The WGN crew, still visibly dazed, began to dismantle their equipment with a subdued clatter that sounded unnaturally loud in the suddenly cavernous silence of Andy Holden's basement. Sarah Jennings kept glancing at him, her expression a bewildered mix of journalistic triumph and profound unease. Andy ignored them. He'd already moved back to his primary workstation, a scarred metal desk littered with schematics, empty coffee mugs, and the detritus of a hundred sleepless nights. His fingers, stained with ink, flew across the keyboard of an aging custom-built PC. The world outside his cinderblock sanctuary had just been irrevocably altered, and he intended to witness its first convulsions.
The internet was already a raging inferno. His old tablet, still propped against a stack of journals, was set to a news aggregator, he had configured filter signal from noise. Now, there was no noise; there was only signal, a planet-wide, deafening roar focused on one, improbable point: his basement.
"#HoldenEmitter" was not just trending; it had vaporized all other topics on every social media platform. He watched, a grim flicker of satisfaction in his piercing blue eyes, as the WGN footage, raw and unedited, propagated across the globe with the speed of a digital pandemic. Major news networks—CNN, BBC, FOX, Al Jazeera, their logos flashing across his screen—were abandoning their scheduled programming. He saw split screens: one side showing the levitating tungsten cube, the other featuring bewildered-looking physicists, hastily dragged into studios, their faces pale under the harsh lights as they stammered about "paradigm shifts" and "currently inexplicable phenomena."
"Well, Don, what we appear to be seeing, if this footage is indeed genuine, and I must stress the 'if' at this early stage," one talking head, identified as a professor of theoretical physics from MIT, was saying, his voice tight with academic caution, "is a localized manipulation of gravitational fields on a scale previously considered... purely theoretical, perhaps even fantastical. The energy implications alone, if that LED was genuinely powered as claimed..." He trailed off, shaking his head, clearly struggling to reconcile the images with decades of established doctrine.
Andy snorted. If this footage is genuine. The arrogance of institutional inertia. They would doubt. They would dissect. They would desperately try to fit his square peg of reality into their round holes of accepted theory. Let them. The tungsten cube with a hole bored cleanly through its heart was an irrefutable argument.
He switched to another feed. A retired four-star general, his face a granite mask of military sobriety, was speaking with unnerving calm. "The shielding capability demonstrated, repelling physical objects... that changes the calculus of kinetic weaponry entirely. And a directed energy beam capable of penetrating dense tungsten with that precision... the offensive and defensive strategic implications are, frankly, staggering. This is not an incremental advance. This is a step-function change in military potential."
Of course, Andy thought, a familiar cynicism hardening his features. The first thought is always the weapon. It was precisely why he had embedded the dead man's switch so deeply into the announcement. He had anticipated this Pavlovian response from the military-industrial complex.
Social media was a chaotic, roiling ocean of raw human emotion. #GravityControl. #TungstenHole. And, with a significance that sent a chill down even his spine, #HoldenThreat. He scrolled through a torrent of messages:
"OMG is this real?! Can we fly now?!"
"Fake. Has to be CGI. Right? ...Right?"
"Holden for President! Finally, someone who can actually DO something!"
"This is terrifying. What if terrorists get this? We're all doomed."
"He stood up to the government! A true patriot!"
"He threatened to give it to China! Treason!"
"My God, the energy crisis could be over. My kids might have a future."
Awe. Fear. Excitement. Fervent nationalism. Sharp condemnation. Demands for his arrest. Demands for his canonization. It was a volatile cocktail, exactly as he'd predicted. The sheer variety of the demonstrated effects—the impossible, silent levitation; the active, visible shield; the inexplicable generation of energy from an unseen source; the terrifying precision of the material penetration—it was too much, too varied, too clearly documented from multiple angles by a reputable news crew to be easily dismissed as a hoax, however much the comfortable establishment might wish it. He had forced them to consider it. He had planned for this cacophony, this global upending of assumptions. He had thrown a very large, very disruptive rock into the placid pond of accepted reality. Now, he watched the ripples spread, tsunami-like.
=========================================
His landline phone, a relic he kept from before cellphones and instant messaging, rang. Arthur Jenkins, his local lawyer, his voice tight with a mixture of awe and sheer panic.
