need to know?”

As Callisto looked down, Questro looked up. There was a light in his eyes that might as well have been a 1000 Watt bulb over his head. He had something, but he was going to give his friend a chance to come clean. Cal and Annagail both recognized Q’s breakthrough.

Sounding as though every word was being pulled from him, Cal spoke. “How would you feel if in one session you went from one of the faceless masses, no future, no demands on your time, and no responsibilities, to one of the most revered and feared men on the planet? Would you have the strength to stay sane when the truth had already driven you mad once? Would you—.”

Questro asked, “What does this have to do with the Potthast Stream? You looked up when I mentioned it.”

Callisto flinched, then let his body relax into a smile. “You’ve got me red-handed.”

Questro didn’t just flinch, he jumped: “Oh. Holy shit. Holy shit. Did you really find him?”

Callisto agreed. “I think so.”

Annagail seemed to have missed a step. “Who did you find?”

Callisto and Questro looked at each other at the same time. “You take it, Professor.”

“He disappeared a few months after he created the most important product of the internet age. Before he left, he founded a company which currently holds the third largest GDP on the planet. Then he tried to erase all of his work and disappeared. Everyone just assumed that he had been killed. His last public appearance was at the first match of Callisto’s Ultimate league.”

It clicked for Annagail. “He’s the founder of the Valuestream.”