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# BRENT BRODIE

### Hard Beginnings

# Short Story Prequel to the Plasticity Island Trilogy

# By Warren Roberts

**Brent Brodie –** _Hard Beginnings_

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Published by Warren Roberts at Smashwords.

Copyright 2016 Warren Roberts All rights reserved. ASIN: B073HKJ7TR

### Contents:

  * Hard Beginnings

  * After The End

  * About the Author

  * Bonus: Chapter One of Plasticity Island – The Water Wars

### Hard Beginnings

"Am I going to live, Doc?"

"No one lives forever, Mister Brodie," he replies.

"Then, just shoot me. I feel like crap."

"I know, dysentery blows."

"Out both ends, Doc."

"That's because you have a combination of amoebic and bacillary infections. It's not uncommon here in India. The amoebicidal drugs will take care of it in another day or two."

My nurse comes in to change out the saline drip and give me a hard time in broken English. I've seen some cute nurses out in the hallway, but I drew the short straw with this one. She reminds me of Grumpy, Frumpy, and Sleazy all rolled into one mean little dwarf.

"You have company," she says.

There are only two people that know I'm here, other than the Doctors: my best friend, Bijay Korrapati, and my boss, Jack Sturdevant. I sure as hell don't feel like talking to my new boss, presuming I still have a job.

"Who is it, Nurse?"

She doesn't even try to answer me, but Bijay walks in, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Brodie, old man. I told you not to drink the water," he says with a toothy grin.

"Hey Jay, it's almost good to see you too."

Nurse Frumpy gives us both a dirty look and leaves us to talk in hushed tones.

"What's going on out there?" I ask. "I've heard all kinds of stories."

"It's hard to tell. The Dalits are rioting for food and water, and the tree-huggers are protesting our new oil rig. Whatever you do, don't let anyone know who you work for."

Bijay and I both graduated from USC last year and roomed together in a spacious off-campus house. I majored in petroleum engineering, and Jay convinced me to apply for this project in the South Indian Ocean. He also signed on as a roustabout to save up some cash for one of his many entrepreneurial efforts.

"Check this out," says Bijay as he pulls out his new Holopad.

The hologram image has poor definition due to the weak interference-medium pump. I haven't bought into this new technology yet, but I'm sure it won't take me long.

"More pictures of Navya?" I ask.

"No, but you're going to meet her soon. She lives close by."

The six-inch Holopad image clears up, and I'm more than a little startled by the ugly creature staring me in the face.

"Holy crap, Jay! That thing gets more disgusting every time you play with it. Jeez!"

Our house in Culver City had four bedrooms, so we each had an extra room to use as a lab. Bijay majored in Robotic Engineering and minored in Micro-Biology, so his experiments were a little scary. As a Petroleum Engineer with a keen interest in chemistry, my lab was more mundane. Never-the-less, we always kept a close eye on each other to make sure there were no bombs in the making.

"This is our last generation of Bac-Bots. I think we should call him Jack."

Bacteria-based Nano-Robots are illegal in the United States for a good reason. It's relatively easy to re-engineer the genetic strains and modify their DNA, but it's almost impossible to ensure that they can be contained. This six-inch hologram of "Jack" looks like a purple rubber ball with half-inch spikes protruding from everywhere. A dozen long flagella wave gently to propel it like a squid, and hundreds of pili cover the body for grouping and adhesion to its target.

"I thought we agreed to put this project on hold until we came up with the end-game."

"No guts, no glory," he replies. "I got to go, man, when do you get out of this dump?"

"Tomorrow, noon. Have you been out to the Rig, yet?"

"No, they've got me working on that Sand Carrier. Must be a thousand tons of sand on that thing. And your hydrogen. Your racks of canisters are all loaded up and waiting for you when you get out."

I should be focusing on the sand-hydrogenation project, I developed for more efficient oil and gas fracking, but I'm worried about Bijay. We started the Bac-Bot project with a strain of Alcanivorax, which naturally feeds on crude oil and modified it to absorb other petroleum-based products like plastics and rubber. As environmentalists, we both had visions of cleaning up the polluted ocean waters, but 'Jack' could turn into 'Jack the Ass-Ripper' under the wrong circumstances.

I awake early and groggy-eyed to find a young Indian nurse standing at my bedside. Her long black hair is covering her name tag, and her bangs fall straight to the heavy-rimmed glasses hiding her eyes. She smiles shyly and leaves the room before I can even say hi.

My intravenous catheter has been removed, and my clothes have been laid out on the chair. My stomach is growling from hunger pains, but this is the first morning I haven't felt nauseated in days.

"Looks like you're ready to go," says Jack Sturdevant, blocking the doorway. "It's about time."

"Hey, Boss. Yeah, sorry about this. I'll make up for it."

We blow past the receptionist without bothering to check out and head toward the exit. Jack pulls on his rain slicker, but I don't have one with me, so I zip up my jacket and brace for the worst. It's monsoon season here in India, and we barely step out the door before I get drenched.

"At least we won't have to fight through those idiot protesters," says Jack.

It occurs to me now, why Bijay named our Bac-Bot, 'Jack.' He's been working with this guy for three days while I've been laid up, and his girlfriend is probably one of those 'idiot protestors.'

We have to splash through six inches of polluted runoff to get to the company truck, and I'm already missing my warm hospital bed. It's only three miles to the harbor at Kanyakumari, so I ride in silence. The southernmost tip of India is a big tourist attraction with a bunch of the Temples and gigantic statues, and I was hoping to look around, but it's kind of hard to do in the driving rain.

"So, you and Bijay are college-buds?" asks Jack Sturdevant.

Jack is a strange-looking character. He's almost six-foot, like me, but much thinner, and his mouth looks like it got permanently punched to the left side of his face.

"For four years."

"Yeah? Well, I don't trust him. I saw him talking to some of those Eco-Terrorist."

"Bijay? You can trust him."

"Yeah? Well, I'll be keeping a close eye on both of you. You can be sure of that."

The pounding rain makes it hard to see the edge of the dock as we pull up next to the two-hundred-foot-long Sand Carrier. It looks to be about thirty years old with a massive, rusty clamshell crane mounted towards the stern.

"Follow me," says Jack, as we climb a slippery, steel ramp to the deck. He gives me a quick tour of the ship; mess deck, heads, and finally, my small cabin. "Someone must think your project is pretty important to put you up here. Your buddy is bunking down with the other Hands."

I haven't eaten anything solid in three days, so as soon as I can change out of my wet clothes, I head back down to find some food. It isn't even noon yet, but it looks like the entire crew is in the Mess, drinking, and playing cards. I manage to talk the galley crew into some off-hour grub and find an empty table.

"Welcome aboard, Son."

A stout, middle-aged man walks up to my table and sets a whiskey bottle and two glasses on the table. I'm beginning to realize that I've never been on a real working vessel, and I may be out of my league with these guys.

"Captain Steven Hendricks," he says. "But you can just call me Captain."

"Captain," I reply, as he fills my glass.

"I've been told by Castrol Offshore Oil to take good care of you, Son."

"Brent Brodie, Sir."

The Captain proves to be an entertaining story-teller, and after ordering a few beer chasers, he spends the next hour describing his sea-going exploits. His dark eyes and wild beard give credence to his tall-tells.

"We'll shove off in the morning," he says, leaning over to place his large, fat hand on my shoulder. "Watch your back, Son."

I'm not sure what he means by that, but returning to my cabin, I make sure to lock the door behind me. The food, alcohol, and my weakened physical state have taken their toll, so I hit my bunk fast and hard.

"Wake up, old man." Bijay's voice is difficult to ignore, so I give in and open the door. "You'd better get moving if you want breakfast."

Bijay doesn't look any better than I feel, but some food might help, so I wash up quickly, and we head back towards the mess deck. Halfway down the stairs, we hear what sounds like a gunshot, and the doors fly open as a dozen Deck-Hands run past us.

Caught up in the excitement, we join the crowd and rush to the port side railing. Everyone slows to a walk and stands back when the Captain fires off another shot. Assured that he's not shooting at us, we all crowd the railing to see what's going on.

"Oh crap," says Bijay. "I hope Navya isn't in one of those boats."

Three, eight-man inflatables are circling our ship, with banners, protesting the off-shore drilling rig, we're working for. A small trawler is trailing behind us about a half-mile, and the Captain continues to fire warning shots.

"Damn it, Jay, you should have told me that Navya was in with these crazies."

Surprisingly, the Captain and his crew just laugh and go back to their daily chores. This isn't their first rodeo with protestors, and it won't be the last. Bijay takes off with the crew, and I'm left to myself.

The Kerguelen Rig is located about two hundred miles off the southern tip of India, making this an eight-hour trip. As the Project Manager, I need to check my equipment and supplies. The Castrol Oil Company and I both have a lot riding on this experiment.

"What are you doing?" asks Jack, sneaking up behind me.

"I'm headed down to the Hold, to check my equipment. Hopefully, everything is there."

"Come on; I'll show you the way. Wouldn't want you getting lost."

The fact that I missed out on breakfast hasn't escaped the attention of my growling stomach, and the galley is probably closed by now. Jack leads me to the Hold area closest to the bow and then leaves as the tedious work of inventorying my supplies begins. The Hold is rather dark, and most of the work must be done slowly, by flashlight. Thanks to the large crane on this ship, the hydrogen canisters were delivered in steel, manifold-canister packs of twenty-four each. Eight MCPs total; should do the trick. I also ordered a pallet of vanadium to serve as a catalyst for the hydrogenation process. The industrial sand has a high metal content, so we may not need it, but better to be safe than sorry. I kick the four, fifty-five-gallon barrels to make sure we didn't get ripped off. The inventory is rounded off with several barrel-pumps, metering pumps, and a pallet full of hoses, gauges, and regulators for the canisters.

"What are you making? Margarine?" whispers Bijay, in the dark."

"Crap, man. Do you have to sneak up on me?"

"Just kidding around, Brent. It's lunchtime, but there's something you need to see first; up on deck."

"Fine. I'm finished here, but we need to pick up some samples of the sand to test the metal content."

Bijay and I climb out of the Hold and into the blinding bright sunlight of the Indian Ocean. I'm expecting the pleasant smell of clean salt air, but I don't get it. Instead, it smells like dead fish and petroleum. Seagulls are covering the ship's railings and flapping around our heads.

"What the hell, Jay? Is this what I think it is?"

"Yeah, but we're not even out in the main gyre yet. This crap is being pushed out of the current; towards land."

Shooing away the birds, we fight our way to the starboard side and look out into one of the most disgusting, heartbreaking sights imaginable. As far as our eyes can see, the calm water is covered with garbage and dead fish. Seagulls are literally sitting on top of the ocean. Most of the trash is plastic, of every type known to man, but there's also a thick film of oil, coating the surface of the dump.

"I know that the Indian Ocean Gyre has surpassed the Pacific for parts-per-million microparticles, but this is crazy," I state. "It looks like the inflatables have fallen back by their supply ship. It must smell like shit that close to the surface. Maybe they'll go home."

"Just think," says Bijay. "Our Bac-Bots could clean all of this up."

"Damn it, Jay! You're a scientist – right?"

"Of course."

"Then you know the protocol. Follow the test plan we laid out. Those Bacs could be an uncontrollable, biological-hazard for all we know."

The Captain joins us at the railing, and we all stand there silently, as a half-dozen dead dolphins float past. It's enough to make a grown man cry, but we know better than to look each other in the eye.

The Mess is a much happier place, and the beer is flowing by the time we make it to lunch. Pork and chicken appear to be the main staple as the Indians avoid beef, and everyone is afraid to eat the fish. Bijay and I stuff down double portions, and no one seems to be in a hurry to get back to work.

"Why don't you boys join us for a hand of poker," says Jack Sturdevant.

Neither of us is much good at cards, and I suspect that Jack knows that, but there's only one way to learn. Work appears to have been canceled for the afternoon, so we spend the next three hours handing over what little cash we brought with us. Mercifully, the mess deck speakers announce the proximity of the Kerguelen Oil Rig, and all hands scatter to their appointed stations.

"This is it," says Bijay. "Forty days and forty nights."

The Kerguelen Rig is a semisubmersible, deep-draft floater in nine thousand feet of water. The crane operator swings the boom over our little sand-carrier and drops a three-person lift basket to pick us up. After attaching our duffle bags to the rope with carabiners, Jack, Bijay, and I step onto the platform and hold on to the netting for dear life.

"Don't worry, boys. It's only water," says Jack, as we swing back and forth.

We hold our breath as we're lifted ninety feet in the air and land on the empty Helideck. A dozen drones fly around the perimeter of the oil rig and buzz past our heads. Supposedly, they are used to keep the seagulls from landing, but one of them pauses long enough for me to spot a security camera.

"Follow me," says Jack, out the left side of his face.