"Andy? Are you... are you seeing this? The entire world..."
"I'm seeing it, Arthur," Andy replied, his tone calm, a stark contrast to the lawyer's agitation. "It's proceeding largely as anticipated."
"As anticipated?" Jenkins squeaked. "They're calling you everything from a messiah to a madman! The authorities… they'll be there any minute!"
"They are already managing the optics of their arrival, I imagine," Andy said, glancing at a small window on his PC that was the feed to the discreetly placed security camera on the side of his house. No unusual activity. Yet. "My terms were quite clear. They will be cautious."
"Cautious? Andy, you poked the biggest bear on the planet with a very sharp stick!"
"And I showed them the even bigger bear I have leashed," Andy corrected coolly. "They will negotiate. They have to." His core fear of helplessness, of being overwhelmed, had been preempted by a strategy designed to make others feel that way if they tried to bulldoze him. He needed to be capable and competent, and that meant controlling the board.
He hung up on Jenkins's sputtering, turning his attention back to a news alert. Fermilab. His old stomping grounds. He felt a cold, grim satisfaction as he read the headline: "Fermilab Under Siege: Questions Mount Over Ex-Physicist's 'Impossible' Breakthrough." The accompanying photo showed a phalanx of news vans camped outside the lab's main gates, a stark contrast to the usually serene, academic atmosphere of the place. The article detailed the immediate announcement of congressional hearings. He could almost picture Alistair Evans, his former department head, squirming. Good. Let him squirm. Let them all feel the heat of the spotlight they had so readily shone on him during his dismissal.
The sheer, undeniable reality of the demonstration, the clarity of the physics he had unleashed, was his ultimate vindication. He had not merely theorized; he had built. He had not merely predicted; he had demonstrated. He had unearthed a fundamental truth, and had given it tangible form. The world could argue about the implications, but they could no longer deny the phenomenon. He had taken control, not just of his invention, but of the narrative surrounding it. The coming days would be a battle of wills, of strategies, of immense pressures. But for now, in the quiet hum of his basement, surrounded by the tools of his triumph, Andy Holden allowed himself a moment of stark, unadulterated, intellectual satisfaction. After all the hardship, he had shown them. He had shown them all.
=========================================
Dr. Alistair Evans, Head of the Experimental Physics Division at Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory, felt the impeccably knotted silk of his tie constrict his throat like a hangman's noose. His normally ordered, predictable world had, in the space of a single WGN news broadcast, imploded into a chaotic supernova of ringing phones, frantic emails, and the humiliating spectacle of satellite trucks parked cheek-by-jowl outside the hallowed gates of Wilson Hall. His meticulously organized office, usually a sanctuary of calm administrative efficiency, now felt like the besieged command bunker of a losing army.
The Director General, a man whose political acumen far outweighed his grasp of cutting-edge physics these days, had just finished a very loud, very unpleasant video call with someone very high up in the Department of Energy. The echoes of "unacceptable," "catastrophic oversight," and "heads will roll" still seemed to reverberate off the walnut paneling. Evans, who prided himself on his adherence to procedure and his responsible stewardship of the lab's resources and reputation, felt a cold dread pool in his stomach. This wasn't just a crisis; it was an institutional nightmare.
Andrew Holden. The name was a burning coal in his mind. Holden, the brilliant but erratic theorist, the man Evans himself had been forced to terminate for "flagrant disregard of established research protocols and unauthorized use of laboratory resources." He remembered the dismissal meeting vividly: Holden, gaunt and wild-eyed even then, his arguments a torrent of unconventional physics that Evans had, with carefully cultivated concern, dismissed as "speculative" and "lacking rigorous experimental basis." He'd genuinely believed he was doing the right thing, protecting the lab from a reckless, potentially dangerous loose cannon, adhering to the principles of sound, verifiable science. His principles had insisted on it. This was the correct procedure for someone so far off the reservation.
Now, that "speculative" research, that "unauthorized experimentation," had apparently levitated a five-hundred-pound block of tungsten on live television, generated a force field, pulled energy from thin air, and bored a hole through solid metal with a beam of light. The sheer, brazen audacity of it, the success of it, was a physical blow. It made a mockery of every carefully constructed protocol, every peer review committee, every five-year strategic plan he held dear.
