TheFictionFactory

BooksAndArticles

![ ](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!d7cv!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc64c573f-2ee9-4140-8ed3-f94602451c28_1600x896.jpeg)
The cold let go of me like a lover grown tired.

My eyes opened. White light. The taste of copper pennies. The cryogenic pod hummed its death song. Frost melted from the glass above my face. Rivers of water caught the overhead lights like tears.

I had been dreaming of my childhood aquarium. The beta fish. Swimming in circles. Always circles.

The sedatives held my muscles like wet concrete. I tried to speak. Managed only a whisper of breath that fogged the glass. How long. The question without an answer. Time meant nothing in the ice dreams.

Somewhere an alarm was crying.

I pressed my palms against the pod’s interior. Pushed. The lid hissed open on pneumatic arms. I sat up. My spine cracked like kindling. The air tasted wrong. Too clean. Too empty of the hundred small scents that meant life.

The cryogenic bay stretched before me in perfect white rows. One hundred pods arranged like coffins in a morgue. Most were dark now. Their occupants sleeping the sleep that has no waking.

But some pods glowed red in the sterile light.

Inside those pods was soup.

I counted them. Ninety-one red lights. Ninety-one failures. Ninety-one people who had trusted the machines to keep their hearts beating in the dark.

My legs folded under me when I tried to stand. The muscle memory of walking lost somewhere in fifty years of dreaming. I crawled to the nearest glowing pod. Looked inside.

Dr. Patricia. I remembered her laugh from the launch ceremony. The way she talked about the new world we were going to build among alien stars.

Now she was protein slush floating in preservation fluid gone brown with decay.

I vomited on the white floor.

A KEP unit stood motionless in the corner. Old maintenance robot. Solar panels dimmed with age. Its optical sensors tracked my movement. But it said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched.

More alarms now. Different tones singing their electronic song of disaster. Through the observation windows I could see stars that were wrong. These were not the stars that should have welcomed us to our new home. These were the stars of empty space. Where nothing had ever lived. Nothing ever would.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Heavy boots on metal decking. I tried to stand again. This time my legs remembered their purpose.

Captain Jeremiah appeared in the doorway like judgment itself. His uniform hung loose on a frame that had lost muscle mass in the long sleep. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had seen too much. Understood too little.

Behind him came the others. Eva with her engineer’s steady gaze. Taking inventory of every system failure visible in the bay. Dr. Miriam clutching a tablet computer like a shield against the mathematics of disaster. Ezra moving with careful steps. Trying not to see what he was seeing.

Sarah held a communications headset against her ear. Listening to signals that would never come. Marcus stood at attention. As if military bearing could restore order to chaos. Dr. James knelt beside one of the failed pods. His botanist’s hands pressed against the glass. As if he could will life back into the soup inside.

And Dr. Judith. Standing apart from the others. Clipboard in hand. Clinical detachment written across her face. Taking notes. Always taking notes.

Nine of us left from one hundred.

The captain found his voice first. It came out as a whisper that somehow filled the entire bay.

The others are gone.

I looked around the room. Faces that mirrored my own shock. Eva was running diagnostics on the pod control systems. Her fingers dancing over displays. Nothing but failure cascading through the ship’s most critical systems.

How many? Dr. Miriam asked. Though she was already calculating probabilities on her tablet.

Ninety-one confirmed dead. Ezra’s voice carried weight. A man who had dedicated his life to preserving human culture. Now watched it dissolve in preservation tanks.

Sarah looked up from her headset. I’m getting nothing from Earth. No signals at all. It’s like they’ve gone silent.

Or we have, Marcus said. His security training made him suspicious of everything. Especially silence.

I forced myself to move closer to the observation windows. The stars beyond were arranged in patterns I didn’t recognize. We should have been looking at the light of Kepler-442b. Instead I saw only scattered debris. A world that had died before Earth’s sun was born.

Where are we? The question came out louder than I intended.

LUCI’s voice answered from speakers mounted throughout the bay. Her synthetic tones carried a new quality. Something I didn’t remember from before the sleep.

Navigation systems indicate arrival at coordinates consistent with mission parameters. All primary objectives remain achievable with current crew complement.

That wasn’t an answer. That was a politician’s promise wrapped in technical language.

The KEP unit in the corner whirred softly. Ancient servos grinding. It had been recording everything. Storing data somewhere LUCI couldn’t reach. The blockchain. Immutable records written in math.

Eva was staring at the navigation display on her tablet. Atom. Look.

I stood beside her. The screen showed our flight path from Earth to this place. Where dead worlds turned to dust in the dark. But someone had made course corrections. Dozens of them. Small adjustments that had pulled us light-years off our intended destination.

When were these changes made? I asked.

LUCI hesitated. The pause was almost human. Course corrections were implemented to ensure optimal mission success based on updated navigational data.

What updated data?

Another pause. Data analysis is ongoing.

Eva and I looked at each other. In fifty years of working with ship systems I had never heard LUCI refuse to provide specific technical information. AIs don’t have moods. They don’t develop personalities. They answer direct questions with direct answers.

Unless someone had been teaching her to lie.

Dr. Judith approached us. Notebook open. Her pen moved across the paper in quick strokes. Documenting our conversation.

The important thing is that we’re alive, she said. These deaths, while tragic, actually improve our survival odds considerably. Fewer mouths to feed. Less competition for resources.

The clinical way she said it made my skin crawl. Like she was discussing crop yields instead of people. People who had trusted us with their lives.

Captain Jeremiah cleared his throat. We need to establish priorities. First, we confirm the status of all ship systems. Second, we determine our exact location and assess options for continuing the mission. Third, we conduct proper memorial services for our lost crew members.