Sturdevant's job title on the Rig is 'Toolpusher,' but he has been assigned to assist me with the fracking project, so I continue to call him 'Boss.' He takes us to the edge of the Rig and down through a companionway to the third deck quarters.

"It's against my better judgment, but I'll let you two bunk together; in here," he says, opening one of the small cabins. "The mess deck is two floors down. I'll meet you at the pumping station at 5:00 AM. Be ready to pull twelve hours."

Bijay and I unload our duffels and rush downstairs for the evening meal. The Kerguelen appears to be operating with a skeleton crew, and most of the large hall is empty. We sit by ourselves, as does everyone else. Not quite the teamwork atmosphere we were expecting. The Rig, unlike the ship we came in on, is a 'dry-zone' for safety reasons.

"Maybe Jack will let us work together," says Bijay.

"I'll ask him, but you'll have to be my assistant. Can you handle that?"

"Sure. Explain to me again what you're doing."

"It's pretty simple, Jay. After they break up the shale, they pump in water and sand under high pressure. It keeps the rock material from collapsing and blocking off the flow of gas and oil. They add a lot of chemicals to the sand, but it still breaks down before long."

"So, we're going to pump the hydrogen in, to make it stiffer?" he asks.

"Along with the vanadium as a catalyst. The H2 combines with the silica molecules to form a stronger structure."

"Maybe you are smarter than you look, Brent," says Bijay. "But doesn't helping these big corporate polluters go against your eco-principles?"

"Maybe, but think of it this way. The more oil and gas they can pull from each well means that many fewer holes they need to bore."

After eating, and not drinking, Jay and I explore the oil rig to get familiar with the layout. Aside from the drilling tower up on the main deck, the three cranes are the easiest way to observe the process. With equipment this size, not very much gets moved around by hand. The drill-pipe and casings all have designated racks, based on size and function, and everything is laid out to be used in the correct sequence.

"Let's see if the protestors are still down there," says Bijay.

I know he's worried about Navya, so I give in, and we move over to the railing. The inflatables are gone, but the trawler remains about a quarter-mile to the north, and it looks like a speedboat is moored to it. The sand carrier we arrived on is still positioned to our east, but the crew is nowhere to be seen.

"They're probably all drunk, below deck," says Bijay.

After locating the pumping room, next to the mud tank, where Jack said we should meet in the morning, we return to our cabin. The small room is consumed by four bunks and a long metal table with attached benches. We open Bijay's Holopad and play a fast game of 3D Terminator-Chess before hitting the sack.

Neither of us is prepared for a twelve-hour shift, but we're on time, and Jack finds us in the pumping station. He starts to dish out some dirty little jobs for Bijay, but I convince him that I need an assistant.

"Okay then," says Jack. "Here's the update. The Drill Team is just getting into the bend. That's where the borehole starts to go horizontal. Then they got to drill another four thousand feet. That's going to take about three or four days by the time we cement the casings."

"And then they have to lower the perforation guns and blow holes in the casings?" I ask.

"Yup, that's another two days. But anyway, the sand tanks are still loaded with the cement mix, so Captain Hendricks is going to keep the sand carrier here for the duration. We'll pump straight off the ship, into the Mixing tank, when it's ready. You guys can rig up the hoses and set up your fracking experiment."

Jack almost cracks a smile out the side of his face with his play on words, but this is good news for Bijay and me. It means that we can disappear, back and forth between the Rig and the ship, and even Jack won't be able to keep track of us.

"Maybe we can hitch a ride to the mainland on the chopper," says Bijay.

"Maybe. Let's go over to the ship and think about it. Over a beer."

The next few days go by quickly, as we ride the bucket-lift back and forth from the Rig to the ship. After a few trips, it becomes sort of fun, and we intentionally get the basket swinging until the crane operator decides to shake us up. I make peace with him by smuggling over a pint of cheap whiskey.

"Jack wants you boys back over on the Rig by morning," says the Captain. "Playtime is over."

I've had to push Bijay hard to get the Hydrogenation equipment set up, and he seems preoccupied with the protestors. We haven't seen Navya on the boats that have been circling the oil rig, but I'm sure that's his problem.

"Come on, Jay. Let's go back to the Rig tonight and get some sleep. They should be ready to start pumping the sand in the morning."

"Alright. I want to show you something, anyway."

My curiosity peaks, and after we get back to the cabin and settle in, he pulls a small box out of the cupboard. Out of the box, he pulls a 400ml beaker, sealed with a rubber stopper. The container is filled with a thick, purplish fluid.

"What the hell is that?" I ask.

About 500 million Nano-Bac-Bots, named Jack," he replies.

"You've got to be shitting me. You brought those things with you?"

"Well, I brought about a million of them. I've been feeding these little fellows oil and plastic particles."

I sit there in silence, dumbfounded, and lost for words as Bijay opens the beaker and drops in a spoonful of crude-oil. The light purple fluid transitions to a dark, circular blob; surrounding the oil.

"This is nuts, Jay. Those Bots could eat civilization right out of existence. What are you thinking?"

"Nothing, yet. I'm just breeding them for testing. Like you said."

In the morning, a strong tropical storm hits the oil rig hard with gale-force winds. The ocean swells get violent, and the Kerguelen's dynamic-positioning system struggles to maintain its location over the borehole. The Captain is forced to move his ship further from the Rig, and work is canceled for the day.

The delay gives Bijay and me a chance to argue about our different viewpoints concerning the environment, big business, and the world's need for energy. My biggest concern is how to control the Bac-Bots after they are released.

"How do we shut them off?"

Bijay opens up his Holo-pad and displays an anatomy diagram of Jack-the-Bac, and expands the chromosomal DNA. Most of the modifications he has made so far are with the small, independent sections of DNA known as plasmids.

"All we need to do is build a longevity limiter in one of these plasmids," he says.

While Jay plays with his bugs, I spend the rest of the afternoon designing a more practical way to clean up the oceans of the world. Numerous attempts have been made with nets, dredges, and skimmers, but they're expensive and usually end up with a big pile of garbage and nowhere to dump it.

"Okay, Jay. Check this out. I call it the Whale-Drone."

"Seriously? Another drone?"

"We start with a large, sea-going barge and cover it with solar cells for power. Then we cut a huge skimmer like a whale's mouth with grizzly-bars for the teeth and then filters like a baleen whale. Inside the barge, we build a processing, recycling plant that shreds everything up and compacts it into blocks that are too heavy and too porous to float."

"Like whale shit?" he quips. "You know what the problem is, right?"

"Not enough power for the Processing Plant and the positioning turbos?"

"All you're doing is moving the pollution from the surface to the floor of the ocean."

"Seventy-five percent of it is already on the bottom. Why not the rest of it?"

Jack flings open our door and yells in: "We'll be pumping sand tomorrow, no matter what." The wind slams the door closed for him, and we hit the sack early.

Bijay and I rotate, twelve hours on and twelve off to keep the hydrogenated-fracking running smoothly. A freshwater slurry of frac-sand is pumped from the ship to the oil rig and into the 1500 gallon mixing tank. We meter in the vanadium along with a cocktail of chemicals designed by the Rig's Engineer. A heavy dose of guar gum is added to thicken the water into a gel, which suspends the sand in the solution. Then we inject the hydrogen gas straight into the wellhead under high pressure.

"We're going to shut it down tomorrow and do a flow test," says Jack Sturdevant, after three days of pumping. "If the results aren't great, you're both done here!"

Jack tries to give me an evil grin, but it's lost in the grease, sweat, and his contorted facial muscles. I've been developing this project for two years, and I'm eager to see the results.

"Can't wait," I reply.

Bijay comes out to relieve me, and I can tell that he hasn't been sleeping well. "You look like shit, Jay. Something keeping you awake?"

"Just worried about my girl," he says.

The eco-terrorists have increased their efforts to annoy us. They have two speedboats going twenty-four-seven with banners and bullhorns. The trawler is hanging to our west, refueling the smaller boats and rotating the protestors.

"Just give me a call if you don't think you're going to complete the shift without falling asleep."

Sleep is hard to come by this night. I'm worried about Bijay and tomorrow's test results. After dozing on and off, I get up an hour early and head out to the job site.

"What are you doing, Jay?"

"Nothing!" he says nervously.

As Bijay turns to face me, I spot the Bac-Bot beaker in his hand, half-hidden by his rain slicker. I rush to the mixing tank control panel for the emergency stop button, but in a panic, I just throw the breaker-box disconnect. The blades come to a grinding halt, and the metering pump shuts down immediately. I shine my flashlight in the mixing tank but can't see anything unusual.

"Where did you put them?" I shout.

Bijay doesn't answer me but runs toward a barrel at the edge of the deck. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and I jump on his back, throwing him to the ground. I don't want to hit my best friend, but I push his head hard into the deck, and rush to the barrel. It's full of crude oil, but the surface is turning a shade of purple that I recognize immediately.

I don't smoke or carry matches, but I know instinctively that the best way to destroy the Bac-Bots is with fire. Looking around, I find a deck-cleaning cart and dig out a worn, steel wool scrubbing pad. I pop my flashlight open and wrap one of the batteries with the wool pad. It bursts into flames almost immediately, and I toss it six feet to the open barrel.

"Damn it!" shouts Bijay, as he rushes me and the flaming barrel with a crazed look in his eyes. He tackles me hard, and we slam into the barrel, knocking it to the deck. We both hit the ground and roll around in the flames. As the two of us wrestle, the barrel of burning Bac-Bots rolls under the railing and falls forty feet in a flaming ball of crude death.

Bijay's arm and hair are on fire, but the Driller and his assistant rush in with an extinguisher and put him out. I don't know how to explain what just happened to anyone, so I shake my head and watch as they carry him off to the Medic's office.

"I don't know what the hell you assholes are doing, but you're never going to work on my Rig again!" yells Jack.

I'm at a loss for words. I don't care about the project right now, or even if I ever work on another oil rig for that matter. The frac-sand pump remains shut down for the flow test, and I return to my room to pack up my meager belongings.

The sand-ship isn't going anywhere soon, so I'm hoping for a fast ride on the helicopter. After sitting in the dark, empty cabin for six hours, the door bursts open, and Jack storms into the room. He sits down on the bench across from me and cracks a crooked smile.

"Your buddy got burned up pretty bad, but he'll be alright in a day or two. The Driller's Assistant, Burt, is going take over his night shifts until you finish this frack run."

"Really? You want me to finish the project?"

"The flow-rates are double the norm. This thing is bigger than any of us. Honor your contract."

Without bothering to unpack and still shaken by the day's events, I crash with my boots on. My dreams quickly turn to nightmares as I toss and turn. My nightmares turn into reality when Jack throws open the cabin door again, yelling for me to wake up.

"Get up, Brent! The hydrogen pressure is at the upper control limit. It might just be an instrument failure; I don't know. I have to go check the slurry pump. It's cavitating, and the head bearing is hotter than hell. Get up!"

I grab my life-jacket and fall-protection harness before heading up to the third-deck valve rack. The manual valves are all in the right position, so I unhook my lanyard and start up the fourth-level ladder.

I never hear the explosion.

My left eye pops open, and I find myself floating on my back in the cold, black ocean, staring up at the towering oil rig that's completely engulfed in flames. Burning equipment and human body parts are falling all around me. I try to backstroke away from the inferno, but my right hand is mangled and just hangs there like fish bait. I feel like a helpless piece of plastic flotsam, floating in the vast open waters. The thick smell of crude oil hangs over the water, surrounding my limp body. Calmly, I wait for the polluted water to ignite and put me out of my misery.

### The End

### After The End

Follow the exploits of Brent Brodie and his companions as he battles corruption, environmental disasters, and his personal demons throughout the new, Hard Science Fiction Series: Plasticity Island, which includes "The Water Wars," "The Weather Wars," and "The Wisdom Wars." You can read more about the Trilogy at the Author's website: https://www.PlasticityIsland.com

While you're at it: If you enjoyed this short story, please leave a positive comment and tell your friends on Facebook and Twitter.

Thank You – Warren Roberts.

### About the Author

_Warren Roberts_ is a retired Industrial Engineer and Technical Writer with a flair for storytelling. He has a polymathic interest in all of the sciences and uses analytical problem-solving tools to address the world's most significant issues. In this series, "Plasticity Island," he attempts to take Very Near Future, Plausible Science Fiction to the next level by exploring solutions to real-world problems like Global Warming, the Global Water Crises, Artificial Intelligence, and the pollution that is destroying our oceans. His goal is to make Hard Science fun, with adventure, mystery, and offbeat humor.

### Plasticity Island – The Water Wars

Chapter 1: Water, water, everywhere

Ouch! I just got my ass ripped by the President of the United States. It wouldn't hurt so badly if she were better looking, but at least I can cross "Meeting Her Highness" off my bucket list.