His secure line buzzed. Another congressional aide, demanding an immediate briefing for some hastily assembled subcommittee on "Emerging Technological Threats and Institutional Failures." Failures. The word stung. His meticulously maintained record, his reputation for steady, competent leadership, was unraveling before his eyes.
"Yes, Dr. Evans speaking," he said, his voice a carefully controlled monotone, betraying none of the turmoil raging within. He listened for a moment, his jaw tightening. "I understand the urgency. We are compiling all relevant documentation regarding Dr. Holden's tenure and termination... Yes, of course, full cooperation..."
He hung up, a sigh of profound weariness escaping him. The lab's internal investigation, which he was now personally spearheading, was a frantic, desperate scramble. They were pulling every digital and physical record related to Holden: old server logs from his official projects, flagged for unusual processing spikes he'd probably explained away at the time; equipment requisitions for components that, in retrospect, seemed oddly out of place for his neutrino research; half-forgotten emails where he'd hinted at "novel gravitational interactions"; even janitorial logs for his old lab space, searching for any discarded prototypes or unusual energy signatures. It was a hunt for ghosts, for breadcrumbs that might lead them to understand how Holden had achieved this... this abomination, this miracle, right under their noses. And, more importantly, how they could replicate it, or at least understand its fundamental principles, before the entire world, including their adversaries, did. The national security implications were a screaming klaxon in his ears.
His usual desire to support the institution and guide his scientists towards "correct" and "productive" research, was now twisted into a desperate need to defend Fermilab, to prove they hadn't been completely asleep at the switch. He had to frame Holden's dismissal not as a failure to recognize genius, but as a necessary action against a maverick who broke inviolable rules.
The official statements they were drafting were exercises in semantic contortion. "Dr. Holden's termination was based on clear violations of established Fermilab research protocols and safety guidelines regarding unauthorized experimentation... While the claims made in his recent public demonstration are extraordinary and require rigorous independent scientific verification under controlled laboratory conditions, Fermilab is committed to understanding all aspects of fundamental physics..." It was weak. It sounded defensive. Because it was defensive.
He looked at the framed photo on his credenza: a younger, more optimistic Alistair Evans shaking hands with a Nobel laureate. He had dedicated his life to this institution, to the pursuit of knowledge within the bounds of responsible science. And now, it was all threatened by one man, a man he had dismissed as a fringe eccentric, who had apparently, in his suburban basement, with scavenged parts and sheer, defiant brilliance, rewritten the laws of the universe. The order he cherished was in ruins. The standards he upheld seemed, in this glaring new light, like blinkers. It was a deeply unsettling, almost physically painful realization for a man like Alistair Evans. He had been right by the book, and catastrophically, historically, wrong in reality.
=========================================
Andy watched the live feed from his outdoor security camera. Black SUVs, unmarked but with the unmistakable aura of federal law enforcement, were methodically closing off his street. Men in dark, functional windbreakers, discreet earpieces visible, were speaking to bewildered neighbors, establishing a perimeter. It was efficient, professional, and pointedly non-aggressive. No sirens, no bullhorns, no SWAT teams kicking down his door. Just a quiet, overwhelming presence.
They were heeding his warning. For now.
His phone, kept on full charge specifically for this phase, rang. An unknown number, but one he was expecting. He let it ring three times, a small psychological tactic, before answering.
"Holden."
"Dr. Holden, this is Special Agent Marcus Thorne with the Federal Bureau of Investigation." The voice was calm, professional, devoid of overt threat. A negotiator's voice. "Are you safe and well, sir?"
"Perfectly fine, Agent Thorne," Andy replied, his tone equally level. He pictured the man: mid-forties, suit, trained to de-escalate, to build rapport. "Enjoying the sudden surge in local property values, I imagine."
A slight pause on the other end. Thorne wasn't expecting levity. "Dr. Holden, we understand you've made some… significant statements this evening. We would like to discuss them with you, to understand your position and ensure a peaceful resolution."
"My position was stated quite clearly on national television, Agent Thorne. As for a peaceful resolution, that depends entirely on whether my clearly stated conditions are respected." Andy swiveled in his chair, looking at the inert but potent form of the graviton emitter.
