My name is Nicholas Tane.
I don't know how I got here, or why. I do know I've never seen anything like this place in my entire life. Statement: I'm not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.
I figure keeping a ledger will be useful, if only for me to look back over in the future when (if? should I say if?) I survive this.
Question: should I say if?
For continuity's sake, I mind as well start at the beginning.
...
Where did it begin?
He was bent over, hunched, almost folded in half -- his face inches from a hot soldering iron. It was going to burn his face, but he didn't care, insufferable poor vision, and his glasses just wouldn't work for something this precise. Note to self: work out designs for new contact lenses re: telescoping abilities? Nnk.
The door swung open behind him, and anyone else probably would have jumped but that would have ruined the chip he was working on and then he'd have to start over, and that was just too much time to waste on being surprised. So, completely unmoving, he said, Take another step and you get a soldering iron to the face. I can't afford dust particles in here.
Whoever it was took a step. Nicholas growled and spun around in the swivel chair, soldering iron brandished like a pistol.
Lhunenn Lhaias looked at him. I'm kind of used to being threatened, you know.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, but put the iron back into his rest. He slid his glasses down from his forehead and glanced this newest intruder over. Less harshly, he said, What do you want. It was more of a statement than a question, but Lhaias didn't seem to notice.
Um, Abhis, he wanted me to get a status report. And yeah, the kid was clutching a clipboard. Ffff. He's really interested in this project.
Some part of Nicholas's brain took note of this and filed it away in a folder already labeled 'Suspicious', a folder filled with the same sort of off-hand comments and neither-here-nor-there-but-maybe-someday questions. But of course he didn't say anything to Lhunenn, who was starting to look flustered under his intense stare. Instead, he went with, It's going fine.
Lhaias frowned. Well I have to put down more than that. What progress have you made since I was last here?
You mean since you were in here bothering me yesterday?
The room's other occupant shifted uncomfortably again. Come on, Nich--
Dr. Tane. At least Tane. But not Nicholas. He turned back to the table and begun to examine the circuits of the chip. He didn't like Lhunenn being in here; he knew he'd relay everything he heard or saw or even smelled back to Abhis (and Lhunenn was Mammalian, he could smell a lot) but at the same time he felt bad sending the kid back with nothing because he knew Abhis would probably take it out on the messenger. So, grudgingly: Okay. Well, the prototypes for the processors are almost done, so after that I'll just need them refabricated more precisely and I can finish the central part. And then I think I can start trying it out on smaller inanimate objects, paperclips, etc.
Wow, so you're really almost finished then?
Don't be a fool. Of course not. Nicholas said fiercely, then instantly regretted it. He hated being mean to Lhunenn, who he knew got a lot of crap from Abhis and still managed to handle that and everything else he dealt with a lot better than most distinguished scientists Nick knew.
But Lhunenn seemed to sense he was sorry, because he said, It's okay, and Nicholas could tell he meant it. Jeez, he genuinely felt bad for the kid. He had a new bandage on his arm, Nick noticed, and he almost asked about it but figured it would be best, like always, not to even mention it.
So instead he plucked the iron out of its rest and leaned back down to the processor, and said, If that's all... Get out was the unspoken declaration.
He could feel Lhunenn looking at him. Then a shuffle of feet and, Bye Nicholas, and he was alone again. Alone with his thoughts, as it were, standing at the edge of the abyss and refusing to do anything about it but file his worries away in folders labeled 'Suspicious'.