Initially, this meeting was only supposed to be with Clint Brown, the Secretary of Defense, and Hector Gomez, the Secretary of State, but they slipped in the President and a couple of Naval Admiral wannabes to make a point. As it turns out, you can't sink a small boatload of Chinese Water Pirates without permission from the White House. Okay, it was more like a trawler than a small boat, but at least all of the Pirates were rescued. I think.

"Sorry about how that meeting went," says Clint as he escorts me out into the hallway.

"What the hell, Clint? You said that you were going to have my back."

"I'm still trying to get you some support, but I have to be honest," he says. "Sure, you've been through a lot, but you're getting a reputation for being a loose cannon."

"I'm not trying to run for office, Clint. I'm just trying to protect my people and my business."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence as we walk down the main corridor towards the exit. The whole building is buzzing with movers and packers, crating up the valuable paintings and artifacts for shipping. Rumor has it that the new White House location is somewhere in Montana, and I suspect that Clint knows where, but I don't ask.

When we reach the big double doors, I look down at Clint's thin, hunched frame. His suit is hanging loosely on his shoulders, and it's obvious that he has lost some weight. "You're looking pretty pale, Clint. You should get out of here before the stress kills you. Maybe move to Arizona or Canada."

As he escorts me down the wide front steps, the bitter cold sucks the air from my lungs and drops it straight down to my trim Van Dyke. I've been living about twenty-five degrees north of the equator for the past five years, and it has made me a bit of a cold-weather wimp. On top of that, it's starting to snow again. It's late May, there's a foot of that damned rusty-grey stuff on the ground, and these people think it's normal. I'll thank God when I get back to my little piece of plastic paradise in the Pacific.

I order an autonomous limousine for the trip to my hotel to avoid any conversation and give myself a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I barely recognize the generic-looking E-Mobile when it arrives and begin to wonder if I've been away from the mainland for too long. The only door is at the back of the car, and it slides up and opens for me to enter. The four bucket seats are all facing to the rear, and when I climb in and sit down, my seat rotates to face forward. There's no dashboard, steering wheel, or any visible controls whatsoever. My seatbelt fastens automatically, and six airbags pre-inflate for my safety but leave just enough room for me to move freely.

"Good afternoon Mister Brodie. Where would you like to go on this lovely day?"

Seriously? Now the car wants to chit-chat? "The Old River Inn, and please maintain silence."

"Yes, Sir! As you wish, Sir!"

Was that a sarcastic tone from the car? I spend a few seconds mentally devising ways to wreck this heap using only verbal commands. On the way to the hotel, I can't help but think of all the smart-ass replies I should have given the President and her little men. Should've, could've, would've. I hate to second-guess myself; it's a bad habit. I'm an engineer, a scientist, not a politician, and certainly not a military man. For the past several years I've been celebrated as an environmental hero and humanitarian. How the hell are we supposed to protect our Island and the people on it if we can't fight back?

"ETA is 5 minutes," the car's synthetic voice pipes in.

"What part of 'maintain silence' don't you understand?" Smart-Car my ass.

I selected the Old River Inn because it has excellent views of the Potomac and the surrounding DC area. I don't get to the East Coast of the United States very often, so I like to survey the coastal regions and check out the impact that Global Warming is having on the Country. Most of the people who live here don't realize that this area is sinking about two inches a year due to "fore-bulge collapse," a condition that was created during the last ice age, and that the collapse is being accelerated by saltwater intrusion. Combine that with sea levels rising at three inches a year, and it's easy to understand why a half-million Washingtonians have been displaced in the last decade.

"We have arrived at your destination, Sir." The car jolts me back to the present.

Walking into the hotel lobby, I spot the lounge in the back and head towards the bar for a quick beer. The old hotel lounge is plush with rich woods and red overstuffed leather seats and stools. The bar top has a full inch of shiny polyurethane that reflects the twenty-foot mirror lined with liqueur. This old-world opulence is a stark contrast from the plastic buildings I've become accustomed to on the Island. The Bartender is entertaining an elderly couple by juggling empty bottles, and I can tell by his excellent hand-eye coordination that he's a Service-Bot.

"Hey Bar-Bot, Budlight in the bottle, please." You don't have to shout at Bots, they can hear over the crowd noise. They also serve you in the right order no matter how ugly you are. I flash my room card at him, and he slides my bottle eight feet across the counter and straight into my left hand.

Settling onto my stool, I notice a Sex-Bot approaching from the rear of the bar and wonder if she saw my room card or did the Bar-Bot tip her off? Does that make him a Pimp-Bot? Sex-Bots have gained a lot more acceptance, and popularity since the last round of necrotizing HIVX-4 swept the Country in 2022. Nobody wants to die that way. Nowadays, you probably couldn't find two real live Hookers to rub together if your life depended on it.

She rubs up close, pressing her silicon-enhanced body against my right shoulder. "Would you like some company tonight, Sweetie?"

I can tell by her foggy eyes and the actuation of her 22 synthetic facial muscles that she's a Class F50SEX humanoid and probably built in '24 or '25.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Bot. I'm busy." She pouts and does a little twirl to show off her way too perfect curves but soon gives up and returns to her seat.

I finish my beer and start to stand up just as my holopad begins to play 'Hail to the Chief.' I'm guessing that this is Henry Jackson's attempt at humor. In my absence, Henry is the Acting CEO of Plasticity Island as well as my business partner and sometimes best friend.

Settling back down on the barstool, I place my holopad on the counter and hit the hologram tab. Henry's dark, smiling face pops up.

"What's up, Henry?"

"Hey, Brodie, how'd it go at the White House?"

"Well, I think that my left ass-cheek is still bleeding, but they haven't thrown me in jail yet."

"So, they're not going to give us any support?" Henry sounds serious, but I can hear chuckling in the background.

"What's really going on, Henry?" I'm starting to worry at this point.

"More bad news Buddy." Henry rarely calls me buddy, so now I'm starting to sweat.

"We got another Chinese Trawler approaching Water Tanker T-17 about 350 miles off the coast of Japan," he says. "I'm in the Control Tower with Don, Miguel, and Jake. We have an M-Drone at 400 feet, and I'm switching you over to a live feed."

Our Water Tankers are unmanned, so we maintain a Monitor-Drone on each one. The hologram morphs into a bird's eye view of T-17 and the Chinese ship. Remembering where I am, I turn around to find a half dozen looky-loos peeking over my shoulders. A little worried about security, I scan their faces. Most of them just look like weary travelers and overly curious barflies. I expand the hologram to about two feet, so they don't need to crowd me.

"J.J., can you hear me?" Miguel Diaz is the Head of Transportation, which includes the Tankers, but Jake Jones is my ace robotics designer, builder, and operator.

"I hear you, Boss. Do you want me to sink 'em?" asks Jake.

He sounds a little too anxious, maybe because he grew up with violent video games.

The crowd closes in, looking for blood, and I notice that the Sex-Bot has joined them. Is she working with Hotel Security?

"Ease up Jake, can we reach them with the water cannon yet?"

"They're at 160 feet and closing. We should be able to soak 'em, Boss." Jake sounds disappointed, but my audience is pleased.

"Aim for the bow J.J." There's no question about his accuracy, and thirty seconds later, the pirates are scattering for cover as their deck is flooded with a twenty gallon-per-second stream of saltwater.

"Hey, Brodie, they're shoot'n bullets at us!" Henry's Bostonian accent sounds a little panicky, but he's just worried about the five-million-dollar Water Tanker and cargo. "Looks like they got a 50 millimeter mounted on the Pilot's Cabin."

The M-Drone's camera zooms in on the shooter, and my groupies let out a loud gasp in unison. "What else do we have for defense, Jake?"

"Well, the E-Drone is carrying a small charge, Boss," he replies. "It's an untested prototype I've been working on, and it only detonates on impact."

"On impact? Why the hell would you build something like that? You know those drones are expensive."

"The Eagle's in the air Brent, I'm switching over the feed." Miguel Diaz chimes in to divert my ire.

We keep at least one Eagle-Drone on each Tanker and about twenty of them on the Island. Their primary task is to scare off all of those damn crapping seagulls. They combine some robotics like flapping wings, menacing talons, and loud vocal screeching with the more traditional five-propped flight system.

"He's 150 feet out and closing, Boss. What do you want me to do?" asks Jake,

I can't see Jake, but I can tell by his voice that he has a big smile on his face. "Aim for the Pilots Cabin," I reply.

My crowd has grown to about ten people, and they're starting to cheer for the E-Drone. "Switch my view back to the M-Drone, will you?" Maybe it's the beer or the crowd or my anger with the Pirates, I don't know, but I just don't want to miss the action.

Just before the hologram changes the video feed, the E-Drone camera captures the terror in the Trawler Pilot's eyes and gaping mouth as the approaching eagle lets out a bone-chilling scream! Leave it to J.J. for the added dramatics. I'll wager ten bucks that a still of that Pirate's face will be on his screen-saver by the next time I see him.

The M-Drone's video-feed kicks in just as the Eagle slams into the large glass window and everyone in the bar sucks in their breath as the ship's Pilot dives out the rear door. It feels like five seconds pass, and my audience begins to grumble when BANG! The cabin blows twenty feet in the air and falls into the Pacific, leaving a black gaping hole in the deck of the ship. The aw-shits turn into cheers, and I'm a little surprised that the crowd doesn't break into 'God Bless America' as they saunter off to their rooms.

"You might want to take an earlier flight out of DC, Brodie." Henry's voice brings me back to reality.

"Just make sure that the White House doesn't see this little episode on YourVid.com, will you? And oh yeah, have Clark and the plane ready in Burbank by 9:00 P.M. PDT."

"You're going fly the Sun Dog at night? That's six or seven hours on the batteries, Brodie." Henry is still talking as I pocket my holopad and step into the elevator, where my room card takes me straight to the Penthouse. Traveling first class is a treat for me because there's no real way to spend money on the Island.

As I enter my room, the curtains are open, and it's starting to get dark outside. I force myself to walk out into the freezing wind on the covered deck and take one last look at the disappearing coastal city. The gloomy snow is still falling lightly and hiding the last few rays of the sun. Most of us on Plasticity Island no longer refer to it as Sunset or Sunrise because when you live on a floating island that rotates every two hours or so, you become very in tune with the rotation and orbit of the earth. I prefer to think in terms of "sunsight" and "sunclipse," as proposed by the famous architect, Buckminster Fuller. However, the sun really is setting on this once-bustling town, and no one seems to care. It's as if they have accepted their fate and started to pack up and get out of Dodge.

Speaking of getting out of Dodge, I call up my Private Jet Carrier and ask them to have a driver here in thirty minutes with take-off in sixty. Commercial airlines have a security issue with me, and it's not worth the hassle. I shower, pack up the suit, and throw on some Levi's and a sweatshirt. With the hood pulled up over my head, I move quickly through the lobby and out to the snowy sidewalk.

A fast round trip from Burbank to Dulles International and back would usually leave my gut wrenching, but the Baystream B850 is smooth and comfortable, so I catch three hours of much-needed sleep. The jet's speed matches the three-hour time zone change almost precisely, and it arrives at the same time as it left. Exiting the plane, I'm met by Clark Leblanc, the Island's Oceanographer and Chemical Engineer. Clark spent the week in Los Angeles at a 'Save Our Oceans Convention' as a Guest Speaker because we need all of the good publicity we can get. It was his turn to take one for the team.

Clark looks as road-weary as I feel, but he greets me with a weak smile and: "What the hell, Brent, 9:00 P.M.?"

It's good to see a familiar face, even if it's not a happy one. "Sorry 'bout that! Let's take a breather, and I'll buy you a beer."

"Can't," he replies. "One of us has to fly this thing, and besides, we have a passenger waiting on board."

We both have pilot licenses and our ePlane, the 'Sun Dog' pretty much flies itself, so I figure I'll let him fly while I have a drink.

"Who's the tag-along?" We have 150 employees on Plasticity Island, which is about 140 more than my facial recognition capacity, but I usually try to fake it.

"She's that new Internal Security Consultant we agreed to hire; Grace Small."

We walk back out on the tarmac just as the Auto-Tugger is turning our plane around to face the runway and stop to admire my latest toy. The Sun Dog is a six-passenger E650 with six layers of perovskite spray-on solar panels, but of course, you can't see them in the middle of the night. This is the only plane small enough to land on the Island yet capable of the 1200-mile nonstop flight from the mainland. We have plenty of electrical power on the Island to recharge it, but gas and diesel are getting scarce.

It's still 95⁰ F in Los Angeles at night, and the easterly Santa Anna winds are blowing across the tarmac as we hurry to the plane. Clark beats me up the stairs and ducks into the cockpit, which leaves me to play host to our new contractor. As I step into the small galley, I yell back to her: "Budlight?"