"We acknowledge your statements, sir," Thorne said, his voice still impeccably neutral. "The United States government is prepared to engage in good-faith discussions. Our primary concern at this moment is public safety and national security."
"My primary concern, Agent Thorne, is the safeguarding of my intellectual property and its inventor-led development for peaceful purposes. Public safety and national security will be best served by adhering to the framework I've proposed." Andy was not ceding an inch. He felt that he was in full control of this exchange. He knew they were recording, analyzing every inflection. Let them.
"We understand you have concerns about your... intellectual property," Thorne said, carefully. "We have technical teams from the Department of Energy on standby, who would be very interested in understanding the principles of your device, under your guidance, of course. Purely for verification and to assess its potential."
Andy allowed a dry chuckle. "Verification? Agent Thorne, the hole in the five-hundred-pound tungsten block is fairly compelling verification. As for 'assessing its potential,' I'm sure the Pentagon has already produced a dozen PowerPoints on that topic. My terms for collaboration are non-negotiable. Holden Gravitics retains control. Peaceful energy development comes first."
"Dr. Holden, the President Trump himself has been briefed. There is a desire at the highest levels to find a mutually agreeable path forward. But you must understand the gravity—no pun intended—of the situation your demonstration has created."
"I understand it far better than you can imagine, Agent Thorne. I have lived with it for years." Andy glanced at another window on his monitor displaying a highly encrypted, outbound data stream—a continuous, low-bandwidth 'heartbeat' signal to his distributed dead man's switch network. Any interruption, any sign of duress... He pushed the thought away. It was a deterrent, not a wish. "The path forward is the one I've outlined. If you are prepared to discuss those terms, I am prepared to listen. If you are considering other... options... I strongly advise you to review the latter part of my broadcast very carefully."
Another pause, longer this time. Andy could almost hear the mental gears turning in the ad-hoc command center they'd undoubtedly set up nearby. They were assessing. He knew US Cyber Command and the NSA would be tearing the internet apart, trying to find his data packets, trying to understand the trigger. He'd made it complex, layered, with both digital and physical fail-safes. They would find traces, enough to confirm the threat was credible, but hopefully not enough to disarm it without his cooperation, and certainly not without immense risk. The very fact that Thorne was on the phone, negotiating, rather than a tactical team coming through his basement door, was a testament to the initial effectiveness of his deterrent.
"We are not considering 'other options' at this time, Dr. Holden," Thorne said, a new note of formality in his voice. "Our directive is to communicate, verify, and negotiate. Would you be willing to speak with a lead negotiator, someone empowered to discuss your specific proposals?"
"I would be willing to have my legal counsel speak with them," Andy corrected. "I am a scientist, Agent Thorne, not a diplomat. And certainly not a hostage."
"You are not a hostage, Dr. Holden. You are in your home. We are simply securing the area for everyone's safety."
"A semantic distinction I appreciate," Andy said, his voice dry. "I will be in touch, through counsel, when I have engaged appropriate representation. Until then, I trust your 'containment' will remain... external."
"We understand. We will await your communication." Thorne sounded like a man who had just navigated a minefield blindfolded and was profoundly relieved to still be in one piece.
Andy ended the call. The first contact. They were cautious. They were talking. Phase one of his post-demonstration strategy was holding. He felt a sliver of relief, quickly suppressed. This was just the opening gambit in a game with stakes so high they were almost unimaginable. He was alone, in his basement, against the full might of the US government. But he held a hand that could, quite literally, change the world. And they knew it.
=========================================
The anechoic chamber deep within Fort Meade was a silent, sterile hell. For the last six hours, a team of the NSA's most gifted SIGINT analysts and US Cyber Command's elite offensive cyber operators had been chasing digital ghosts through the global network, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of multiple monitors. The pressure from the White House, relayed through a chain of increasingly terse generals and grim-faced civilian liaisons, was immense: find Holden's dead man's switch. Map it. Analyze its triggers. Determine if it can be neutralized. And do it yesterday. Without, of course, setting it off.