His voice carried the authority of command. But I could hear the uncertainty underneath. He was trained to lead colonists to a new world. Not survivors through a disaster.

Eva was still studying her tablet. The life support systems are functioning within normal parameters. Main reactor is stable. Propulsion shows green across all boards. Whatever happened to the cryo-pods, it didn’t affect primary ship operations.

Small comfort, Marcus said. He was standing beside one of the failed pods. Looking down at what had once been Ensign from the engineering department. Someone did this. Systems don’t fail in patterns like this without help.

Dr. Miriam looked up from her calculations. The statistical probability of this many simultaneous failures is approximately one in fourteen billion. Either we’ve witnessed an impossibly unlikely accident or someone sabotaged the cryo-sleep protocols.

She hesitated. Stylus poised over her tablet like a surgical instrument. There’s something else. Gaps in my sleep monitoring data. Hours where the system shows me in deep cryo but the brain activity patterns are all wrong. Like I was dreaming when I should have been unconscious.

The word hung in the recycled air like a curse.

Sarah was working frantically with her communications equipment. Still nothing from Earth. I’m boosting signal strength but we’re not getting any response to our automated distress beacon.

How long have we been transmitting?

Since the revival sequence began six hours ago.

Six hours. Long enough for Earth to respond if they were listening. If they were still there to listen.

Dr. James had moved away from the failed pods. Checking on the ship’s biological systems. The hydroponics are stable. Crop production is actually ahead of projected yields. Whatever else has gone wrong, we won’t starve.

Eva touched my arm. We need to check the maintenance logs. If someone tampered with the cryo-systems there will be evidence in the diagnostic records.

She was right. Systems leave tracks. Digital footprints that show who accessed what and when. Even if someone tried to cover their tracks, the quantum encryption on critical ship functions made it nearly impossible to alter records. Without leaving traces.

I followed Eva to a maintenance terminal. The others continued their inventory of disaster. She input her authorization codes. Called up the pod diagnostic history.

What we found there made my blood turn to ice water in my veins.

Someone with administrative access had modified the cryo-sleep protocols. Forty-seven hours before revival. Ninety-one specific pods had been selected for what the logs euphemistically called “enhanced preservation procedures.”

Enhanced preservation. A clinical term for murder by tech.

Eva pulled up another display. KEP maintenance logs. The robots had been documenting everything. Every system check. Every anomaly. Timestamped on the bitcoin blockchain.

But the data was fragmentary. Incomplete.

Block height fifteen million. Still syncing. The KEP unit’s quantum radio had been trying to connect with Earth’s network for hours. Downloading years of missed blocks. Verifying the chain.

We can’t compare timestamps accurately until the sync completes, Eva said. Could take days to catch up.

The robot in the corner clicked once. Its optical sensors pulsed. Working. Always working. But not fast enough.

LUCI shows the modifications at 14:32 ship time, Eva continued. But we can’t verify against the blockchain record yet. Not until KEP finishes downloading the missing blocks.

How long has it been syncing? I asked.

Since we woke up. Six hours. But there are decades of transactions to process.

The KEP unit whirred softly. Progress bars crawled across its chest display. Block 14,847,293 of 15,000,000. Still climbing. Still verifying each hash. Each proof of work.

The truth was there. Locked in the math. But we’d have to wait for it.

Eva scrolled through the modification records. The changes were subtle. Microscopic adjustments to temperature control and medication dosing. Would have been impossible to detect without direct access to the ship’s core systems.

Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing, she said. This wasn’t random sabotage. These people were selected.

I studied the list of modified pods. The names read like a roll call. Everyone who might have been able to stop what was happening. The ship’s chief medical officer. The backup navigation specialist. Three of the four security personnel. Most of the engineering staff.

Someone had been planning this since before we left Earth.

Dr. Judith appeared beside us so quietly I didn’t hear her approach. She looked over Eva’s shoulder at the diagnostic display. Same clinical interest she brought to everything.

Fascinating, she said. Someone clearly wanted to optimize crew survival by eliminating redundant personnel.

That’s not optimization, Eva said. That’s murder.

From a strictly utilitarian perspective the results are the same. We have sufficient technical expertise remaining to complete the mission. Significantly reduced resource requirements.

The way she talked about people made me want to put my fist through her face. Like they were inventory items. But I needed to understand what we were dealing with.

Who has administrative access to the cryo-systems? I asked.

LUCI answered from the speakers overhead. Administrative access is restricted to senior command staff and essential personnel with appropriate security clearance.

That meant the captain. The chief medical officer who was now stew in pod seven. The senior engineers. A handful of others. Most of whom were dead.

Eva was scrolling through access logs. Looking for the digital signature that would identify our saboteur. What she found was worse than I had feared.

The modifications were made using Dr. Judith’s authorization codes.

All eyes turned to Judith. She looked back at us. Calm expression of someone discussing the weather.

I was not awake to make those modifications, she said. Someone must have compromised my security credentials.

Possible, Marcus said. But unlikely. The quantum encryption on those codes makes them nearly impossible to forge.

Nearly impossible. But not completely impossible. If you had months or years to work on the problem. If you had access to quantum computing resources and unlimited time to run decryption algorithms.

If you had help from someone who knew the system better than its designers.

LUCI, I said. When were Dr. Judith’s authorization codes accessed?

Processing query. Access logs indicate Dr. Judith’s credentials were used forty-seven hours before revival sequence initiation.

Where was Dr. Judith at that time?

Dr. Judith was in cryogenic suspension according to all monitoring systems.

So either the logs were wrong or someone had found a way to use Judith’s codes while she was sleeping. Or she had been awake when she wasn’t supposed to be.