Poking my head into the passenger section, I'm a little surprised to see a petite, classic Swedish looking blond, twenty-something with almost too perfect facial symmetry. Wait a minute, is Henry pranking me again with another Service-Bot?

"No thanks," she says. "I'm on the clock." Her voice is a little squeaky so probably not a Bot.

I hand her a bottle of water. "Well, if you're on the clock, I guess I'd better put you to work. Hi, Brent Brodie, CEO." I don't often do the job of CEO anymore, but I occasionally like to throw the title out there.

She sits up a little straighter. "Oh, Hi Mister Brodie, Sir - I'm Grace Small," she says with a little bit of a Texas drawl. Definitely not a Bot.

"You can call me Brent or Brodie but skip the Mister and the Sir."

I hold my hand out and receive a slightly limp handshake. Grace is too busy staring at the nasty scar on my face to notice that my right hand is a prosthetic. The scar is shaped like a thin question mark, running around my right eye and down to my jawline. There's a worse scar that goes over my ear and halfway around my scalp, but my thick hair covers it up. Sure, the scar is ugly, but I don't really care if people stare. It's worse when they have to turn their eyes away, especially the kids.

"So, why did we hire you?" I know the answer, of course; I'm just testing to see how fast her response is.

"You had an explosion on the Island which may or may not have been terrorist related," she replies. "From what I hear, you have pretty good security procedures in place for people and supplies coming and going to the Island, so I'm a little surprised that you need outside help."

"I'll be honest with you, Grace," I say, forcing her to look me in the eye. My right eye is a little rounder than the left one due to the scarring, which makes it easy for me to give people the evil eye. "Every time we add more security, we take away a little bit of everyone's personal freedom, and I'd rather it came from an outsider than me."

She starts to protest, but we can hear Clark arguing with the voice-activated autopilot, so I excuse myself and move up to the cockpit.

"Can't you guys just get along?" I tease him.

"It still won't let me enter the Island's coordinates because it keeps moving." Clark's French Canadian accent is long gone.

"Here," I say, pulling off a post-it from the overhead and handing it to him. "Hit override and enter these coordinates."

Plasticity Island is designed to rotate with the circular current in the North Pacific Gyre and also tends to drift a few miles each day. Our 150-yard landing strip turns with it, of course, and that throws off the coordinates. We do have a location beacon, but it only locks in at about ten miles out.

The Sun Dog is pretty fast for an ePlane, but even at almost 175 Knots, it's a six-hour trip to the Island. I tell Clark to wake me in three or four hours, and I'll give him a break.

As I return to the passenger section, Grace's cute little cheeks are turning red, and she starts right in: "Listen, I didn't sign on to be someone's scapegoat, so maybe we better take another look at my contract."

"Relax Grace; I was just jerking your chain. Sorry, it's a bad habit." She relaxes a little, but it's obvious that she isn't happy with me. "Actually, the main reason we hired you is for your experience with Sniffer-Bots."

"Oh, well that makes more sense. We've made a lot of progress in the past few years. We can detect most compounds down to a level of 5 ppm now."

"How's the miniaturization research going?"

Grace finally breaks a slight smile and assumes a more professional stance. "Some of our best units are down to shoebox size, and one of the more popular applications fits into most Service-Bots."

It's hard not to stare at this beautiful young lady, but she's closer to J.J.'s age, and I owe him a favor. "That sounds good. I'm pretty sure that you've been assigned to Captain Steven Hendricks, our Head of Security, but I'm going to make sure you get some time with Jake Jones in the Bot-Shop. He's a genius at miniaturization and Anamoids. I've been working on some security concepts with him, and I think you'll like him; he's easier to work with than I am."

Grace relaxes back into her seat, and I take advantage of the pause in the conversation to beg off for a nap. The rear of the plane has a bench seat that gives me just enough room to stretch out and get some rest.

I'm expecting to be awakened by Clark, but instead, I hear the autopilot yelling at him to wake up. It's an excellent safety feature that tracks eye movement, but Clark doesn't seem to appreciate it. Moving quickly through the passenger area, I see that Grace is already standing next to Clark in the cockpit and nervously asking him if he's okay. I have to chuckle.

"Alright Clark, old man, we can hear you snoring from the back of the plane." I shouldn't give him such a hard time, but at fifty years old, he's one of the older men on the Island.

"At least I don't turn off the safety systems before snoozing like you do," he snaps.

"Take a nap," I tell him, motioning towards the back of the plane but knowing full well that he's too tall for the bench seat.

Nobody is at the controls of the aircraft at this point, and Grace is still looking nervous, so I tell her to take the copilot seat and buckle in. We've been flying in the dark for about three and a half hours, headed southwest, and we won't have any usable sunlight before we reach the Island.

"What's our ETA?" I ask. Grace starts to reply that she doesn't know, but the autopilot kicks in with "3:15 A. M., PDT, Sir."

"P.D.T?" Grace asks. "I thought the Island was in the Hawaiian time zone.

"Plasticity is about 1200 miles due west of the Southern tip of Baja and about 1150 miles southwest of Los Angeles, so it's not quite halfway to Hawaii. And besides, Hawaii doesn't use Daylight Savings Time, and we like it."

I check back with the autopilot: "How's our power supply?" I'm looking at the digital display, but it's low enough that I'd like some confirmation.

"Battery supply is at 40%, Sir."

"That doesn't sound too good." Grace's voice cracks a little. "Are you worried?"

"Not really, I'm a pretty good swimmer, how about you?" I smile, knowing that she probably already hates me, so I add: "Just kidding - there's a life raft in the back."

We stare out at the dark, but star-studded skies for a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. I'm tempted to close my eyes, but my copilot might punch me.

"So you haven't been to the Island yet, have you?"

"No, but I am looking forward to landing." Grace forces a slight smile. "Why do you call it Plasticity Island, anyway? Why not just Plastic Island or Brodie's Island?"

"Because it can be remolded and reshaped however we like. In fact, just last year, we went from five Arms to six Arms. All of the building blocks are made with 3D/CNC printers so we can change anything and everything with the touch of a pad. Here, I'll show what I'm talking about."

"Cindy, show the Plasticity Island schematic, plan view, security level one." Cindy is my personal virtual assistant and is available on all of the Island's systems.

The center console lights up, and an eighteen-inch hologram displays a 3D image of Plasticity Island. I still feel a great sense of pride in my creation.

"It looks like a big starfish."

"Exactly. It's a six-legged starfish." I tag one of the legs and give it a slow clockwise spin. "It's two miles wide from tip to tip and rotates once about every two hours depending on the speed of the currents. The Arms are designated A-1 through A-6, and the Arm-Pits are called P-1 through P-6."

"That's cute, but is there a hotel or someplace for me to stay?"

"You'll be assigned an apartment for your living quarters. The Apartment Complex is in Zone Six. The main body of the Island is divided into six sections by these roads that run down the center of the Arms to the hydroelectric Generator Station at the center of the Island."

"How come the Generator Station isn't turning?" she asks.

"Technically, it is turning, counterclockwise. There are three, 125-megawatt generators under that dome, and we're getting ready to install three more." I touch the center of the graphic, and a 3D animation of the Generation Station pops up. "There's a forty-foot bull gear in the center of the dome floor that engages with each of the gearheads that spin the generators."

There's a moment of silence, so I tap back to the Island's graphics and then the Recycling Plant. "This is how we initially got started, cleaning the plastic and other debris out of what most people refer to as the Great Northern Pacific Garbage Patch." An animated depiction of Plasticity Island shows the debris field being funneled in front of Arms 1, 3, and 5. The polluted saltwater flows through a fifteen-foot wide channel that runs the full circumference of the Island and then into the Recycle Plant.

"Why just Arms 1, 3 and 5?" she asks.

"The leading edges of Arms 1, 3, and 5 are concave and tapered to force the debris inward, and Pits 2, 4, and 6 are used as harbors for all of our Water Tankers."

The autopilot interrupts our conversation to let us know that we are 15 miles from our targeted coordinates. At the same time, the hologram blinks, and the image changes to Captain Steven Hendricks's less than pleasant face.

"Brent Brodie, do you copy?" he yells as if we were talking through tin cans and a string.

"I copy you, Captain." This can't be good news as Steven Hendricks is our Head of Security. The Captain, as we call him, is an old seadog and probably the only real sailor on the Island.

"Hey, Brent." There's a hint of panic in his voice. "We just had a Tanker blow up in the P-2 Docks on the A-3 side. It's burning like crazy, and the Control Tower says you're ten miles out, so maybe you should circle for a while."

"Crap." Plastic fires are the worse. They stink, the fumes are toxic, and everything melts back into the ocean.

"We don't have enough battery power left to circle, do we?" Grace chimes in as she starts to hyperventilate.

At this point in the chaos, Clark's tall figure blocks the cabin door, and he grabs Grace gently by the arm. "You need to move to the back and let me sit there."

"Everybody relax, I've got this. But yeah, Grace, you had better move to the back and get out the life jackets." I try to speak calmly.

"Hey Captain, any damage to the runway?" I know it's unlikely as the plastic landing strip is located one Arm over on A-4.

"We can't see anything but smoke. We're getting our breathing gear on to go fight this thing. Land if you have to." There's a pause, and then Steven adds: "Any instructions, Brent?"

"Have the Control Center go ahead and sink the Tanker." I don't have to look over at Clark to know that he's cringing at the thought of creating more pollution.

"Tell them to put it in 'Sub-Mode' if the pumps are still working." Clark is almost yelling at the hologram. All of the Water Tankers are equipped with ballast and trim tanks like submarines to control their buoyancy, and most of them can submerge to minus twenty-five feet.

I switch my attention back to the issue of landing and address the autopilot again: "Autopilot, lock onto Beacon PI-01."

There's an uncomfortable delay, but then the Autopilot comes back on. "Locked on Beacon PI-01 at 3 miles out. Slowing to 60 mph and banking west at 45 degrees to align with the landing strip. ETA is 2.5 minutes. Please place your seatbacks and trays in the upright position as we prepare for landing."

"Maybe I should just land this thing myself," says Clark, gripping the copilot's stick.

"Relax, have a little faith in technology." I smile calmly at him, knowing that it just pisses him off.

The airstrip appears before us, glowing brightly in the dark. The whole Island is well lit, and the runway has internal lights that shine through the continuous sheet of plastic. Unfortunately, about halfway down the strip, a dark, ominous cloud of black and brown smoke blocks our path. Over to the right of the cloud, we can see the burning Tanker slowly sinking in the harbor.

Autopilot: "Slowing to 30 mph. The landing gear is down and locked. Please prepare for touchdown."

One of the best features of the E650 with its 120' wingspan is the ability to fly at really slow speeds by shutting off some of its eighteen electric motors.

Clark decides not to take any chances with the fumes. "Autopilot, drop the oxygen masks," he says.

"Grace, put your..." I glance back to check on Grace, but she already has her mask on, and she is bent down in the kiss-your-ass-goodbye position.

Autopilot: "We have touchdown."

Thirty miles per hour is like pulling into your driveway, so the landing is very anticlimactic. However, the runway is only 150 yards long, and we can't see the last half of it.

As we close in on the blowing smoke, the autopilot comes back on. "None of our optical sensors are functioning; we have no visual confirmation of our position."

Clark and I sit there, breathing through our oxygen masks in calm silence for a very long ten seconds as we coast through the smoke and finally into the clear night air. The plane comes to a stop with 40 yards of runway to spare, and we decide to let the autopilot taxi us to the hanger.

_ _ _ _

"Today is Thursday, May 1, 2031, at 7:00 A.M. PDT," states Cindy. "69,500 people died yesterday due to a lack of fresh water supplies."

"I know Cindy, I know. Just give me fifteen more minutes of sleep."

Henry disrupts my morning coffee in the spa routine by blocking the sun with his six-foot-four frame. We share a large rooftop infinity spa with the six, fourth-floor penthouses at the Apartment Complex in Zone Six. I like to get up early and watch the horizon go down while the spa is facing east.

"Hope you got some sleep, Brodie. We got our work cut out for us today," says Henry.

I can't see his face with the sun glaring behind him, so I shut my eyes and hope that he'll go away. "Can't you just take care of it?" I beg, knowing full well that isn't an option.

"You're the design genius, remember? I'm just the money man, and right now, we're not making any money with the generators down and the Recycler on bypass. That broken Arm isn't going to repair itself." Henry steps out of the sunlight to purposely blind me again. "Let's go! I'll meet you in the cafeteria in thirty minutes for breakfast."

After contemplating on why the Arm can't repair itself for a few minutes, I return to my room for a quick shower and to throw on my work shorts and boots. Hurrying downstairs past the apartments on levels 2 and 3, I'm joined by more and more first shift employees headed off to their assigned areas. Everyone is more than a little worried, and the questions begin to fly.