---

To say he was paranoid might be a bit of an understatement.
Nicholas would never describe himself as paranoid, of course. Instead he might refer to the rest of the population as 'too lenient in their personal security' or 'a bunch of propaganda-addled government sheep who wouldn't know danger if it introduced itself by name'. And those were some of the kinder ones.
It was true he kept his phone disconnected twenty-three hours of the day's twenty-four. It was true he used a false name when he went out for groceries. It was true he never opened the few items of mail he received (all letterbombs and anthrax, probably, he would tell anyone who asked) -- anything addressed to Nicholas Tane, no matter who it was from, was instantly incinerated. It was true he owned a pair of military night-vision goggles as well as the best telescope money could buy, and it was true he used both of these things to watch for UFOs and secret government airships. So far he had discovered exactly zero, but he knew they were out there. He knew, because he had designed most of the secret government airships himself.
Needless to say, his curious practices garnered a lot of nervous gossip around the OSIRIS sciences department. He was praised, insulted, defended, cut down. Nicholas himself ignored all of it, although if ever actually brought into the discussion he'd sneer and growl out a, I'd rather be paranoid then dead, which only seemed to birth more whispering.
But he was a good physicist and inventor and saver-of-crashed-supercomputers, great, maybe even the best working at OSIRIS. How much of this could be attributed to the supposedly intelligence-enhancing drugs he popped all the time was debatable. Regardless, many of the world's most innovative technologies could be traced back, in one way or another, to Nicholas Tane. So maybe he had earned the right to paranoia. He certainly thought so.

In this instance it was going to be paranoia that saved his life.

But that's for later.

He observed the silicon behemoth in front of him with crossed arms and a look of distaste. The behemoth didn't have arms to cross or eyes to narrow, but it was probably it was staring right back at him, and just as distastefully.
I don't trust it. I could build something out of paperclips that would calculate the ratios faster than this thing.
The two technicians glanced at each other with faces that almost seemed to scream Why are we the ones who have to deal with this guy? The first (stark white labcoat in direct contrast with Nicholas's dusty jeans and wrinkled shirt) made a hemming sound in the back of his throat and said, I assure you, Dr. Tane, this supercomputer is the most up to date system in OSIRIS...likely the world. It's practically from the future.
Nicholas snorted. Yeah, and it's the 'practically' part that worries me. How long will it take?
The second lifted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. Maybe two weeks.
Another snort. Not even close to acceptable. I'd be able to calculate the ratios faster than that, and I'd be precise. I'm not so sold on the accuracy of this thing. I'd do it myself, but I have other things I need to be focused on.
Oh, really? The first technician snapped. Let's have a race, then; since you're so confident in your abilities to best a hundred petabyte machine.
Sure, he said, and the other scientists looked a little thrown out of whack, The time/space ratios for my project, then, since you already have the specifications set up. You pick location.
At this point the latter of the two had to step in. Look, this is ridiculous. You can't just turn everything into a contest --
Watch me, Nicholas said, eyes beginning to glint dangerously. Besides, it's well within my rights to test the capability of a machine that'll be doing work for me. He was still looking the computer over while the first technician inputted values, head tilted slightly to one side and arms folded obstinately.
Modifications seemingly finished, the first turned and said, not without a few smirks, All right. I'll make it simple -- from this room to the Capital Building in Ahsmet, two minutes. Ready, go! He pressed a button in the control panel. The processors whirred to life, flicking numbers across the display faster than the human eye could track.
Nicholas's gaze dulled for a minute, as if he had suddenly switched to looking inward instead of out. Point...point three-five-oh-six-seven-four Basonic meters at forty two point four degrees west. His blue eyes blazed sharp again, and moved to look pointedly at the digital screen, where the first number (three) had just appeared. I could have done it faster, but I needed to figure out the latitude/longitude of this room. And go ahead and check it -- I'm right.

The scientist slammed his fist on the side of the machine angrily. Nicholas left without another word.