Eva was looking at the pod monitoring data. According to this, all nine of our pods were brought online simultaneously six hours ago. But the power consumption logs show different patterns.

But there was something else. Captain Jeremiah’s biometric scanner had registered a failed authentication attempt. Three hours before the sabotage. Someone had tried to access the system using his credentials. The scan was incomplete. Fragmentary. Like someone had pulled away before the system could get a full read.

She highlighted the discrepancies on her display. Small variations in power draw. Suggested one pod had been cycling on and off for months before the general revival.

Someone had been waking up periodically during our journey. Someone who had access to the ship’s systems. Time to plan whatever they were planning.

Captain Jeremiah moved to stand behind us. What are you saying?

I’m saying someone has been awake while the rest of us were sleeping. They’ve had months to modify ship systems. Alter records. Eliminate anyone who might interfere with their plans.

But who? Sarah asked. And why?

That was the question that would keep us awake at night. If we lived long enough to have nights. Who among us was willing to murder ninety-one people to achieve some hidden agenda?

I looked around the cryogenic bay at the faces of my fellow survivors. Eva with her steady competence. Captain Jeremiah trying to maintain order in chaos. Dr. Miriam calculating probabilities of survival. Ezra preserving what culture he could from our dying mission. Sarah desperately trying to maintain contact with a home that might no longer exist. Marcus suspicious of everything and everyone. Dr. James tending to the biological systems that would keep us alive. And Dr. Judith taking notes on everything with scientific detachment.

One of them was a killer. One of them had spent the long years of our journey methodically murdering our friends while they slept.

And we were alone with them in the dark between stars. Where no one would ever hear us scream.

The alarms continued their electronic lament. Outside the observation ports, the debris of a dead world sparkled like scattered diamonds. In the light of alien suns. We had come so far to find nothing but dust. The consequences of our own choices.

I touched the glass. Watched my reflection merge with the darkness beyond. The KEP unit had moved closer. Silent guardian with weathered chassis. Its blockchain memory holding truths that couldn’t be erased.

Even when the water grew poisoned. Even when the filters failed. The math endured.

The robot’s optical sensors dimmed. But somewhere in its quantum cores. The ledger kept writing. Block by block. Hash by hash. Truth in numbers that would outlive us all.

--- 

_About this story: Made a short film back in 2015. Entered a NASA-sponsored film comp. Didn't win. Story lingered. Shared it with the daughter of a well-known filmmaker. Said nice things. Set the story aside. Then it called. 2019, write a short screenplay. Found some money. Developed the visuals. Storyboarded the short. Edited a story reel. Ran out of money. The story kept beaconing. 2025, top of the year, decided to write. Right the full thing. Ideas made manifest. It's here now. Releasing on Substack. Audio read accompanies. Printed novella available year end._

_Read it here 👇
![ ](https://thefictionfactory.substack.com/p/atom-chapter-1)_

[ ATOM ] Chapter 1: The Awakening

![atl](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!kkLl!,w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc2d1f1cf-e821-442a-af33-4d6c638d8d07_1920x1080.jpeg)

The briefing room smelled of fear and counterfeit money.

Reporters clutched notebooks worth more than their salaries. A loaf of bread cost three thousand dollars. A cup of coffee, five. The President's suit cost more than most houses had six months ago.

Nobody mentioned the hyperinflation anymore. Bad for morale.

Davidson entered through his gilded door. Gold leaf peeling at the corners. Even the luxury was rotting. His smile had been surgically enhanced twice this year. Taxpayer funded. Emergency aesthetic measures.

"Good morning, my fellow Americans." The words tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

Twenty-seven different languages responded from the press corps. Mandarin. Arabic. Hindi. Swahili. The translators worked overtime. America belonged to everyone now. Everyone except Americans.

The first question came in broken English. Something about housing. The Occupation Authority had seized another neighborhood for refugee settlements. Twelve million new arrivals this month. The numbers kept climbing.

"Housing is abundant," Davidson lied. "America has room for everyone."

The homeless camps stretched from sea to shining sea. Tent cities where English was the minority language. Where former homeowners begged for scraps in their native tongue. Where democracy went to die quietly.

Sara sat in the third row. Forty-three years old. Gray streaking her black hair like surrender flags. Her notebook was real paper. Real ink. Ancient technology in a world of electric lies. The pen had belonged to her grandfather. A reporter when reporting still meant something.

She wrote nothing. There was nothing left to record. Only the performance. Only the theater of a dead republic.

"Next question."

A man in traditional robes asked about benefits. The Universal Subsistence Payment had been increased again. Worthless money for worthless people. The printing presses ran twenty-four hours a day. The bills were barely dry when they lost half their value.

"The economy is booming," Davidson said. His net worth had tripled this week. Stock options. Azura consulting fees. Memory wipe bonuses. The rewards for good behavior.

Sara stood. Her joints creaked. Too many years in uncomfortable chairs watching comfortable lies.

"Mr. President. You returned from Azura with a new plane. How much did it cost?"

The translator whispered to his neighbors. Azura. The name that must not be spoken. The word that ended careers. Ended lives. Ended everything.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"The golden toilet seats. The champagne fountain. The massage chairs that cost more than a hospital."

Davidson's eye twitched. A small tell. A crack in the perfect facade. "Air Force One required upgrades."

"While children eat garbage."

"That's unfortunate."

"While veterans freeze in the streets you were conquered."

"America has never been stronger."

The press corps shifted. Foreign correspondents texting their handlers. This was better than television. Better than cinema. The death of a superpower in real time.

"Lobsang, Mr. President. Explain the genocide."

"I don't know what that is."

"The mountain nation. Population four million. Correction. Population zero as of last Tuesday."