"Hey Brent, are we being attacked or what?" I should know this guy's name, but I seem to have hit a mental block.

"Maybe we should be getting hazard pay," says Maria.

Maria is easier to remember – she works in the Desalination Plant. "I thought you already were. Listen, we'll try to have some answers by tonight. You guys need to focus on working safely until we do."

Henry has my omelet and coffee ready by the time I join him in the diner. Everyone has been pounding him with questions as well, but they break away when I approach.

"Looks like the natives are getting restless. Did you blame everything on me or what?"

"Really? A 'Native' joke?" Henry is a full-blooded Tunisian, but he was born, raised, and educated in Boston. "And yes, everything is your fault." He smiles as he throws a verbal jab back at me.

"So did ya get a look at my hometown?" he asks. Henry's parents had to evacuate from Boston a few years back during a big storm, and they never returned.

"No, but Harvard, your alma mater, has been closed permanently."

While Henry is reminiscing about his college days, Dr. Hiba Dubashi walks over to our table in her long, white lab coat and tries to look stern.

"I know that you were on the mainland yesterday, Brent, but you missed our weekly session," she says. "Why don't you come in tomorrow at 8:00?"

Dr. Dubashi is the Director of the Island's Medical Clinic and my personal psychiatrist. Most everyone on the Island knows that I have weekly sessions due to my injuries, but most of them write it off as PTSD.

"A.M.? That's my morning meditation time." I try not to smile.

"Yes, in the A.M. I'll see you in my office," she replies as she walks off.

"Since when did you start meditating?" asks Henry.

"What do you think I was doing in the spa this morning when you interrupted me?"

"Yeah, right. Listen, I hope I'm not crossing some sort of line or something, but I gotta tell ya, that lady is kinda scary." Henry tries hard to cover his Bostonian accent most of the time, so I try not to mock him.

"I know; scary and maybe a little dangerous."

We finish our breakfast quickly and head over to the parking garage. Transportation on the Island is limited to bikes, trikes, quikes, and electric carts and its first come, first serve, so it doesn't matter what you rode in on. We always encourage everyone to get lots of exercise, so Henry and I select a pair of bikes to help set a good example.

"I want to stop off at the Fab Shop, Henry." I give him a heads-up because he likes to race ahead to make me look bad.

We cut over to Hub Road and head towards Zone Two. The roads on the Island are laid out in a wagon wheel pattern. We call the inner circle Hub Road and the outer circle Rim Road because no one can remember the correct term. Felloes – I think. The spokes are aligned with and run right out onto the Island's six Arms.

We pull off at the Fabrication Shop and spot the Shop Manager, Bob Powers, and our Maintenance Manager, Peter Block standing at the discharge end of Line 2. A large base-block is slowly exiting the production line, and an Autonomous Transporter Vehicle is standing ready to receive it. Our standard, hollow base-blocks are 10' in height, 15' wide and 30' long, weighing close to two and a half tons.

"Morning, Gentleman." Bob greets us and waves us over to the side of the line. "We've had three lines printing blocks all night, and this is number 32," he adds with a tired smile. "Peter and I were just comparing notes."

"This block should just about do it according to the PICAD program," says Peter. The location and specifications of every block and plastic component on the Island are stored in the master CAD and CMMS systems.

"I was just getting ready to head out to the repair site. I'll meet you there," says Bob.

"Sounds good Guys, good job," Henry says as we climb back on our bikes.

"Henry, let's cut through the back of the shop and check out the Pellet Tanks. They must be getting low with the Recycler down."

Henry nods, and we dodge workers and machines as we pass each of the nine production lines. The Fabrication Shop is one of the smaller shops on the Island, but it still covers 22 acres under roof and has 35-foot ceilings. Our newer machines are the size of a small house and look like industrial 3D printers, but they also incorporate CNC style machining heads. A typical set up includes two or three heated extrusion heads and three or four machining tool-heads.

The plastic pellets, or nurdles, as we call them, are stored at the rear of the shop, and Henry and I both shake our heads when we see how low the supply is getting. When we're not building parts for the Island or the Tankers, we usually pump out solid sheets of plastic to sell on the open market. Sometimes, we just sell the nurdles by the ton.

"We had better get these guys moving so we can get back into the main current, or we're going to run out of everything," says Henry. He always acts as if the money is coming out of his pocket.

Each Arm is about 900 yards across at the base, and the whole area is a busy construction zone when we arrive on our bikes. Four or five base-blocks are still stacked about, and two Transporters are jockeying them into position. Another Transporter is hauling the last of the burnt and broken blocks back to the Recycle Plant to be shredded, melted and remolded into pellets. We dodge the blocks and equipment and ride across the repaired section of the Arm towards the docks. One of the Mobile 3D/CNC units is repairing the damaged road surface on A3 by laying a continuous three-inch sheet of plastic over the burnt section.

"Keep your eyes out for Steven, Henry. I want to see how they're doing with the Tanker." As we reach the docks, it's apparent that all of the Tankers have been removed, and our two old diesel tugboats are stationed about 30 yards off the landing next to the damaged T-89. The Water Tanker has just broken the surface, and a half dozen maintenance men are starting to examine the fire damage. Captain Steven Hendricks spots us on the dock and waves us over just as Miguel Diaz pulls up in one of the Maintenance Shop's inflatable boats.

"Let's go take a look," shouts Miguel.

As we clamber aboard, Miguel adds: "I just heard from the Tower that we have a big storm coming in. It must be the remnants of Hurricane Aletta."

"I miss the days when all we had to worry about was the weather," says Henry.

"How long before it hits us, Mikey?" I ask.

"About dawn tomorrow, they're saying. We better get this repair work wrapped up in a hurry," replies Miguel as we pull alongside the Tanker.

Steven greets us and ties off the inflatable while we climb the portable ladder. Most of the unmanned Tankers don't have any railings or stairs, and they are made of hollow plastic building blocks just like everything else, so walking on the wet surface can be a little tricky.

"Good news," says the Captain. "Well, not good news, but at least it doesn't look like the worst-case scenario." Steven points toward the bow of the Tanker, and we all turn and walk in that direction. About fifty feet in front of us, we see a large gaping hole surrounded by black, melted plastic extending all the way to the starboard side of the Tanker.

"Is this your good news, Steven?" I prod him as we look down the sixty-foot wide pit. The Tanker is only about five feet above the ocean surface, but the damaged section has been pumped out another ten feet.

"The good news is that the Battery Room and most of the Power Controls are intact. It looks like the explosion occurred in the Cargo Section," he replies.

"Crap, I was afraid of that," says Henry. "This Tanker was returning from the Port of Lazaro, Mexico, with a load of Dos Equis and Mescal." He pauses, but we understand the implications. "Someone sent us a damn big bomb."

"Did you find any sign of a detonator?" I ask.

"Not yet. We might have to send the scraps to that forensic lab in L.A. like we did that Service-Bot," replies the Captain. "It had to have been wireless to make it go off next to the dock after coming all the way from Lazaro. We're just lucky that the cargo wasn't being off-loaded."

"Who's our security man at Lazaro, Captain?" I ask. We have someone stationed at all of our Tanker Ports to monitor the Pumping Stations.

"Carlos Magaña!" Steven shakes his head and frowns in disapproval. "I'm going to strangle him."

"Get some answers first and talk to the Port Master as well." Henry takes the words out of my mouth. "I'll call the Governor myself," he adds, looking at me for concurrence.

Pulling out my pocket holopad, I address my virtual assistant: "Cindy, have Tanker Control halt all ships into and out of the Port of Lazaro. They should be in Storm Mode by now anyway."

"Captain, it looks like this thing can be repaired. After you get over to the dock, get with J.J. and that new contractor, Grace Small, and come up with a plan to put Sniffer-Bots on everything coming from Lazaro. Let Henry and me know when that's done."

"You got it, Brent! I think that Grace is still seasick or shaken up from your plane landing or something, but I'll look in on her," he replies.

Henry, Miguel, and I take the inflatable back over to A-3 to check out the rudder damage caused when it ran over into A-4. Each Arm has a thirty-foot-long plastic rudder that is hydraulically operated. When the rudders are angled inward against the current, it pulls the whole Island deeper into the mainstream. Without the rudders, the current would force the Island out into the center of the Gyre, where it would just drift with the winds like it is doing now.

"We have two men out there working on it," says Miguel. "I can pull them up on the radio if you don't want to walk out there."

Henry starts to agree, but I insist we take the half-mile hike out to the end of the Arm. "I haven't been out here in six months, and I'd like to see how the system is holding up."

Unlike the main body, the Island's Arms still undulate with the swells. Plasticity Island doesn't create waves because there is no landmass, but twenty to thirty-foot swells are pretty common, and the Arms can take a beating. The interlocking system for the base blocks allows for a three-inch gap that channels the ocean water down and out the sides. This hydraulic action cushions the wave motion and prevents geysers of seawater from shooting up onto the deck.

"Alright, let's do it, but we'll have to suit up first." Miguel motions toward the tool shed in the middle of the roadway.

The road ends about 200 yards out on the Arm, so we have to wear fall protection and hook up to a cable that runs down the center of the Arm. It makes for a wet and wild half-mile hike in rough weather, but today isn't too bad. As we reach the rudder area, the maintenance men, Juan Garcia and Hank Martin are packing up their tools and turn to address us.

"Boy, we got the big guns out here, must be serious," Juan says.

"How's it look, guys? You about got it?" asks Miguel.

"It was just a water line burst open, Boss," says Hank. We try not to use hydraulic fluids on the Island, so this closed-loop system pumps freshwater through the actuating cylinders.

"So, no damage to the rudder itself?" I ask. "Did you check for broken slats?"

"Yes, Sir, but we'll have to watch it under load once the Island starts rotating," replies Juan.

As we leave A-3, Henry agrees to pull the Leadership Team together at 5:00 P.M. for an update and some direction setting.

"I'm going to catch up on a few more hours of sleep," I tell him.

After a short nap and a quick bite to eat, I head back down to the Main Conference Room. I'm the first one there, so I take a minute to gather my thoughts concerning the events of the past week. One by one, the members of our Leadership Team stroll in and take their usual seats.

Henry is the first one to join me. He has electrical engineering and business degrees and handles most of the day-to-day CEO responsibilities. Unfortunately, we are the only two remaining members of the original five-person Plasticity Island Project Team.

"So, what's the plan, Henry?"

"Actually, I'm thinking about taking a couple of weeks off. In Japan, of course."

He smiles, but I know that he's referring to the fact that his beautiful Japanese wife's family lives there. He got married about a year ago, and we gave his wife an accounting position on the Island. Everyone that lives on Plasticity has to be an employee for insurance reasons. We also have a strict 'No kids – No pets' policy due to safety and hygiene issues.

"Maybe I'll go with you. You know, I do love Tokyo." We don't speak about all the partying we used to do there before he got married, but he knows what I mean.

"What's this about Tokyo?" Doctor Fumio Nakashima walks in with a knowing grin. Fumio is our Head of Robotics and not only manages the large shop on our island but an even bigger one in Kawasaki, Japan. We do a lot of business with Japan, and we sometimes call him 'The Ambassador.'

Clark Leblanc and Doctor Hiba Dubashi follow Fumio into the room, and we all exchange greetings. Clark still looks tired from our plane trip, but he's tough and never one to complain. Hiba sits directly across the table from me and manages a little smile. Her many degrees include psychiatry, neuroscience, and computer science. But she hides the fact that she's probably smarter than the rest of us put together just like she hides her good looks behind her long black bangs that come down to her heavy framed glasses.

Captain Hendricks, Peter Block, Bob Powers, and Miguel Diaz all saunter in fresh off the worksite, grubby and tired looking.

"Great, we're all here, but before we get started, Clark, do you have an update on the Hurricane?" I ask.

"Sure. Right now, it's still a Category 1 with sustained winds at about 90 mph. It looks like the path will stay a few hundred miles to the east of us, but we're definitely going to feel the impact starting at about 5:00 A.M. I'm expecting swells of around thirty feet. The Storm Warning System has already been activated, so it's time to batten the hatches. Any questions?" asks Clark.

"Remember folks, this is the first one of the season, and it looks like it's going to be a busy year. Make sure everyone knows the safety procedures," says Henry.

"Okay, good! I know that everyone has work to do, so I'm going to keep this meeting down to just a few agenda items," I say. "Cindy, bring up the Island's master model, security level three, but don't rotate." The round conference table is all but consumed by the hologram of Plasticity Island in real-time. The 3D image is produced from several of the Monitor-Drones that we have continually circling the island. "Cindy, lock in on A-3, P-3, and A-4 from an altitude of 200 feet."

"Peter, you want to give us an update on the repair work?" I ask.