---

His apartment was nothing much to speak of. A permanent layer of resolute dust lay inches thick in some places over a single room with high brick walls and a dirty kitchenette. There was an adjunct bathroom with a shower that never quite worked; Nicholas never minded.
The floor of the apartment was rarely visible: textbooks, abandoned plates of food, and scraps of paper covered it like the dense, thick carpet of the forest floor. In the corner by the sordid kitchenette tottered a wooden kitchen table standing on rickety legs; this too was covered in a sometimes-thin, sometimes-thick layer of the flotsam of Nicholas Tane's existence.
There was one outlet that rarely worked. The only thing plugged in was the single, tall lamp over the kitchen table where Nicholas now hunched over a bowl of soggy cereal. One hand held a spoon like a brush, painting a line of chiaroscuro soft flakes from the bowl to his mouth; the other scratched in a peeling journal. He never looked at his writing: his gaze was divided between the cereal and the -blocked-
The book itself was an assortment of observations, calculations, and thoughts, transcribed in several different languages (making it impossible for anyone besides Nicholas to make any sense of it.) Scribbled in the margins were symbols, vague sketches, and occasionally lines of music. If asked to comment on it, Nicholas would say nothing else besides, perhaps, It is important.
Like any aspect of his life, he was very specific about security in what could be described as his home. The door was locked first by a deadbolt, then a chain and pin, then a bar. There was no mailslot. During the night heavy blackout curtains were drawn over the windows; during the day he needed the light, so he settled for staying far away from them. There was a safe he'd purloined from a junkyard in the corner, filled with notes and copies of research papers. However, there were no guns in the apartment. Nicholas didn't believe in guns, didn't trust them, didn't know them as he knew the cool, slick surface of silicon or the crisp pages of a new book. Anyone who carried a gun he instantly judged as foolish, childish; anyone who owned more than one gun was a danger to society and deserved to be locked up. Somewhat hypocritically, he'd had extensive training rifle-hunting as a child and would certainly know what to do with one if he was ever forced to pick it up.
Besides, he rationalized, if anyone managed to trace him this far and get into his apartment, he deserved his fate.
By the door hung a dark felted wool greatcoat, one of the few personal items he owned and perhaps the only one he respected. The only times he went out were to restock his canned food or visit the bookstore (and that was happening less and less; the proprietor was beginning to unnerve him with her questions and she was not the sort of proper person to be heading such an establishment anyway, with her obviously dyed hair and her slave-to-trends wardrobe and her ridiculous name, it was something like Aristotle and people like her were just a disgrace to the city) and even then he made sure to cross the street whenever he saw someone coming and take a different way home each time to ensure no one followed him.
But lately he thought he might be slipping. There was someone tailing him, he was sure of it: he had seen them at the edge of his vision, heard their footsteps, but when he turned around there was no one there. It was sca-- it was annoying him.
His hand was no longer moving; unusual. He didn't ever think about what he was writing in his journal; in fact, he made a point of drifting off so messages could flow forth from his subconscious. Therefore his hand was always scratching something out. Except now. He looked down
he

he looked do--

HELLO NICHOLAS, the paper read. IT IS GOOD TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE. I CAN TELL WE ARE GOING TO BE FAST FRIENDS.

---

For the first few seconds his mind could simply not comprehend the words chiseled heavily into the thick paper. They were not written in his hand; they were bold, black block letters marching across the paper. He hadn't felt any specific emotion while writing it. Above it in the little book was a diagram for new magnifying contact lenses. He had cut off in the middle of describing the materials needed to create the necessary electrical circuitry without irritating the eye.
Then several thoughts crossed his mind almost simultaneously: he should run. He should stay. He should burn this place to the ground and find somewhere far away where whoever this was would never be able to find him.
Instead he got up and moved to sit on the couch. Staring ahead dumbly, his mind was completely blank. He couldn't remember the last time his mind had been completely blank. There was a sort of stupor around him, something in the air like poisonous gases. The room was cold and fresh, but the oxygen he breathed in was thick and warm, nauseating. But he didn't feel sick.
What was happening. Someone knew who he was. Someone knew where he lived. Someone was in his head someone was in his head someone was in his head
The mail slot clattered as an envelope slid in and landed on the mat.

He didn't have a mail slot.