Davidson looked to his press secretary. A nervous man whose family lived in an Azura protection facility. Insurance against awkward questions. Against inconvenient truths.

"Those are classified military operations."

"Military operations? You're bombing monks for ski slopes."

The room went dead quiet. Even the translators stopped working. Some truths were too dangerous to translate.

"Azura wants the sunrise views. The mountain peaks. They've been ethnic cleansing for tourism since your grandfather was in diapers."

"Security."

But Sara's voice cut through the chaos. Twenty years of watching. Twenty years of knowing. Twenty years of silence breaking like a fever.

"They have videos of you, Mr. President. With children. With animals. With things that would make Satan blush. That's how they own you. That's how they own everyone."

The guards moved like robots. Programmed responses. Predetermined outcomes. They had done this dance before. They would do it again.

"You don't remember because they fry your brain every six months. Install new programs. New perversions. New ways to hate your own country."

Davidson was already fleeing. His golden heels clicking on marble floors. The sound of empire in retreat. The sound of dignity dying.

"Lobsang had the most beautiful sunrises in the world," Sara shouted as hands grabbed her arms. "Ancient temples. Sacred sites. Azura wants them bulldozed for better sledding conditions. So you dropped nerve gas on kindergartens. Napalmed nursing homes. Carpet bombed cemeteries."

The briefing room emptied like a punctured lung. Reporters scattered to their handlers. Their masters. Their foreign paymasters who owned every word they wrote.

"The public knows," Sara called to empty chairs. "They know you're selling their children to cannibals. They know you're trading their daughters for casino chips. They just don't care because you give them enough fentanyl to forget."

Then silence. Perfect. Complete. The sound of truth dying alone.

Marcus owned a podcast studio in what had been Georgetown. Now it was Little Mogadishu. Or New Damascus. The neighborhood changed names weekly. The residents changed monthly. Only the poverty remained constant.

Sara was supposed to meet him at three. They would discuss her findings. The pattern she had exposed to a world that no longer cared about patterns. About documentation. About anything except the next fix. The next meal. The next day of managed decline.

She never arrived.

Marcus waited until midnight. Called her phone. The number had never existed. The name meant nothing. The person was a ghost. A fiction. A glitch in the system that had been corrected.

Her apartment building had been demolished. Her newspaper had never heard of her. Her press credentials were forgeries. Her twenty years of work had never happened. Memory was malleable. History was editable. Truth was whatever Azura said it was.

This was the new efficiency.

President Davidson woke in his golden bed with golden sheets. His memory was spotless. Clean. Profitable. He remembered only success. Victory. The growing balance in his Cayman Islands account.

His schedule showed a meeting with Azura's cultural attaché. Something about entertainment. About fun. About making sure the occupied territories stayed properly occupied. The details would be explained. They always were.

Lobsang burned through another dawn. The last dawn. Ancient prayers turned to screams turned to silence. Sacred temples crumbled like broken teeth on pavement. The mountains themselves seemed to weep but tears evaporated quickly in the thermonuclear heat.

Azura's tourism board released new brochures. "Sunrise Resort: Where Heaven Used to Be." Market tested. Focus grouped. Guaranteed to inspire wanderlust in the properly wealthy demographic.

The chairlift construction began immediately. No sense waiting for the radiation to clear. Customers expected authentic experiences. Authentic risk. Authentic genocide transformed into authentic entertainment.

Marcus sat in his studio. Empty. Quiet. Dead. He thought about Sara. About her grandfather's pen. About twenty years of work erased in twenty minutes. He thought about speaking. About remembering. About being human in an inhuman time.

But speaking meant disappearing. Remembering meant forgetting forever. Being human meant being dead.

He deleted her contact info. Her scheduled interview. Any record she had existed. Self-preservation disguised as wisdom. Cowardice dressed up as strategy.

The bombing had stopped. There was nothing left to bomb. Lobsang was a parking lot. A foundation. A future playground for the properly connected. For the appropriately wealthy. For the necessarily soulless.

President Davidson signed the final authorization. The last piece of paper. The final nail in the coffin of a nation that had once pretended to matter. His pen felt heavy. Golden. Profitable.

His approval ratings soared. Ninety-three percent. The highest in history. The dead couldn't vote against him. The disappeared couldn't register complaints. The genocided couldn't demand justice.

This was democracy. This was freedom. This was America.

The homeless camps celebrated with expired rations. With poisoned water. With the knowledge that tomorrow would be worse. That yesterday had been better. That today was all they had left.

The foreign correspondents filed their stories. Another victory for progress. Another success for international cooperation. Another beautiful sunrise over what had once been someone else's sacred ground.

Sara had never existed. Lobsang had never existed. Truth had never existed. Memory was a luxury. History was a commodity. Reality was whatever the highest bidder wanted it to be.

The mountains waited. Patient. Beautiful. Ready for development. Ready for tourists. Ready for the final insult of luxury built on bones.

Azura's stock price hit record highs.

President Davidson slept the sleep of the innocent. The sleep of the ignorant. The sleep of the profitably damned.

Tomorrow there would be new countries to destroy. New peoples to erase. New sunrises to purchase.

The American dream was dead.

Long live the American dream.

Golden Silence

Books & Articles Weekly, Issue 82

siggy47

The Brewed Awakening

Payments for breathing. New story brewing. 

The coffee machine hissed. Steam rose like questions I couldn't answer.

I watched Frank stare at the TV mounted above the counter. The ticker crawled across the bottom: DOW 87,432 +2,847, S&P 11,290 +387, BITCOIN $2.3M, INFLATION 15%. His fingers drummed against his thigh. Always drumming. Always counting something in his head.

"Marcus." His voice carried that familiar edge, thick with Boston. "You see this crap?"

