Prologue

I cannot outrun my crimes. I know that I will be caught one day. I will be tried and punished—in reverse order if the jury is feeling displeased. Until that day, I will keep running. My feet will bleed, my lungs will burn, and I will still run. Perhaps I can escape if I’m clever enough, but I know that’s just wishful thinking.

You may have seen the CEO of the company speaking on the news—a man as big as a moose with a voice as powerful as a howler monkey. You may have heard him say things that worry you and incriminate me. I won't tell you he's a liar, but he's a damn annoying man. What he always neglects to tell you is that I served the public, and without me he would be a dictator instead of a victim. My name is Nathaniel Hensley, and I was—for a brief time—the most wanted man in the world.

Chapter 1: Meeting Amahle

The large glass doors swung open without a sound, and I stepped onto the tiled floor of Antler Industries. There was a spacious waiting area that connected to a staircase and three elevators. Everything in the building was made to impress—the ceiling so high a giraffe could run freely. I took a seat at a couch without speaking to anyone. I was comfortable waiting. I had always been patient. I picked up a brochure and began reading. On the first page there was a list of catch-phrases--my favorite of them being 'Robot dreams are made in RAM-sleep.'

"Mr. Hensley, we are so happy to have you here!" the man behind the desk yelled out across the lobby. His voice was high-pitched and happy, which I imagined was a favorable trait for someone of his position. He had a bushy beard and wore a surprisingly expensive suit. I left my seat and walked toward him.

"Happier to see you, Will," I replied. He looked surprised that I knew his name, but I had good enough vision to read the name on the desk.

"Wow, you are just like they said. Here's your pass," he said while handing me a lanyard with a plastic rectangle attached—my name printed in bold. "First I'll show you your office, and then you'll be going up to the fifth floor to meet with the developers. Oh, golly! They are just going to love you," he added cheerfully.

"Thank you, Will. I hope you're right." I put the name tag on and went to the elevator. Will walked with me, his smile never fading. I didn’t mind. In my previous job, people smiled professionally. I suppose he was the same.

Within a minute, I was stepping out onto the third floor, which struck a different chord with me. It was wooden and laden with art across the walls. The windows were large, but there was no glare. One could hardly imagine a nicer design.

"Okay, so you'll be just up ahead," Will said while pointing down the hallway. As he followed me, I wondered if every floor had its own theme. Companies like this had their way of knowing customers, giving the ignorant joy and the aware a sense of dread. However, there was no company like Antler. They knew more than anyone was aware.

After I toured my pristine office, Will sent me up to the fifth floor. He went back to his desk and I waved him goodbye. I had been told before that my first task would be coordinating with the team working on the newest version of their flagship phone. They had all the requisite software and hardware improvements necessary to impress buyers and satisfy shareholders, but they didn't want to plateau—they wanted to soar. I was brought on board to make that happen, which I could do easily.

I found the room I was told to find over email, 'Buffering Development'. It was funny—making me wonder if they had outsourced the joke. When I opened the door, I found a woman speaking to the room.

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"...While we should be focusing on speed. With that comes everything else," she explained. In my limited experience, these topics invited the most boring of orators. Yet even I was looking at the graph she was pointing to—though its meaning was a mystery. She was intense. Her eyes lingered on each audience member just long enough for them to feel no choice but listen. Not a soul had noticed my entrance, as they were all transfixed on the presentation. It wasn't until the speaker turned her head that I was finally caught.

"Nathaniel Hensley! So good to finally meet you!" she said before jogging to shake my hand. The others stood awkwardly as they waited—reminiscent of kids waiting to list facts about themselves. I heard some mumbling, but it seemed she was the main source of noise in the room.

"Likewise. You must be Amahle Imada." She nodded without breaking eye contact. I knew her from the emails, meaning I already knew she was the COO. She was older than I was, but only slightly. She had a powerful voice, but it felt natural. She was electrifying.

"Everyone, this is our new marketing man. Don’t roll your eyes, he’s actually good at what he does.” Turning back to me, she continued. “You got here at a great time. We were just talking about some key topics." She looked at me with a grin before laughing. "Kidding! It'd bore your head off—I know that. Let's go for a walk." I followed behind her as she left the room full of nerds hanging. I didn't know where we were going, but it didn't matter.

"I didn't mean to interrupt back there, Ms. Imada. I was told to—"

"Shut up and listen to me," she responded without any change in tone or volume. My gait paused, but she kept walking and I caught back up. Her stride was urgent, but her face looked upbeat.

"What is it?" I asked her. This hadn't been briefed to me in the emails.

"How much do you know about our liquid intel?" Her face looked the same as before, a fact that was beginning to bother me.

"I heard it was some invention that’s going to be included in the new generation of..." I stopped as I tried to remember the term, "Sim cards?"

"Close. It's going to be in our new flagship models, but not on the cards. The public knows roughly as much as you do—just that it's going to be in their lives from now on. It's been disheartening to see how few people are curious about what it does. They just trust it's good.

"And it isn't?" I questioned. I had multiple products from Antler, one being in my pocket. Instead of a reassuring answer, Amahle paused.

"That's not the issue. When you were working fashion, did you ever sell a brand-new item without a question? When you signed a client, did they ever trust you completely?" Her face glanced towards me, but she kept on walking. I knew she wanted to glare at me until I answered, but that would be too suspicious.

"No, I can't say those things happened," I replied. In the back of my mind, I was getting the feeling she already knew my answer.

"Exactly, and that makes sense. Sellers are supposed to doubt buyers. Have you ever read the paper 'Market for Lemons'?" Again I shook my head. "Well, it's the reason you test drive a car before you buy it," Amahle added. I could tell she was disappointed that she had to explain so much. "People buying the cars just don't know enough about them to judge them, and sellers take advantage." She stopped talking—which took me a few seconds to realize was a cue to jump in.

"Oh, you're the one selling the bad product?"

"Not bad, but not understood," she replied. I was confused by what she said—but I was more confused as to why she was telling me about it. I noticed that we had circled back around, or perhaps the hallway was rectangular in nature, and we were close to the conference room once again. Perhaps she had timed it like this, so as to not raise suspicion with a long absence.

"Ah, so you want me to sell the idea to the public? I can do that," I proclaimed with a self-congratulatory feeling. She stopped outside the door, her hand resting on the handle, face disappointed.

"How did you jump to that?” She asked, letting slip a look of confusion. Without letting me respond, she continued, “I don't want it to reach the public. They may not understand the technology, but I do. The developers here are all kept in the dark about it. They only know bits and pieces, but not the whole picture. I'm telling you, Nathaniel, this isn't the sort of thing that should be out there. Not yet." This time, she wasn't happy. She wasn't pretending.

"I need you to steal it."