In this same sort of trance he got up and walked slowly over to the door (devoid of any mail slots), bent down, and picked up the letter. He turned and walked back to the couch and sat down. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he was screaming.
His ears were ringing as he cut the top of the envelope and slid out the thin paper.
He looked at it.
HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS. HELLONICHOLASITISGOODTOMAKEYOURACQUAINTANCEICANTELLWEAREGOINGTOBEFASTFRIENDS.
He was somehow not surprised to learn the mantra continued onto the back. The letter fell from his hand and drifted to the floor, where it settled contentedly among other debris. His hands found their way to his knees, palms up. He looked the bottoms of his hands over calmly. His fingertips were blank as his thoughts; prints burned off with lye years ago. The memory of the searing pain still brought--
something was breaking
something was shattering
someone was in his head
--he came to suddenly and gasped as if it was his first breath of life. The air was chill and clean in the back of his throat, like a knife. He was panting heavily and his nails were digging into his hands. As he unfolded his fists he saw scarlet.
Hello Nicholas, he said, and then, what.
And then, It is good to make your acquaintance. I can tell we are going to be fast friends. What. His hands flew to his mouth, but his tongue continued underneath.
I know you are experiencing fear I'm not scared who are you what are you doing but do not worry. I am simply an interested investor what do you mean who are you oh my god. No, but close. I call myself an investor because I wish to invest in something of yours what your future. Do you know about your future, Nicholas?
He was frozen in place. He felt something wet on his cheeks but that was impossible, he didn't cry those weren't tears--
--no, they weren't. They were raindrops; it was raining and Nicholas was standing on the roof of his apartment building and it was raining and there were raindrops running down his cheek and onto his shirt. He looked down at his shirt; the thin creased fabric was already soaked. He looked at the palms of his hands, beaded with cold water. He looked at the pebbly concrete of the roof, rain puddling around his shoes. He looked at the woman standing at the edge of the roof.
Somehow she was completely dry; her jet-black macintosh falling unbuttoned to just above her knees was pristine without a single drop. She looked at him with bright blue eyes, but something was off about the blue, something was off about the eyes; he couldn't place it. Hello Nicholas, she said, and although Nicholas knew it was her that was speaking, her mouth wasn't moving: his mouth was forming the syllables, the words were in his voice. It is good to make your acquaintance. I can tell we are going to be fast friends.
He was not in the same pressing trance as before, but there was an odd calmness around him he couldn't shake, a weird feeling that everything was fine and he shouldn't worry. Who are you, he managed to make out with some difficulty, and what do you want with me?
The woman looked at him (and he saw that what was strange about her eyes was that they were completely pupiless) and a ghost of a smile passed over her lips before she turned to lean on the stone barrier around the perimeter of the roof. She didn't move again, but Nicholas felt compelled to drift to her side as if she had gestured for him. He walked with slow, careful steps as if unsure of his footing.
You already know who I am, Nicholas, she said with his voice, with his mouth, that's unimportant. I know a lot about you, ummmmmmmmm, you know a little about me, if not directly. As for what I want, well, I want you to do something for me.
Without thinking he started to climb onto the partition. Something in him yelled to stop, but something stronger reassured his mind everything would be fine. He stood completely upright and straight-backed, looking down at the city with that strange sense of calmness. As he started to take a step forward, his mouth said, Ask Abhis about the end of the world.
Hurtling towards the pavement, his last impression before blacking out was a flash of color and a word, a name, something like gravity.

He awoke; he opened his eyes sitting on his couch. His hands rested on his knees, he looked straight ahead. His cheeks were dry. He stood up.
There was no letter anywhere in the apartment and no big block letters in his journal. The page ended with an uncompleted diagram of the plans for some new magnifying contact lenses. Nicholas closed it and set it on the table. Late-afternoon sun from a cloudless sky streamed in through the windows and cast him in sharp relief.
He looked around the apartment and suddenly felt very small.

---

Returning to work the next morning, the world was detachable. He drifted away without warning, any task he was assigned to complete appeared menial even if it was not. When he returned from a lunch break on which he had done nothing but walk around the building and ride elevators to floors he had no good reason to be on, he discovered a folded slip of paper on his desk. Unfolding it, he half-expected to see big block letters marching across the paper. HELLO NICHOLAS.
Instead the note was written in a delicate, practiced hand. Come to the fiftieth floor at two. Lhunenn. Long fingers crumpled the note into a ball and allowed it to fall into the wastebasket. Without turning to look, Nicholas knew the clock read 1:57. He turned and walked out of his office, taking slow, careful steps.
In the elevator he thought he felt rain, but when he reached up to touch his face, his shirt, they were dry. He started to drift off, just a little, but the elevator slowed and beeped, slid open.
Lhunenn was waiting for him, perched on the window ledge. Quintessentially worried, the gawky Head of Internal Affairs looked a little more uneasy than normal. He seemed to be waiting for Nicholas to say something, to break the silence, but when Nicholas remained resolutely silent he just slumped a little and spoke.
I had a-- I got a letter yesterday. There was a piece of paper in his hand that he held out to Nicholas, who looked at it and then Lhunenn before taking it.
The letter was written in big, block letters, and the world came rushing back from its detachedness all at once.