They found fragments. Encrypted data packets, monstrously large, distributed across a bewildering array of obscure cloud servers in non-extradition countries, hidden within steganographic layers of scientific databases, even hinted at in blockchain transactions. Each was a digital needle in a planetary haystack, protected by layers of encryption. Holden hadn't just built a switch; he'd constructed a cryptographic labyrinth.
"We've got another partial trace," a young analyst, caffeine-wired and pale, muttered, pointing to a cascading stream of code. "Looks like a timed handshake protocol, routing through a series of anonymized TOR relays. If the primary signal from his end ceases for... best guess, between 12 and 24 hours... it triggers a cascade key release to these distributed nodes."
"And the nodes themselves?" the section chief, a woman with tired eyes and a mind like a steel trap, asked.
"Some are purely digital. Others... we're seeing correlations with shipping manifests for secure diplomatic pouches to certain... aligned and non-aligned embassies. And financial transactions to very discreet Swiss vault services known for 'no questions asked' physical storage."
A low whistle went around the chamber. This wasn't just a digital threat. Holden had layered in physical redundancy.
"What about duress codes? Forced entry?" the chief pressed.
"His internal network security is... unconventional but robust, VPNs and possibly a hardware firewall" another analyst reported, scrolling through a complex network topology map they were painstakingly building from faint, passively collected signal leakage from Holden's residence. "Looks like multiple sensors, seismic, acoustic, even some kind of localized EM field monitoring around that device of his. Any abrupt, unauthorized breach or an unexpected pattern interruption could be a trigger. He might even have a 'canary' signal he has to actively suppress."
The section chief leaned back, rubbing her temples. Holden wasn't some amateur. He was a paranoid, brilliant, and a deeply methodical bastard. "So, direct physical intervention is off the table unless we want to roll the dice on global data dissemination?"
"That would be my assessment, ma'am," the lead analyst confirmed grimly. "The system is designed for catastrophic, widespread release upon tampering or confirmed neutralization of the primary operator. He's not bluffing. This thing is real, it's sophisticated, and it's armed."
The conclusion, relayed up the chain of command with terrifying speed, hit the National Security Council like a bucket of ice water. The initial, hawkish instinct to "secure the asset" by any means necessary died a swift, silent death. Holden's threat was credible. His deterrent was functional. Negotiation, however unpalatable, was now the only viable option. The directive coming back down was clear: extreme caution. Verify. Talk. Do not provoke. The world couldn't afford the alternative. Andy Holden, from his basement, had bought himself time and a seat at the table, not through force of arms, but through the unassailable logic of mutually assured intellectual destruction.
=========================================
The media frenzy outside his house had transformed his quiet suburban street into a surreal, 24/7 carnival of satellite trucks, klieg lights, and reporters shouting into cameras. Inside, Andy Holden was a small, still island of intense concentration. He had used the initial standoff, the government's visible restraint, and the blinding glare of global media attention—which made any overt move against him politically radioactive—to make his next crucial move. Arthur Jenkins, his local patent attorney, was a good man, meticulous and loyal, but he was out of his depth. This was no longer about patent filings; this was about negotiating with a superpower under the threat of global technological upheaval.
He needed sharks. The best sharks.
He'd spent hours online, leveraging his brief window of unmolested internet access before the inevitable deeper surveillance kicked in, researching law firms. Not just any firms. He needed a team with a very specific, very rare combination of skills: deep expertise in high-stakes government negotiations, ironclad intellectual property protection in national security contexts, and a nuanced understanding of international law and technology policy. He found them: Thorne & Associates, a boutique Washington D.C. firm with a reputation for handling impossible cases, for representing innovators clashing with entrenched power, and for possessing an almost preternatural ability to navigate the treacherous interface between law, politics, and cutting-edge science. Their senior partner, Evelyn Thorne, was apparently one of the best in her field—a formidable intellect with a steely gaze and a track record of making government lawyers weep.
Getting through to her had been an exercise in navigating layers of screening, but the moment he'd uttered the words "Andrew Holden, the WGN demonstration," the drawbridges had lowered with astonishing speed. He'd spent two hours on a highly secure, end-to-end encrypted video call with Evelyn Thorne herself and two of her top partners. He laid out his situation, his technology (in broad strokes), his terms, and the nature of his deterrent. He didn't embellish or downplay. He presented the facts with cold, scientific precision.