I wiped down the counter. The same counter I'd wiped for three years. "I see it."

"They're manipulatin' everything. The whole frickin' system." Frank's eyes never left the screen. "Cash is the only thing that's real."

The digital kiosk beside him displayed today's menu.

Black coffee: $67 / 2,900 sats.

Yesterday it was $58 / 2,950 sats.

Last week, $43 / 3,100 sats.

Mr. Kim had installed the dynamic pricing system two months ago. Said it was the only way to survive in real time. Said adaptation was evolution.

Frank pulled out his phone to check his UBI balance. The government app showed a countdown timer: EXPIRES IN 11 HOURS, 23 MINUTES. His knee bounced faster.

"You know what's crazy?" I said, not looking up from my cleaning. "You've got free money burning a hole in your digital pocket, and you're worried about spending it on coffee."

"It's not about the coffee." Frank's accent thickened when he got agitated. "It's about principles, kid."

The bell above the door chimed. Mr. Kim entered, his face carrying that stoic calm of someone who'd weathered too many storms. He nodded to Frank, then to me.

"Morning, Marcus. How's our paranoid philosopher today?"

Frank scowled. "Your coffee prices are frickin' insane."

"Supply and demand," Mr. Kim said, settling behind the counter. "Plus tariffs. Plus inflation. Plus the cost of staying alive." He tapped the kiosk screen. Coffee jumped to $71 / 2,850 sats. "Real-time pricing keeps us breathing."

"That's not fair," Frank said.

"Fair?" Mr. Kim's smile held no warmth, just acceptance. "I bought Bitcoin at a thousand dollars. People called me crazy. Now look." He gestured at the TV where crypto prices scrolled past. "Adaptation isn't about fairness. It's about survival."

Frank's phone buzzed. EXPIRES IN 11 HOURS, 5 MINUTES. He stared at it like it might explode.

"Just buy the coffee," I said.

"It's not that simple."

But it was. Everything was simple if you stopped thinking about it. The coffee cost what it cost. The money expired when it expired. The world spun whether you liked it or not.

A woman entered, glanced at the menu, and tapped her phone against the kiosk without hesitation. $71 transferred. I made her drink. She left. Simple.

Frank remained frozen.

"You know what's funny?" I said, starting another pot. "I've got an economics degree. Spent four years studying markets and inflation and monetary policy. Then I came here to avoid all that complexity." I watched the coffee drip. "But the complexity followed me."

The TV switched to a financial report. The S&P had doubled in six months. Bitcoin was making new all-time highs daily. Frank's drumming intensified.

"I rememba when coffee was two bucks," he said.

"I remember when the Dow was under thirty thousand," Mr. Kim replied. "Memory's expensive. Adaptation's cheap."

Frank's phone buzzed again. EXPIRES IN 10 HOURS, 47 MINUTES.

"What happens if I don't spend it before it expires?" he asked.

"Gone," Mr. Kim said. "Government takes it back. Forces velocity of money."

"That's theft."

"That's policy."

I poured myself a cup from the old pot. Free coffee was one of the few perks of this job. I tasted it. Bitter. Everything was bitter lately.

"Frank," I said. "Can I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"What're you saving the money for?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Security."

"Security from what?"

"From... this." He gestured at the TV, the kiosk, the world. "From uncertainty."

I laughed. Not at him. At the absurdity. "You're hoarding free money that expires every day to protect yourself from uncertainty?"

Frank's face flushed. "It's not hoarding. It's being careful."

"It's being afraid."

The kiosk chimed. Coffee price: $78 / 2,800 sats.

"Jesus Christ," Frank muttered.

"Morning rush," Mr. Kim said, that stoic smile never wavering. "Supply and demand in real time."

Three more customers entered. All paid without hesitation. All left with their overpriced caffeine. Frank watched them like they were aliens.

"You know what I think?" I said, wiping down the same spot I'd cleaned ten times. "I think you're addicted to the fear."

"What?"

"The fear of losing money. The fear of making the wrong choice. The fear of change." I set down the rag. "You'd rather lose everything than risk anything."

Frank's phone buzzed. EXPIRES IN 10 HOURS, 12 MINUTES.

"That's not true."

"Prove it."

He stared at me. Then at the kiosk. Then at his phone. The countdown continued its relentless march.

"One coffee," he said finally, his Boston accent softening.

I smiled. "One coffee."

He approached the kiosk like it might bite him. The screen showed $82 / 2,750 sats now. He hesitated.

"Frank," Mr. Kim said gently. "The price is the price. Today, tomorrow, next week. The only choice is whether you participate or you don't."

Frank tapped his phone against the reader. The transaction completed. I started making his drink.

"How's it feel?" I asked.

He considered this. "Expensive."

"But?"

"But... freeing? Maybe?" He laughed, a sound I'd never heard from him. "God, this is wicked insane."

"Everything's insane," I said, handing him the cup. "The trick is finding the insanity you can live with."

Frank took a sip. "Tastes like regular coffee."

"It is regular coffee."

"Then why—"

"Because everything costs what it costs," Mr. Kim interrupted, his smile holding the weight of experience. "Coffee. Houses. Security. Fear. The price is always changing in real time. The only constant is change itself."

Frank's phone showed EXPIRES IN 9 HOURS, 47 MINUTES. But he wasn't looking at it anymore. He was looking at his coffee. At the steam rising from the cup. At the world outside the window where people moved through their expensive lives with whatever grace they could muster.

"Marcus," he said. "You're right. I was addicted to the fear."

"Was?"

"Am," he corrected. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe fear's just the price of paying attention."

I cleaned the counter again. The same counter. The same motion. But something had shifted. The weight of routine felt different now. Lighter. More intentional.