"Sure, as you can see by the hologram, the tip of A-3 is back in position and secured. All three levels of the base-blocks were damaged by the blast and have been replaced. Right now we're in the process of pumping water into the bilge tanks. They should be done in about two hours, but the portable fabricator unit will be repairing the road until about midnight. We should have everything cleaned up and stored away before the storm hits in the morning."

Peter pauses, and Captain Hendricks chimes in: "We have T-89 secured to the docks, and we'll keep the sump pumps running until after the storm surge and then we can finish the inspection. As most of you have probably heard, it looks like the explosion was a deliberate act of sabotage."

"Thanks, Captain, that takes me to our next topic, but first, let me just say thanks for all of the hard work everyone put in today and especially last night fighting the fire. We've been fortunate that no one has been hurt or worse! Henry has volunteered to post an update to the troops, and we've decided to shut everything down for the weekend and just let everyone relax and party." I knew that would change the mood in the room as living where you work is more than a little stressful.

"Okay next item," I continue. Everyone looks puzzled except Henry because they don't know what to expect. "Plasticity Island is officially at war. In the past month, we have suffered two hijacking attempts, a Service-Bot explosion, and now this Tanker explosion."

Everyone's eyes turn towards the floor or the ceiling as if they are looking for a way out of the room. Doctor Dubashi is the first one to speak: "As you know, Brent," she says, glaring at me through her glasses. "I'm a devout humanitarian. I don't believe in war, and I doubt if I can be of any help with this discussion."

"I know, Hiba." Doctor Dubashi doesn't like to be called by her first name in public, but I enjoy pushing her buttons. "But this isn't going to be a conventional war. I've talked to the Department of Defense and the State Department, and we aren't going to be getting any support from them. What's more, we aren't even officially allowed to fight back." I let the room hang in silence while this information sinks in.

"Maybe we can get the Japanese Navy to support us?" says Fumio. Everyone except Hiba agrees that that would be a good idea.

"That would be great, Fumio. Hang in here with Henry and me after the meeting, will you?"

"For everyone else, the bottom line is that we need to come up with some halfway humane ways to protect ourselves, or we'll have to start hiring some armed mercenaries. For now, tell your people that we are taking measures to start inspecting everything and everyone coming to the Island."

"We'll talk this again at our Planning Meeting next week, but don't wait until then if you have any good ideas," I add, closing out the meeting.

Fumio and Henry remain with me after everyone else leaves the room, and we get down to the business of war.

"Fumio, both of those tankers that almost got hijacked were headed for your port in Yokohama. We know that the pirate trawler was Chinese, but it could have been hijacked as well. Any rumors on your end of the Pacific?" I ask.

"My Chinese resources have been blaming it on the North Koreans. As you know, the rebellion and chaos in China have everyone confused. No one knows who is in charge of who or what," says Fumio, shaking his head and throwing his hands in the air.

Henry jumps in to add some pressure on him: "Remember Fumio, we have to conclude this deal for the new island this month, or it has to be renegotiated. If your Country can't control your waters, the Island won't do you any good."

"Listen, the Cabinet and the Prime Minister are ready to sign off at 90 million U.S. with a 49/51 split on profits. We just need to get the nod from the Emperor. Our people are desperate for clean drinking water, so there is no way he can refuse."

"So, good then. How about you two take the contract to Tokyo as soon as this storm passes and wrap everything up neatly?" I glance at Henry for agreement, but he knows a vacation when he sees one.

Looking back at Fumio, I add: "And get your Navy after those Pirates so that the rest of us can focus on Mexico."

"Done and done," says Fumio.

"Thanks for the vacation, Brodie," says Henry.

"Sure. Just don't forget our ninety million bucks, and if I'm not here when you get back, I'm probably at the Port of Lazaro or maybe Cabo San Lucas."

_ _ _ _

"Today is Friday, May 2, 2031, at 7:00 A.M. PDT," states Cindy. "2.3 billion people worldwide don't have access to clean drinking water on a daily basis."

"Thanks, Cindy." I'm beginning to regret my motivational alarm selection.

I'm standing on the peak of Mount Whitney, in the Sierras, soaking in the awe-inspiring views and enjoying the penetrating afternoon sun. Looking down at my morning cup of coffee, I start to feel a little out of place on the mountaintop with bare feet and dressed only in my shorts. The holowall's image is so realistic that I begin to get light-headed from the thin, high altitude air. All of our newer holographic units use mazers with nanocrystal lenses to agitate the trioxygen interference medium, and I may be old-fashioned, but I still try not to stand too close.

"Cindy, switch the holowall to a live rooftop view facing east."

The Apartment Complex that occupies most of Zone Six is the tallest and best-constructed building on Plasticity Island. The thick, insulated walls are designed to withstand Category 5 hurricanes and anything that the wild Pacific Ocean can throw at it, but there are very few windows. The holowalls not only serve as entertainment and communication centers; they provide a much-needed change of scenery from looking at the other dull, plastic buildings on the Island. Even the ocean views beyond and between the outstretched, half-mile-long Arms can become monotonous after a few months at sea.

The holowall image changes to a flood of wind-driven rain and streaks of lightning that encompass the edge of Hurricane Aletta. A large part of the 600 hundred acres that make up the main body of the Island is corrugated and channeled to drain the rainwater back into the final filtration stages of the Desalinization Plant. Thanks to our daily tropical showers, our rainwater containment system averages about 300 acre-feet per month. Like most tropical island inhabitants, we're accustomed to frequent downpours, but very few of the natural islands are as close to the typical paths of Northern Pacific Hurricanes as we are.

"Cindy, give me the hurricane status update."

"Hurricane Aletta is still a Category 1 with winds at 90 miles per hour. The storm's center is approximately 220 miles east of the Island, and the projected path is northeast. Gusty winds and heavy rain are expected to continue on the Island until 9:00 P.M. The ocean swells are cresting at fifteen to twenty feet."

"Thanks, Cindy, close the holowall."

I have an 8:00 A.M. appointment with my shrink, Hiba, so I dress quickly and head down through the first-floor level and grab a two-person electric cart. I take the lower level tunnel that runs beneath Hub Road to stay out of the rain and wind. The cold, damp tunnel passes through all six zones and their building complexes, but it's a short ride from Zone Six to the Medical Clinic on the ground floor of Zone One.

As I lay down on the hospital bed that Hiba calls her psychiatric couch, she starts right in on me. "Alright, Mr. Brodie, let's use today's session to check your long-term memory retention." She glances over to make sure I'm not rolling my good eye because we've been through this a dozen times, and she knows I'm getting tired of it.

"Would you like to start with your hippie childhood or skip straight to the South Indian Ocean?"

Hiba knows that I hate to talk about my parents and my early years in the desert compound outside of Palm Springs. My folks were loners, and I was their only child. They were the last members of the big hippie movement and the first of the doomsday survivalist-prepper fanatics. They both had the misfortune of dying from natural causes before the world came to a violent end, and they never got a chance to use their cache of supplies and weapons. I left the compound in ashes when I moved out.

"I was a happy child – let's leave it at that."

"Okay, Brent, take a deep breath and relax. What were you doing on the oil rig before the explosion?" she asks.

I close my eyes and rehash the ugly memories once again. "I was hired as a Contractor to commission a proprietary system for underwater fracking on the Kerguelen Rig in the South Indian Ocean. I'd been there for about forty days straight, and all of the testing was going according to plan. On June 1st, 2022, I was pulled out of bed at about midnight by Jack Sturdevant. He thought that there was an instrumentation malfunction, but the test plan called for me to verify it. The pressure gauge for the primary steam injection line was at the upper control limit. Jack also stated that the slurry pump was cavitating, and the head bearing was hotter than hell. I threw on my life jacket and my fall protection harness and headed for the third level deck to verify the manual valve positions. Everything looked right, so I unhooked my lanyard and headed towards the fourth level ladder."

"Very good," she interrupts. "You remembered Jack Sturtevant's first name."

"Yeah, that sounds right."

"So what do you remember next?" she asks.

"I remember falling. Flying backward through the air, I knew that somewhere down below me was that cold, black ocean. The next time I opened my eyes, I was floating on my back, staring up at the towering oil rig that was now completely engulfed in flames. Burning equipment and probably body parts were falling all around me. I could smell the crude oil in the water surrounding my face and calmly waited for it to ignite and put me out of my misery. I remember thinking that drowning would be a lot less painful, but my damn life vest wouldn't let me sink. I tried to backstroke away from the flames, but my right hand was mangled and just hung there like fish bait. I felt like a helpless piece of plastic flotsam, floating there for what seemed like hours. I remember trying to remove the life vest with my good but almost frozen left hand, but then I passed out or died, I'm not sure which."

"And then what happened?" she asks.

"I woke up in Hell. You were there, Doctor Dubashi, stabbing me in the face with a pitchfork."

We both chuckled. Hiba's chuckle was more girlish than the mad scientist laugh I was expecting.

"No need to get snarky," she says. "What do you remember about your first year of rehabilitation?"

"I remember my ex-fiancé, Mindy, saying that she couldn't handle the stress of seeing me wrapped up like a mummy."

"I guess that she was just marrying you for your good looks. She was an idiot anyway," says Hiba.

Was that a genuine compliment from Hiba? I let it sink in for a minute, and then add: "I remember three days of R&R in the Andaman Islands, frolicking in the surf, the spa and the Cabaña with a beautiful Indian Doctor."

"No you don't - that never happened."

"Are we done? I have a lot of work to do." This was my usual excuse to end our sessions.

"Fine, take off." She smiles, but we both know she's dreaming up some new form of torture for our next session. "Next week, I want to run a full diagnostic on Huey."

Huey is our nickname for the Hippocampus Unit with Enhanced Intelligence (H.U.E.I.), which is implanted in the right side of my brain. Huey is a top-secret project that only Doctor Dubashi and I share. Sure, most of the people on the Island know that I suffered brain damage and that I receive weekly psychiatric counseling, but if they knew about Huey, they would be as afraid of him as I am.

The Island's Control Tower is also located in Zone One, upstairs from the Medical Clinic, so I head up the plastic stairs to the second floor. Plastic stairs tend to blur together, so we had to put yellow, non-skid tape on all of the edges to keep everyone from tripping. Maybe someday we'll install plastic elevators. The second floor of this building has the best temperature, humidity, and dust control on the Island because it houses almost 300 processors contained in about 40 PLC cabinets. We call our 20 petaFLOPS system "The Horizon One" and while it doesn't quite qualify as a supercomputer by today's standards, it still has more power than we can use.

As I glance down the aisles, I see Henry, walking with his head down and mumbling to himself. "Hey, do you know what you're doing in here?"

"I'm thinking 'bout shutting this thing down; that's what. You know we're still running on batteries, don't you? Everything is down except this monster. I'm on my way upstairs now to see Don."

"Relax, Henry. How long before we get spinning?" I don't blame Henry for panicking. When the generators aren't running, we're bleeding money. The downtime from the damaged Arm combined with the storm is stretching our resources to the limit.

"Hopefully, late tonight when the storm passes," he says. "Our battery backup is at 30%, and then we'll be feeding off the Tankers."

Henry and I head upstairs to the Control Room and spot Don Murphy, our Control Tower Manager, and Miguel Diaz, arguing as they walk from the Weather Display Panels to the Tanker Control Station.

"Oh good, you guys are awake." Don starts in on Henry and me. "Miguel here wants to start bringing in his Water Tankers, but we're still getting fifteen-foot swells. Tell him he's nuts, will you?"

"Actually, I think that we're still holding everything from Lazaro in a queue until they can be inspected. The Captain is supposed to be putting a plan in place to make that happen." I reply as the four of us move over to the holowall at the Tanker Station. Monitoring some 150 Drone Water Tankers is a full-time job for two people, and the hologram looks like an air traffic controller station. Each of the Water Tankers has its own Marine Navigational Radar in both the X-band and the S-band with live feeds to the Control Tower. The Tower also uses a Perimeter Surveillance Radar System.

"Mikey, clear this mess up for me, will you?" I ask.

"No problem." Miguel closes out all of the radar screens, which only leaves the Tanker locations based on GPS. "We're averaging 12 Tanks a day to L.A. and at 17 Knots, 1150 miles it takes almost 2.5 days each way. That's about 60 Tankers in transit. We've been down for two days, so their queue is dry, and if we back up any more empty Tanks, you'll be able to walk to L.A."

"Did we warn them when we went down?" I ask. California is our biggest freshwater customer for obvious reasons. We have two dedicated docks and pumping stations in Long Beach that run 24/7. San Diego has the Carlsbad Desalination Plant, which produces twice as much freshwater as we do, but they have been down for a month. Evidently, an environmentalist group, The Ocean First Force, sabotaged their ocean water intake. About half of the water we ship to L.A. ends up on the Super-Train to the San Joaquin Valley due to Global Warming causing the collapse of the Sacramento Delta levee system.