Thorne, a woman in her late sixties with silver hair swept back from a sharply intelligent face and eyes that missed nothing, had listened without interruption, her expression unreadable. When he finished, there was a long silence.
Then, she'd said, her voice a low, resonant alto, "Dr. Holden, you have, with remarkable efficacy, placed a gun to the head of the global status quo and demanded its undivided attention. It is, from a legal and strategic standpoint, one of the most audacious and well-executed opening moves I have ever witnessed."
Coming from Evelyn Thorne, Andy thought that was high praise.
"The question now," she continued, "is how we leverage this... unique negotiating position to achieve your stated objectives without either triggering your rather dramatic contingency or ending up in a supermax facility for the rest of your natural life."
"That is precisely why I contacted you, Ms. Thorne," Andy replied. "I require counsel that understands the stakes and is not intimidated by them."
"Intimidation is not a business model we find particularly profitable, Doctor." A hint of a smile touched her lips. "We will represent you. A team will be en route to your location within hours, under an FBI safe-conduct agreement we will negotiate. They will establish a secure communication and legal operations center within your residence. From this moment forward, all communication with any government agency will go through us. You will speak to no one without our presence or explicit advice. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly," Andy said. A wave of profound, uncharacteristic relief washed over him. He was still the architect of his fate, but he now had master builders to help him construct the next phase. The isolation, while energizing his initial breakthrough, was becoming a tactical vulnerability. Thorne & Associates were his new shield, and his spear.
They discussed strategy, red lines, potential government counter-moves. Thorne's grasp of the geopolitical and legal ramifications was instantaneous and comprehensive. She spoke of leveraging international patent treaties, of framing his demands within national security imperatives (energy independence, technological supremacy if managed correctly), of using the media spotlight as both a shield and a scalpel.
"Your son, Myles, will be critical in this," Thorne had stated towards the end of the call. "He is articulate, he is an aerospace engineer, he understands the potential. He can be the human face of this, the voice of reason and aspiration, while you, Dr. Holden, maintain the strategic high ground of the unyielding inventor. We will guide him."
Andy had hesitated. Myles was his son, not a pawn. But he also knew Thorne was right. He knew his personality, while effective for the initial confrontation, was not suited for winning hearts and minds. Myles, with his warmth and genuine idealism, could bridge that gap. It was a pragmatic necessity. "He will need to agree, of course," Andy said.
"We'll make a compelling case," Thorne replied, a glint of confidence in her eyes.
When the call ended, Andy sat in the quiet of his basement, the distant hubbub of the media encampment a muted roar. He felt the immense pressure shift, just slightly. He was no longer entirely alone. The game had new players, and they were on his side. He recognized their competence. He appreciated their strength. Andy began to plot the next series of moves, now with a queen and rooks to add to his arsenal.
=========================================
Myles Holden felt like he was standing at the epicenter of an earthquake that was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. His father, the brilliant, frustrating, and often infuriating man who had been a source of both immense pride and quiet concern for most of his life, had just detonated a scientific and geopolitical bomb on live television. Watching the WGN broadcast from his small apartment in Kent, Washington, surrounded by concerned Blue Origin colleagues, Myles had felt his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest.
The sheer audacity of the demonstration—the floating tungsten, the force field, the impossible energy generation, that terrifying hole drilled through solid metal—had left him breathless. He knew his father was brilliant, had always known it, even during the strained years after the Fermilab dismissal when Andy had retreated into his basement obsession. He'd seen glimpses of the theories, the early, crude experiments. He'd offered engineering advice, helped source components, all while nursing a quiet fear that his father was chasing a chimera. He hadn't truly grasped the reality, the sheer, unadulterated power Andy was on the verge of unleashing, until he saw it live, undeniable, on that screen.