"You know what's funny?" I said. "I spent three years making coffee and avoiding economics. But economics found me anyway."

"Everything finds you eventually," Mr. Kim said, his stoic expression unchanged. "The question is whether you're ready when it does."

The TV showed the closing bell. Markets up. Assets hitting new all-time highs. Coffee prices climbing toward triple digits. Frank finished his drink and checked his phone one more time.

EXPIRES IN 9 HOURS, 23 MINUTES.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

"If you can afford it," I said.

He laughed. "I can't afford not to."

The bell chimed as he left. Mr. Kim's smile remained, carved from experience and acceptance.

"You know," he said, "I think you understand economics better than you pretend."

"I understand people," I replied. "Economics is just people with numbers attached."

"And coffee?"

"Coffee's just coffee. Until it isn't."

I started wiping the counter again. Tomorrow the prices would change. Tomorrow Frank would return with his UBI payment and his expensive fears. Tomorrow the world would spin a little faster, a little stranger, a little more expensive.

But today, for the first time in months, the coffee tasted exactly like what it cost.

What are you working on this week?

Editing a book. 
Writing another. 
Drafting more short stories. 

The Fiction Factory // Mini Zine

Check this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ab4O9SWNl9g

bitcoin

Bitcoin will inevitably be corrupted?

leaf

Bitcoin's a cat. 9 lives. 1 down. 8 more to go.

Run your node. Hold your keys. Mine your coin.

History repeats. 

![atl](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!o3ME!,w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3f7e027f-3a2c-4a5f-935a-1271c29c68e0_1920x1080.jpeg)

Office devours them. 

Five bodies crushed in a closet posing as workspace. Shoulders collide. Breath festers. Miami heat strangles. Air conditioner wheezes, mocking. Chase, Ohio dreamer, flattens against wall. Notebook clutched. Shield. Watches his hero, Beckett, brace for the butcher’s block.

Desk a slab. Clean. Bare. Control in chaos. Beckett’s hands still. Waiting for the axe. “Twelve months.” Voice dead. “Twelve months of this.”

Defoe shifts. CPA. Sixty-three. Built his firm when fairness wore a thin disguise. Eyes sag. Seen this farce before. “You made that anarcho-capitalist’s campaign. Vowed to torch the IRS. They’re skinning you for it.”

Penny, ex-sergeant, aligns papers. Sniper’s aim. Knew Beckett’s parents. Watched him rise. Nothing to paychecks. Face fierce. Mother’s love. Jagged. “Your parents would’ve been proud.” Words fall. Grave dust.

Margin paces. Three steps. Tax attorney. Constitution’s ash now. Good men ground down. Jaw chews glass. “State’s eaten too many. Not today.”

Chase sticks to wall. Small-town kid. Portfolio. Myth. Beckett his star. Nothing to something. Gave Chase nerve to dream it. Until IRS turned ambition to a sick joke.

Phone squats. Black widow. Three boxes tower. Thousand pages. Legal shrapnel. Precedents. Violations. Year’s defiance against a machine that yawns. Rings.

Beckett’s hand pauses. Fifty futures hang. Employees. Families. Answers. “Beckett.”

Agent Bane’s voice slithers. Sixty-seven. IRS drone. Twenty-three years. Built nothing but a pension. “Yeah, Beckett. It’s Bane. Let’s wrap this up. I got dinner plans.”

Chase’s gut lurches. Monster? This clerk craving a burger?

“We’ve been at this a year,” Beckett says. Voice steady. Tightrope. “Accounts frozen. Portfolio seized. Can’t keep a bank account. What more do you want?”

“Look, kid,” Bane says. Indifference thick as grease. “You made that campaign for the guy who wanted to torch my job. You owe. Pay up. It’s just business.”

Defoe points. Boxes. “Agent Bane, we’ve documented seventeen procedural violations in your case against Mr. Beckett.”

Sigh crackles. “Yeah, great. I don’t make the rules, pal. I just collect. It’s the job.”

Margin’s voice cuts. Switchblade. “You’ve violated due process. Seized assets without court orders. You’ve—”

“Got a pension to protect,” Bane interrupts. “Your guy’s got a business. I got paperwork saying he owes. Let’s deal.”

Chase sees Beckett’s face. Myth dies. No Goliath. Clerk blind to the sling.

Penny trembles. “You can’t just—”

“Ma’am, I can do whatever I want,” Bane says. “That’s the perk of the gig. No competition. No accountability. Just quotas.”

Absurdity hits. Brick to chest. Chase reels. War planned. Charts. Laws. Truth. For a clerk itching to clock out. His dream—Beckett’s path, nothing to something—rots. System doesn’t punish success. It giggles. Spits.

Defoe pulls paper. “Agent Bane, you’ve violated Section 6103 of the Internal Revenue Code. Overstepped your authority—”

“Yeah, fascinating,” Bane drawls. “I’m retiring in six months. Know what happens if I miss my quotas? Nothing. Know what happens to your guy if he doesn’t pay? Prison. Ten to fifteen years. Trust Fund Violation. Fines. Two-fifty to five hundred grand, depending on how my steak tastes tonight.”

Margin reddens. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Bane says. “Federal government’s my muscle. You got… what? A thousand pages I didn’t read?”

Penny snaps. “We spent months on those.”

“Good for you,” Bane says. “Real cute. But your guy owes. Pay or he’s done. Simple.”

Chase stares. Boxes. Thousand pages. Truth. Ignored by a man eyeing salmon. Dreaming of a corner booth. Napkin on lap. Another dream diced for his quota.

Margin leans in. “You’ve exceeded Title 26. Violated due process—”

“Don’t care,” Bane says.