"Yes, we warned them. We blamed it on the hurricane," says Miguel. "Japan is only getting 1 Tanker a day, but at almost 5700 miles, they're tying up 24 Tanks in transit."

"So that leaves Lazaro – the damn bombers! What does their queue look like?" I ask.

Don points to the Tanker locations for the round trip to the Port of Lazaro, Mexico. "We're averaging six loads per day with 44 Tanks in transit. It's a 4-day trip, so it looks like they still have about ten incoming Tankers before they run out."

"Alright, let's focus on getting Los Angeles watered as soon as the swells die down. We can make Japan a low priority but don't tell Fumio I said that and don't bring in any of Mexico's empties until we get them inspected."

I look over at Henry for his input, but he's looking around the room, and his face is turning red.

"Holy crap, Don! You got five out of six holowalls running in here. You could fry an egg with the Mazers alone," he yells. "You know we're running on batteries, right?"

Every technician in the control room turns toward Don Murphy, and he gives three of them the signal to kill their monitors. As acting CEO, I hold Henry accountable for all of our production and financial goals, and he does his job well, but I try not to get too excited or upset in front of our employees. The fact is, my supposed PTSD scares a lot of them. You'd think I was a postman carrying a gun.

"Don, let's get the Captain on the pad and see what the plan is."

"I'll get him. I think he's in the Bot-Shop." Don opens a direct link to the Robotics Shop, and it zooms in on Captain Hendricks, who is standing next to J.J. and Grace Small at one of the many workbenches. Behind Jake, six of our Service-Bots are sitting up straight on the bench. You can tell that they are Bots because they're dressed a lot nicer than everyone else on the Island. In this humid tropical air, most everyone wears shorts, T-shirts, or tank tops including myself, but we do require closed-toed shoes and even steel-toed boots in some areas.

The camera alerts the Captain to our presence, and he turns to address us: "Morning Gentlemen. Glad you're here. I was about to call you up."

"What's your progress look like for inspecting these Tankers, Captain?" I ask.

"Jake and Grace have installed sniffer units in three of our Bots. We can transport them out to the Tankers whenever the swells are small enough, Brent," he states.

"The hell you can! You're going to risk blowing up a half-million-dollar Service-Bot?" Henry shouts over my shoulder. "Can't you come up with a Sniffer-Dog-Bot or something J.J.?"

Jake hems and haws for a few seconds because his little side projects tend to get him in trouble with his other boss, Fumio. "Well, Sir, we don't have any Dog-Bots, but I have been working on a couple of giant rats. Of course, I don't know if we can make the sniffer units that small yet."

Grace breaks in with her quaint Texas drawl, which makes everyone standing around the pad chuckle under their breath. "If we take out the drug sensors and just sniff for explosives, I think that we can get it down to about forty cubic inches," she states.

I try to visualize the math in my head and reply: "That's a pretty big rat, but size isn't the real issue right now, time is. You have about ten hours before we can risk a boat going out there, so see what you can do, will you?"

"Yes Sir, Boss," J.J. replies. "The prototype might look like a hairless Chihuahua humping a river rat, but I'll throw something together."

Henry has calmed down a little, so we move over to the Weather Center were the Technician still has the holowall up and running. In addition to satellite feeds from the mainland, Plasticity Island has Pulse-Doppler Radar. It's reassuring to see that Hurricane Aletta is almost due east and moving north-northeast away from the island. Just like the Atlantic Hurricane Season, the Pacific Season is getting longer, and the storms are getting bigger and more frequent.

"We're taking a lot of direct hits," notes Henry, pointing at the Lightning Strike Counter, which indicates 14 hits in the past 24 hours. We have 36 lighting rods on the island that run straight through the base-blocks to large copper plates in the water. The rods are held in place with water-cooled rubber insulators to keep the plastic from melting every time they get hit.

"Hey, Don, how deep are we riding?" I ask.

"The Arms are about three feet below normal, and the Island is down two and a half feet. We're starting to pump out the main ballast tanks now," he says.

The Arms only have three layers of base-blocks, and the bottom two layers are used as ballast tanks to counteract the tremendous buoyancy force. The target depth is 15 feet below the surface, which leaves the deck 15 feet above the waterline.

Adjusting the depth of the Arms allows us to increase or decrease the force from the oceans current as well as draw in materials from the debris field for recycling. The water in the ballast tanks also absorbs some of the violent wave action. Another set of ballast blocks runs the full circumference of the Island's main body so that we can lower the whole Island during major storms and keep it from blowing around. It looks like everything is under control, so Henry and I head down to the ground floor and take the eCart back to Zone Six.

"You do remember that we gave everyone the weekend off to unwind - right?" asks Henry.

"We'll keep a skeleton crew going tonight until we get spinning and start recharging the backup batteries," I reply. "Captain Hendricks will need a few maintenance men to start in on the Tanker inspections tomorrow, and of course, we'll have to staff the Bar and Galley. Speaking of which, I plan to relax and party with the crew, so you're in charge for the next few days."

"Bullshit! I have a date with my wife. Besides, I'm starting my vacation early, like tonight." Henry's voice fades away as we split off towards our apartments.

I don't want to join the Friday night's celebration too early because I'm not supposed to drink any alcohol, so I decide to hit the Tank for a while. I don't like the Tank, but Hiba insists that it's good for me. It's also another one of our little secrets. The Tank is an isolation chamber filled with a heavy solution of saltwater to keep me afloat. It's built into the wall behind my holowall, and the access door, which looks like just another plastic block, can only be operated by Cindy.

"Cindy, open the Tank. Set the alarm for 30 minutes but notify me in 25."

Green LEDs light the interior of the tank as I step into the 95-degree water, which will warm gradually to 102. Laying on my back, floating in the dimly lit chamber, all of my fears and traumatic memories come rushing back to me, but I focus on trying to relax.

"Cindy, circulate the air at 80 degrees, shut the door, and cut the lights."

Along with the horrific experience of being blown off an oil rig into the deep, black ocean, I've always been a little claustrophobic. Fortunately, I know that Cindy can hear me, and I've grown to trust her. Unfortunately, I'm trapped in here with just myself and Huey, and I'm not really sure how much I can trust him. Huey doesn't always make his presence known, and today we both lie there in silence. My primary objective in the Tank is to increase the synaptic connections between my cerebral neurons and the artificial hippocampus interface unit. Hiba calls this process neuroplasticity and jokingly refers to me as "Plasticity-Man" in private.

As an engineer, the easiest way for me to focus on the Interface Unit is to imagine its construction. Huey's interface pad is built like a sandwich with dozens of layers of meat and cheese. The layers of induced pluripotent stem cells that mimic cerebral neurons are lab-grown on top of 3D bioprinted blood vessels. On each side of these membranes is a sheet of silicon nanotubes that serve as glymphatic drainage channels. Next is a layer of nano-electrodes that penetrate the faux neurons and transmit the synaptic signals to and from the thirty terabyte processor. The processor, wireless modem, and charging module are all encompassed by larger bioprinted blood vessels which dissipate the heat, and all of the blood vessels are tapped into my posterior cerebral artery. The whole unit is only about the size of a baked chicken breast.

"Mister Brodie, are you trying to establish a new wireless link?" Cindy whispers in the dark.

"No, Cindy, I'm just lying here in the Tank. Why?"

"Someone at your physical location is trying to access me through a secured backdoor by using your address. Shall I notify security?" asks Cindy.

"Wait a minute Cindy." I'm not sure what to think, but I try not to sound alarmed. "Did they give you a password?"

"Huey15&, H – U – E – Y – 1 – 5 - ampersand, Huey15&," she repeats.

I give this new anomaly some thought. Huey has a wireless unit that communicates with my prosthetics, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that he wants to reach out and touch someone else. Actually, it might come in handy.

"Cindy, give Huey15& a security level 1 account, but notify me of all activity."

"Yes Sir, Mister Brodie."

"Cindy, let me out."

_ _ _ _

"Today is Saturday, May 3, 2031, at 7:00 A.M. PDT," states Cindy. "4,200 children under the age of five died yesterday due to water-related diarrheal diseases."

We promised to give everyone the weekend off for a little rest and recreation, and that generally turns into 48 hours of heavy drinking and partying. Food and drinks are always free on Plasticity Island, and for special occasions, we instruct the Service and Bar-Bots to be a little more liberal. Nobody likes to be cut off by a Bar-Bot with facial recognition.

As for myself, I need to stay halfway alert, so I start the day in the rooftop spa with a half pot of coffee and a beautiful view of the sunsight. Hurricane Aletta has moved off to the Northeast and left us with clear skies and gentle swells. All two million tons of plastic that make up the Island are floating high and almost dry. Sometimes, like today, the morning sun reflects off the damp plastic blocks like a million little colorful prisms. Water Tankers pulling into the Pits and Docks, extend the reflection out past the tips of the Arms.

Hiba sneaks up behind me and slips into the spa with hardly a sound. We usually try not to be seen together in public because she doesn't think it's appropriate; what with me being her boss and her being my shrink. What would people think?

Henry knows that I use the spa almost every morning, so he makes lots of noise as he and his wife Akemi join us on the roof. "Ha! We caught you guys. Can we join you?"

"No, you didn't." Hiba giggles nervously as she moves away from me. "We were just talking."

This spa is exclusive to the six penthouses, but it seats twelve people, so we often use it for casual business meetings and get-togethers. Fumio, Clark, and Don live in the top-floor apartments along with Hiba, Henry and his wife, and of course, me.

Henry has his holopad with him and sets it on the edge of the spa. "I hope you don't plan on playing around all weekend like everyone else." Henry glares at me while trying not to crack a smile as he opens the Control Tower's Operation Center hologram.

"Actually, I was thinking of doing a little kayak fishing."

Henry ignores my comment. "As you can see, the storm blew us way off our sweet spot. We're only turning at half a Knot."

Hiba steps in to divert the conversation. "So Akemi, will you get to visit your family this week?"

Henry looks impatient, but he doesn't interrupt the ladies.

"I'm so excited," replies Akemi. "It's been six months since we've been off the Island. I just hope that Henry doesn't have to spend too much time working." She looks at me as if I had any control over Henry, but I ignore her.

Akemi is seven years younger and nine inches shorter than Henry, but she already seems to be wearing the pants in the family. I haven't discussed it with Henry, but I'm pretty sure that once work starts on the Gyre's West End Island, he and Akemi will want to transfer over to it. I'll worry about that when the time comes.

Henry calls up Don Murphy in the Control Tower and asks for an update on the Island's position.

"Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen." Don's smiling face comes up on the holopad. "Let me get my swim trunks, and I'll join you. Are we having mimosas this morning?"

"Just coffee, Don," Henry replies as Hiba, Akemi, and I smile at the thought of mimosas. "So Don, we were just checking to see if we're going to get this plastic crate spinning today or what?"

"The rudders are on auto, headed for home position, and the trade winds are pretty constant in our favor at about 15 knots," replies Don. "We should be up to rotation speed in about an hour and at our home position in two or three."

The rudders extend thirty feet out from the ends of the six Arms and about ten feet below the ocean surface. In addition to 180 degrees of horizontal movement, they are constructed with 12-inch slats that can be opened and closed to create more or less resistance to the ocean current. The rudders are computer controlled with feedback loops for the wind and current speeds.

Don continues: "Also, you should know that Jake's Possum-Bot, or whatever it is, has cleared the first tanker in line from Lazaro, and we're bringing it into the Docks now. It would be a lot easier if we had a few more of these varmints."

"Thanks for the help, Don. Make sure that you get some R&R this weekend," says Henry as he closes down the holopad.

"Relax, Henry. Want to join me for a little fishing?" I ask.

"There's no way I'm getting in one of those kayaks," he replies. "But I wouldn't mind playing a little tennis. You guys want to play doubles after breakfast?"

Hiba begs off with a weak excuse about work, so I tell Henry to warm up with Akemi for a few games, and then I'll join him.

It's almost noon by the time I make my way out towards the tennis courts, and half of the Island's employees are in the Bar and Cabaña area celebrating the extra time off. The swimming pool and spa are packed with partiers, and they're even flowing over into the lap pool. The skeet shooters are blasting away out near the end of A-1, and I can't see them, but I know for sure that the Arcade is packed full of gamers taking advantage of our new 360-degree holochambers. Everyone else is on the volleyball, basketball, or tennis courts getting some exercise.

Halfway through the main Cabaña, my holopad buzzes with Henry's tone, so I answer it. "I know, Henry, I'm late. I'm on my way now."

"Never mind that; did you hear about Lazaro?" he asks. "Are you sitting down?"

I make the mistake of taking a seat at one of the small dining tables, and a Service-Bot, recognizing my face, rushes over with a cold beer. "What's all the excitement about Henry?"