ASK NICHOLAS TANE ABOUT THE END OF THE WORLD.

There was only one line of text, centered in the cool white, and no signature or any other identifying mark. Teke turned it over and over, feeling every part of it as if searching for some hidden compartment, anything; then folded it carefully into a pristine white square and put it in his pocket. He turned and made to leave, but Lhunenn made an indignant sort of sound and slid from his seat to come after him. Aren't you going to tell me what that means, Ni-- Dr. Tane? I think I deserve to know, especially since it was directed to me and contains instructions specifically for me and --
Lhunenn, Nicholas said, and looked him straight in the eyes, shut up.

In the elevator, he found focus again, that white-hot point of light in the back of our minds he craved and feared and respected. The fire burned in sharp blue eyes and the fire burned in clenched fists. He would get to the center of this; whatever was responsible could not hide from him any more. Because, yes, he was Nicholas Tane and --
The elevator shuddered and slammed to a stop hard enough to lift Nicholas a little up off the floor. The lights went down and he stumbled, banged the back of his head on the side of the elevator and went down hard. Cradling his temples in the pitch-black, he remembered to hold onto that white-hot point of light only at the last possible moment.
I'm not going to say hello this time, His mouth said, and Nicholas choked, I think we know each other well-enough for that not to be an issue. Ummmmmm. You agree?
He tried to shape a word, something, anything but his voice belonged to someone else and white-hot light was slipping through his fingers. He scrabbled for it, grasped for it weakly, but his arms wouldn't stretch far enough and...what was it he was looking for again?
There were two points of white light in the dark elevator. Pupiless eyes reflected infinite spectrums. The woman in the black macintosh looked down at Nicholas.
You can't figure out everything, Nicholas. You can't always have everything under control. Chaos is uncontrollable by definition. You think you know everything, well, the brightest lights leave the darkest shadows. Here there be dragons, Nicholas. As his voice formed words he didn't know, there was a sharp twang from above. The elevator started to drop. More twangs. It gained speed.
The woman leaned down to look at Nicholas, now flat on his back. Paralyzed with fear, all he could do was gape up at her as the elevator plummeted down fifty stories. I gave you an assignment, Nicholaaaas, his mouth sort of whined, Nicholas, you didn't do it. That's okay. I understand. You kind of have a lot on your plate.
Air whistled through the cracks of the walls. They should have hit the ground a long time ago. Time was slowing. The light in the creature's eyes burned white-hot. He opened his mouth to scream, and instead began to laugh in great hysterical whoops.
I'm going to give you another assignment, he heard himself say between gasping bellows, and this one I want you to do, okay? Ummmmm, you've got to stop thinking you've got everything figured out, okay?
He managed to get it down to a disturbing chuckle and choke out, Why? Why is this happening to me? Why won't you tell me anything?
The woman sort-of-prodded him with a toe in shiny black lacquered shoe. He made a haphazard grab for her ankle and the foot yanked back, arced around for another swift kick to the ribs. Doubling up, he saw her take a long step backwards and carefully line her feet up again. If I told you why, that'd be no fun. Don't you like suspense?
He tried to push himself up on his elbows and failed. No.
No, you wouldn't. Ummm. She fiddled with the hem of her coat, utterly nonplussed. That's why I feel sorry for you, Nicholas. You never want to try new things.
There was a horrible splintering and cracking and a moment of sheer weightlessness as the floor underneath him fell away before the elevator completely disintegrated into black. Now he was falling again, spiraling head over heels. Experience is the spice of life, his mouth said, and his head rang with it even though the air rushing past his ears blocked out any sound, get out there and do something. Live like you're dying. Etcetera.