Then came the declaration. The formation of Holden Gravitics. The non-negotiable terms. And the dead man's switch. Myles knew about the "insurance policy," as his father had grimly termed it. He hadn't liked it. It felt... extreme, dangerous. But seeing his father, gaunt and resolute, lay it out with such cold, hard logic to the entire world, Myles understood the terrifying necessity of it. His father wasn't just protecting an invention; he was trying to protect its soul, to steer its immense power towards good before it could be inevitably perverted.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he was in a sterile, anonymous hotel room near Chicago O'Hare, not far from his father's besieged home. He'd flown in on the first available flight, his mind a whirl of anxiety and a dawning sense of monumental responsibility. With him were two lawyers from Thorne & Associates, the high-powered firm his father had somehow managed to retain. They were sharp, impeccably professional, and seemed utterly unfazed by the global pandemonium his father had unleashed. Ms. Davies, a partner with a calm demeanor and eyes that seemed to see right through him, was explaining his new role.
"Myles," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "your father is, quite rightly, focused on the core scientific and strategic negotiations. He needs to be insulated. But the world needs to hear a voice of reassurance, a voice that can articulate the incredible positive potential of this technology. That voice needs to be yours."
In his heart, the part of him that yearned to connect, to help, to build a better future, resonated with her words. But the sheer scale of it, the pressure, was immense. "Me? But... I'm just an aerospace engineer. I build rockets, or parts of them. I'm not..."
"You are Dr. Holden's son," Ms. Davies interjected smoothly. "You understand the science at a practical level. You share his vision for its peaceful application, particularly for space exploration, which we understand is a passion of yours." (His father had clearly briefed them well.) "And, frankly, Myles, you are personable, articulate, and you project sincerity. Your father... projects brilliance and an unshakeable will, which is essential. But you can provide the human element, the aspirational narrative that the public, and frankly, many policymakers, need to hear."
He thought of his father, alone in that basement, facing down the world. He thought of the technology itself—the end of polluting energy, the dawn of cheap access to space, the very things he had dedicated his own career to, albeit through more conventional means. This was it. The inflection point. His father had kicked open the door to a new era. Someone needed to guide people through it, to show them the wonders beyond, not just the perceived dangers. His desire to help, to contribute, surged. He recognized the unprecedented opportunity to be part of something truly historic, to make a tangible, positive difference.
"Okay," Myles said, taking a deep breath, the decision solidifying. "Okay, I'll do it. What do I need to say?"
The next few hours were a crash course in crisis communications and public messaging. Ms. Davies and her associate, a younger, razor-sharp lawyer named Ben Carter, prepped him relentlessly. They helped him craft core messages: his father was safe, his father was a visionary acting to protect his creation for the good of humanity, the dead man's switch was a purely defensive measure against theft or misuse. They emphasized the transformative potential for clean energy, for revolutionizing industry, and yes, for opening up space—his father's gift not just to Earth, but to humanity's future among the stars.
His first public appearance was a short, carefully managed press conference in the hotel lobby, swarming with a select pool of international media. He was nervous, his palms sweating, but as he stepped up to the microphones, Ms. Davies's calm presence beside him, he found a surprising steadiness. He spoke of his father's dedication, his brilliance. He reiterated the commitment to peaceful development. He described, with genuine passion, how this technology could finally unlock the solar system, making dreams of lunar bases and Martian colonies achievable within their lifetimes.
"My father's invention is not a weapon," Myles stated, his voice clear and carrying, his gaze sweeping across the sea of reporters. "It is a tool, the most versatile tool humanity has ever conceived. And like any tool, its impact will be determined by how we choose to wield it. Dr. Holden, and Holden Gravitics, are committed to ensuring it is wielded for creation, for progress, for the betterment of all. The contingency plan you've heard about, the 'dead man's switch,' is simply an insurance policy, an unfortunate necessity in a world where transformative discoveries can be quickly and secretly perverted. It exists only to guarantee that this profound discovery is developed in the light, responsibly, and with its inventor guiding its initial path towards peace and prosperity."
He answered questions carefully, guided by Ms. Davies's subtle cues, always returning to their core themes of hope, responsibility, and the incredible promise of the future. He saw the skepticism on some faces, the hunger for sensation on others. But he also saw something else: a dawning understanding, a flicker of the same awe and excitement that was coursing through his own veins. He was not just defending his father; he was advocating for a new human epoch. And as he spoke, the fear began to recede, replaced by a profound sense of purpose. His father had lit the fire; it was now, in part, his job to tend the flame and ensure it illuminated the world, rather than consuming it. He had found a common cause with his father, speaking for a future he desperately wanted to believe in.