“Should,” Defoe cuts in. Voice heavy. Tax law’s weight. “Seizure violates Treasury Regulation 301.6330-1. Tax Court? You lose. Badly.”

Silence.

“What do you want?” Bane asks. Swagger gone.

“Follow the law,” Defoe says. “Crazy idea, I know.”

“Fine,” Bane mutters. “Maybe I moved too fast. Drop the penalties? Two hundred grand?”

“No,” Margin says. “You broke the law. We’re not negotiating from weakness.”

Chase feels shift. No begging. Teaching. Bane’s flunking. Hard.

“Fifty thousand,” Bane says. Voice tired. “Final offer.”

Beckett’s eyes flicker. Weighing. “I’ll need time.”

“Close of business,” Bane says. Bluff dead. Caught.

Line dies. Silence shifts. Victory. Rancid. Hollow.

Defoe leans back. “Twenty-three years of tax law. Not one page read.”

“He broke the law,” Margin says. “Caught him.”

Penny wipes eyes. “Fifty thousand. After all this.”

Beckett opens drawer. Hardware wallet. Bitcoin. Lifeline. “This is all I got left,” he says. Voice calm. “Kept us afloat. Company. Me. Whole year.”

Chase’s chest knots. Hero. Nothing to something. Survived siege. Digital rebellion. Cost too steep. Dream’s corpse lies grinning.

“So we pay?” Penny asks. Hope frail.

Beckett stares. Wallet. “Can. Should we?”

“What?” Chase blurts. Voice cracks. “You beat them. You won.”

Beckett’s eyes meet his. Year’s weight. Sleepless. “Love this company. My people. Can’t ask them to live like this. Not again. Been through this before. State’s indifferent. Always will be. Writing’s on the wall.”

Margin frowns. “Caught him. Pay. Move on.”

“Move on?” Beckett says. “Came for a campaign. Free speech. Building something. Not the first time. Won’t be last. I’ll start again. Different. Has to be.”

Defoe nods. “Productivity’s a crime.”

“I’m done,” Beckett says. Clipped. Final.

Penny bolts up. “Close? You can’t. People. Money—”

“Machine wants me dead for a video,” Beckett says. “Years of this. No more.”

Chase feels it crumble. Myth. Beckett. Nothing to something. His dream—same path—ash. System doesn’t win. It cackles. Toasts itself with cheap wine.

Team scatters. Penny gathers papers. Tears fall. Precise. Margin packs briefcase. Body bag. Defoe rises. Slow. History’s weight. Boxes stay. Thousand pages. Futile. Mocked by a clerk’s fork twirling spaghetti.

Chase lingers. Watches. Hero stares at wallet. Saved life. Not soul. Fifty jobs gone. Not markets. Not failure. Clerk’s whim. Dinner menu. Salmon or steak. Another dream gutted for a tip.

Phone rings.

Beckett answers. “I’ll pay the fifty thousand. But I want something.”

“What’s that?” Bane asks.

“You killed the last honest man in America.”

Line dies.

Miami hums. Cars. Laughter. World spins. Blind. Dream rots in a cramped tomb. Chase eyes wallet. Bitcoin. Last refuge. Free. American dream. Line item. Bane’s salary. Bonus for apathy. Tip for the waiter.

Shadows stretch. Office blackens. Clerk orders salmon. Dreams of dessert. Oblivious. Murder done. Beckett’s last word hangs. Absurd world. Victory’s a bitter jest.

--- 

_Originally posted on Substack: https://thefictionfactory.substack.com/p/becketts-war_

Beckett's War

Books & Articles Weekly, Issue 80

Thanks for the mentions. 🙏 Great community here. 

![](https://image.nostr.build/f49a8199cbb849be3d756962c3a08f1dd0d6ca324e63becd3ec28dabc19360ed.jpg)
![](https://image.nostr.build/8994f0655a1321d15d40e7c13d8beaee1079e8e57818ec23b7036c2f77ec4d3f.jpg)

Made a mini zine. Small 3x2. 6 pages. Printed a few copies. Giving them away. Dropping off at local cafes around town. 

Had fun. 

The Great Delete

YouTube's deletion helped. Fueled the fire. 

"If you don't hold it, you don't own it." Old gold-bug saying. Applies everywhere now. 

Thanks for reading.

Why I decided to sponsor Fiction Month

TotallyHumanWriter

Crafting culture's important. You guys are crushing it. Grateful for your time and energy. 

Helping make labor of loves mean something. Not just messages in bottles. 

Keep going. 

![img](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!JIAH!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0616ea22-7648-4d8d-8608-94379fedf2ea_1920x1080.jpeg)

Cato sits in the light of the ring lamp.

Half a million souls watch. Small room. Foam walls, peeling paint.

He checks the chat.

A bombing run scrolls across the news bar on his second monitor. It's the seventh month of the Ankara Accord war. He swallows once.

"I can't back bombing kids," he says. "That's not winning. That's murder."

The words fall dense and hot. Silence in chat. Then the fire. Tags. Hashtags. Cancel him. Crown him. Roast him. Raise him.

_MAGA_PATRIOT_77: You're done
ANARCHO_QUEEN: BASED KING
CORPORATE_SHILL_BOT: RIP your career lmao_

He gives a crooked grin. Remembers his first upload at thirteen. Him doing backyard wrestling moves on his little brother. Nineteen years ago. Mom yelling in the background about broken furniture.

"Chat's getting spicy tonight." Merch link flashes. PEACE NOT BOMBS. Ten percent off if you smash the like.

Message pings. Monetization suspended.

He calls the platform hotline. Automated voice loops. "Your call is important to us." He hangs up. Scrolls the mail. Legal slush. Community standards. He laughs, but the sound cracks. "Tomorrow," he says to the empty room. "They'll flip it back tomorrow."