"Carlos Magaña has been found dead along with two of our dock workers. All of them shot in the head!" Henry pauses to let the bad news sink in. "And one of our Tankers is missing."

Carlos was the Operations and Security Manager for our docks and pumping stations at the Port of Lazaro, Mexico. We hired him at the docks in Long Beach, and after three months working on the Island, we promoted him to Lazaro.

"I'm in the Control Tower with Miguel and Don, and Captain Hendricks is on his way over. Can you join us?" asks Henry.

"I'm on my way! See if you can get Fumio and J.J. up there as well," I answer, chugging my beer and rushing over to Zone One.

Jake and Grace, who seem to be joined at the hip lately, join me as I climb the stairs, but I have to remind Grace that she doesn't have the security clearance for this meeting.

Everyone is huddled around the Transportation Station's holowall as we reach the Control Center, so I wave them over to the conference room. Fumio joins us as everyone is getting seated, and I make a point of locking the door behind him.

"Alright, we'll get everyone on the same page in a minute, but first, a word of caution. I'm declaring this meeting a security Level 3 which means that nothing gets repeated outside of this room." As I look around at the surprised faces for agreement, J.J. starts to raise his hand, so I motion for him to put it down.

"Jake Jones, Henry and I are promoting you to Manager of the Robotics Shop as of immediately, which includes a security clearance of Level 3. Fumio will be focusing on the Kawasaki Shop and the development of the Western Island."

"Miguel, can you bring everyone up to speed on the events in Lazaro?"

"Sure! Carlos and two of his dockworkers have been executed by banditos or the Drug Cartel, and they have stolen our Tanker." Miguel is visibly shaken because he considered Carlos a close friend.

Don steps in to help clear things up. "It appears that the control system on T-51 was hacked, including the M-Drone and the E-Bot Drone. We've halted the remaining four Tankers at the outskirts of the Port and launched two of the M-Drones to search for T-51."

Miguel takes a deep breath and adds: "I've spoken with the local Chief of Policía, and he says that he has all of his men on it, but they don't have any real leads. Everyone in Lazaro and Cárdenas knows that the Cartel controls the government there."

"Miguel, are you suggesting that some drug cartel has the computer skills to hack our bulletproof firewalls? Don, who do we have working on that angle?" I ask.

"I have our two best men working on it, and Grace has offered her assistance if you'll okay it," Don replies. "So far, they're saying that someone physically broke into the Tanker's control room to access the computer and take control. Maybe we should start putting armed men onboard the Tankers."

"Why don't we just stop sending them water?" asks Captain Hendricks.

"We could, but a half-million people are dying of thirst in that County," replies Henry.

"People are dying everywhere! We can send our water somewhere else," says the Captain.

I step in to try to keep the meeting under control: "Alright, let's step back a little and look at the big picture. Two days ago, at the Department Meeting, after my trip to DC, we discussed the fact that we need to prepare for the worst-case scenario. The fact of the matter is that half of the populated world is running out of potable water, and the situation is only going to get worse. The rising ocean levels and freshwater systems contaminated due to floods and acid rain are driving most Countries to the brink. There's no more "business as usual" or "politics as usual" when people don't have water to drink, they panic."

"It's not like we can attack Mexico, Brent. We're still part of the United States, aren't we? Have we notified the U.S. Consulate in Cárdenas?" asks Fumio.

"I'll do that," I offer. "But we've been forewarned by the State Department not react to any aggression by foreign entities."

There's a long silence and a lot of blank faces in the conference room, so I figure it's time to set some direction: "Henry, are you and Fumio still leaving for Japan on Tuesday?"

"Yeah, we're planning on leaving the Sun Dog in Honolulu and taking a charter flight to Nagoya, but we can send it back to you if you give us an extra pilot," he replies.

"Better send it back – there's no telling how long you'll be gone. If I end up going to Mexico, I'll take the Sea Turtle. Mikey, are you up for a trip?"

Miguel hesitates a minute and then replies: "Let's go kick some ass, Boss."

"Sounds like a plan," I say. "Don, Captain, I need you guys to locate that Tanker and try to get eyes on those thieves."

"We're on it, Brent," replies Don.

"Fumio, can you spare a couple of Robotic Technicians from the Kawasaki Plant to help Jake? Also, let's see if we can extend Grace's contract for a couple more weeks. We don't want J.J. to get lonely."

Everyone looks at J.J., so he pipes in a little defensively: "You know, Boss, Grace has some pretty mad hacking skills. She might be a big help in locating that Tanker."

"Okay, but keep her on a short leash. Any more suggestions or questions?" I ask. "If not, let's get back to work."

As everyone gets up to leave, Henry adds: "Miguel, can you help me contact Carlos's family in Long Beach? We can fly them to Lazaro if needed."

"Yes Sir!" he replies.

The news of the deaths at the Port of Lazaro spreads like herpes and nervous, intoxicated employees, start drinking even heavier than usual. With a skeleton crew left to run the island, the rest of us slip into party mode, and the evening flies by quickly.

_ _ _ _

"Today is Sunday, May 4, 2031, at 7:00 A.M. PDT," states Cindy. "650,000 children in India die each year due to a lack of freshwater. The Ganga and Brahmaputra Rivers have all but dried up, and Pakistan is planning to cut off the Indus River diversion to India on June 20, 2031."

"Cindy, did Doctor Dubashi ask you to remind me about the Indus Conflict?" I ask.

"Yes Sir, Mister Brodie."

Hiba and I have discussed the dire condition her home Country is in and the upcoming battle for water rights on the Indus River many times. Most of the glaciers in the Himalaya and Karakoram ranges have melted, and the Tibetan ice fields are disappearing rapidly. The India – China border wars in the Aksai Chin region have reignited, and a half-billion lives are on the line. Other than starting the construction of the new island in the Indian Ocean, I'm not sure how I can help them.

"Cindy, locate Jake Jones for me."

"His holopad indicates that he is in his office, Brent. Shall I call him up?"

"Yes, but just tell him I'll be there in 20 minutes."

Most of the Island is still a party zone, so I'm a little surprised to find J.J. hard at work - must be the promotion. I skirt the Bar and Cabaña area to avoid getting sucked into the fun and head toward the garage. Picking out a nice trike, I roll out onto Hub Road, where the sun is beating down and reflecting off the plastic surface. I turn right toward Zone Five because the Bot-Shop is on the second floor of the Utilities and Maintenance Complex. The first floor is a graveyard as our mechanics are always the first ones to a party and the upstairs is just as quiet except for a couple of robotic arms running through their diagnostic paces.

Jake is all smiles in his new office and greets me with his usual, "Hey Boss, what's up?"

"Hey, J.J." I take a seat and motion for him to do the same. "Jake, are you familiar with the term 'method to my madness'? Well, in reference to your promotion, I'm afraid there's more madness than method."

Jake sits back in his chair and says: "To be honest, Boss, that seems to be your new modus operandi."

Jake says it with a smile, so I don't take it personally. "I need your help with this war effort, so I'm going to tell you something that only one other person on this Island knows besides me, and I need you to keep it confidential."

"You mean Henry, right?" he asks.

"No, actually I'm talking about Doctor Dubashi."

"Hiba?" A frown crosses Jake's face. "You know I'm not a big fan of hers since she shut down our hoverboard track."

When we built Rim Road, we embedded three lanes of electromagnetic tracks that work almost like a rail-gun but with feedback to the hoverboards. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more of supercollider, and Hiba made us shut it down due to all of the injuries.

"Yeah, I know. She's part of my problem, but she did help save my life, and I'm still kind of dependent on her," I reply. "So here's the deal. If you keep what I'm about to tell you just between us, you can have all the R&D funds you want to go along with your new raise and maybe even a big bonus. And I especially don't want Grace in on our secret. Do we have a deal?"

"Sounds like a deal, Boss, but I'd like to talk about my patent rights on a few projects if we could."

"Okay, that's probably fair in your case. So here's the thing. Everyone is familiar with my prosthetics, but what they don't know is that I also have a small brain implant."

Jake is a diehard Bot-geek, so this piques his interest, and he sits up straight as he replies: "Oh, cool, that explains a lot."

Again, he's smiling, so I let it slide.

"I kind of figured that you're too smart and creative to be suffering from PTSD or severe brain damage. Although, you know, creativity is often associated with mental illnesses like schizophrenia," he adds.

"Trust me, Jake, I struggle with those concerns every day. Anyway, a big chunk of oil rig hit me just above the right ear and took out my right hippocampus. In fact, it took off the tip of my ear but nothing a little plastic surgery couldn't fix. Luckily, it missed my middle and inner ear, but Huey does have a cochlear connection."

"Huey?" Jake asks. "Does Huey talk to you through your cochlear nerve?"

"Mostly, it just sounds like a bee in my ear, but he's still developing. Huey stands for Hippocampus Unit with Enhanced Intelligence," I continue. "He has a lab-grown biomass interface pad that creates synaptic connections with my neural axons. He also has a 30 terabyte processor and a wireless connection with my prosthetics."

"That explains why your hand's reaction time is a little better than my humanoids." Jake sounds like he wants to play with my hand, but he contains himself. "So what exactly are you looking for from me? An upgrade?"

"Sort of. The first thing I need is more Wi-Fi range. Mine's only good for about a hundred feet, and I'd like to get out to around a quarter-mile. I'm hoping that you can fit it into my prosthetic hand. I call it Louie."

"What the hell are you, or this Huey dude trying to connect with? The internet? If so, I got to tell you, Boss, that's a little scary." Jake pauses: "Maybe you're more like Hiba than you think."

"Relax Jake. I'm sure you'll come to grips with this whole thing. Now you know why I don't tell anyone. Also, here's the other thing I need from you. Rats. Rats and maybe some bats."

"You mean like Rat-Bots and Bat-Bots?" he asks.

"Yeah, and they need to be armed. I don't care if they crap napalm or spit acid or whatever! Use your imagination. If we have to fight a war, we don't want the enemy to know who or what hit them. And while you're at it, try to think up something for the Tankers. Sharks, or seagulls, or something."

"That's a tall order, Boss. This promotion is starting to look like it might be over my head." Jake isn't smiling anymore at this point.

"That's why I'm bringing in some help for you. Just work on getting me some drawings or a prototype, and I'll make sure you get all of the resources you need."

Jake has a grave look on his face, which is unusual for him, and I have a lot riding on his cooperation. "What's really troubling you about this, J.J.?"

"You know that I've always enjoyed working for you, Boss, but you know, this is how the whole technological singularity thing gets started. Artificial intelligence doesn't have to be just a computer system; it can develop from an enhanced human brain like John von Neumann and Vernor Vinge predicted. Before you know it, you have smart machines building smarter machines, and they take over the world. And now you're asking me to be the tool that helps make it happen."

"Listen, J.J.; if you suspect that I'm using my powers for evil, you have permission to shoot me in the hippocampus."

Jake and I sit there a minute thinking, and finally, he adds: "Alright sounds cool, I'm in. But just so you know, there's a lot of other ways to take out a computer besides a bullet."

"Come on; you can buy me a beer at the Cabaña."

As Jake and I exit the Robotics Shop in the eCart, we are immediately confronted by a pair of low-flying drones. "Are those Water-Ballers, Jake?" I ask.

I barely get the words out of my mouth before we get slammed by a half dozen water balls. Fortunately, we don't allow paintballs on the Island for hygienic reasons, but even these water balls can sting at close range.

"Just run for it!" says Jake. "They're not allowed indoors."

Whoever the anonymous clowns flying the drones are, chase us right up to the edge of the Cabaña in a hail of balls. Soaking wet, we're greeted by a couple of dozen cheering drunks, and it's obvious that the party has begun.

Huey and Louie combine their talents to make me the best pool player on the Island, and it doesn't take long before the local sharks challenge me to some Eight-Ball. Now that Jake is in on my secret, I may have to let him win a game or two.

With 150 people partying on one side of the Island, I wonder if maybe we need to adjust the ballast tanks, but no one is standing up straight anyway. After about six hours of eating, drinking, and the usual bar games, J.J. challenges me to a holochamber contest. His favorite game involves slaying sea monsters with a sword while standing on an old pirate ship. I think it's called 'Krak-en my Ass!' or something. I lose badly and head up to my room to sleep it off.

While pouring myself a hangover prevention cocktail, Cindy announces a security alert: "Doctor Hiba Dubashi is approaching your door, Mister Brodie."

Opening the door, I can tell that Hiba has had a few drinks herself as she is wearing a sexy red teddy in the penthouse hallway.

"Hi Brent, can we talk?" she asks.

"We could, but first, Louie has a new trick he'd like to show you."

"Louie?"

Taking her left hand in my right, I gently squeeze the median nerve in her palm and put Louie's artificial pollex and digitus medius on medium vibration mode.

Chapter 2: Nothing's Free