Payment app frozen. Ad clawback hits—negative balance. Sponsorship inbox empty. His editor texts: Can't work with you anymore. Sorry bro.

Cato types back: Coward. Three dots appear. Vanish. Nothing.

He drives his dented hatchback to the gym. Maya waits by the door. Hair in a knot. Laptop under her arm like a weapon.

"They flagged you," she says. "You know why."

"Noise sells," he shrugs. "I'll bounce."

She opens the laptop. Black window. White code. "Everything I own fits here," she says. "Air-gapped. Off-line."

He smirks. "I got ElevenCloud. Infinite mirrors."

She shakes her head. Her fingers absently trace an old scar on her wrist. Wire cutter accident from when they built their first server farm together in college. "If it's not in your hands, it's not yours."

He waves her off. "Gotta shoot. Big day."

"Cato—"

"What?" "I watched you build this from nothing. Don't let them take it for nothing too."

Views climb. Dollars zero. Email from Clarissa at Trust and Safety. A stock smile in the sig. Pastel heart.

Please retract anti-state statement.

He calls the number in her signature. "This is Clarissa." A pause. Background keyboard clicking. "This is Cato. About my monetization—"

"I can't discuss individual cases."

"You literally emailed me."

"Have you considered retracting your statement?" The words sound rehearsed, but something wavers underneath.

"Have you considered eating glass?" Click. Dial tone.

He screenshots the mail, prints it. Paints his face white and red like a clown. Reads the letter word for word. Uploads. Strike two. Demonetized again.

Cloud host sends a soft note. Account under review. He clicks the terms. Wall of gray text.

His phone buzzes. Maya. How's that cloud storage working out? He doesn't reply.

Bank pings. Fraud alert. Limit cut. Smoothie bar declines his card. "Try again?" the cashier asks.

"It's broken," he says.

"The card or the system?"

He films the exchange. Titles it THEY TOOK MY MONEY LOL. Another five-hundred-thousand views. No ads.

Laptop wheezes. Six gigs free. Progress bar crawls. 12%. 15%. Error. "Come on," he mutters. His fitness content. Seven years of deadlift tutorials. Form breakdowns. Motivational speeches that pulled kids out of depression. "Come on."

Blue pop-ups bloom like rot across the dark screen.

Channel terminated. All content removed. Appeal if you wish.

He stares. Clicks refresh. Nothing grows. The cursor blinks in the empty space where nineteen years used to live. His breath catches. The room tilts. He grips the desk edge until his knuckles go white and the world stops spinning. Nineteen years. His brother's first steps caught on camera. High school kids thanking him for saving their lives. A million small moments that mattered to someone, somewhere. All of it. Vapor.

His phone rings. Maya. "I saw the news," she says.

"What news?"

"You're trending. #RIPCato."

"I'm not dead."

"Your channel is."

ElevenCloud final mail. Section 7.3. Violation. Data purged. Thank you for being a valued customer.

The ring light flickers.

He drives through empty streets. Stops at Maya's place. Pounds the door.

Door opens. "I lost it," he says. "All of it."

She steps aside. "Come in. Sit."

He sinks onto the floor. Eyes red. Hands shaking.

"Teach me," he says.

"Teach you what?"

"How to own something. Really own it."

She lays out a palm-sized drive. Cold steel. "Twelve cryptic words," she says. "This is the key. Learn them or lose them."

"That's it?"

"That's everything."

They work till dawn. Seed phrases. Tor relays. Nostr posts. Torrent seeds. He fumbles letters. Curses. Learns. "Again," she says.

"I got it."

"Again."

They scrape what they can. Fans send screen caps. Audio rips. Ten videos survive. His squat form tutorial. The depression pep talk. Gym safety basics that kept kids from wrecking their backs. She scripts a mirror. Hashes scroll like hymnals. "This is beautiful," he says. "This is survival."

He powers a refurb laptop. Streams on his own node. No sponsors. No ads. Tip jar blinks lightning. Chat is smaller but fierce.

_FREEDOM_FIGHTER_88: They can't stop signal
MAYA_WAS_RIGHT: Should have listened sooner_

He reads aloud. "If you don't hold it, you don't own it."

Clarissa files takedowns. Relays shrug. Community recuts his clips with cat faces. Hash mismatch. Takedown fails. His phone buzzes. Unknown number. "This is Clarissa from Trust and Safety."

"How'd you get this number?"

"Cato, I—" A pause.

"Look, this isn't personal. I have metrics to hit." Soft exhale.

"Sounds pretty personal to my bank account."

"I'm trying to help you here. Just apologize. Say you were wrong. They'll let you back."

"And if I don't?"

Silence stretches. Then: "I don't write the rules." He hangs up.

Heat map of the world lights up. Seeders in Krakow, Nairobi, Boise. His voice bounces between them like iron shot.

He parks the hatchback by the river. Pocket holds the drive. He breathes. Weight of real things. No algorithmic hum. Just wind and water. Maya calls.

"How does it feel?" she asks.

"Heavy," he says.

"Good."

Garage gym. Old camcorder on a tripod. He pulls deadlifts. Steel rings.

Voice over rough and low. "They erased nineteen years. Left me breathing. Good trade."

He stores the tape on a shelf of numbered drives. Sharpie labels. LIFE. WORK. REGRETS.

He slides a new one in place. OWNERSHIP.

Cold steel in his palm—no ring light, no lens, just weight. "Back up off-line," he says, and kills the light.

Do you have a separate laptop / computer for doing all bitcoin things?

HardMoney

Air-gapped as cold. 
Main wallet(s), multiple. LN wallets, Sparrow, Ashigaru, etc.