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Ethan thought about it overnight and, by morning, he'd made his decision.
The capital was tempting. The political access alone would have justified it. But he kept circling back to the same set of objections, and after weighing them honestly, the math came out the same way every time.
Ashford City was home. He'd grown up forty minutes away, in Millbrook County. His support network — Frank, Linda, Calder now, the relationships with the local Bureau, the existing infrastructure he'd built around the original factory — was rooted there. Tearing all of that up to relocate to the capital meant rebuilding from scratch, and rebuilding from scratch was a luxury he didn't have time for.
There was also the geography. Ashford City sat within a few hours of the southern coastline. Every additional reactor he was going to deploy in the Southern Sea grid would require regular access to those waters, and being closer to the coast was a logistical advantage that the capital simply couldn't match.
But the deciding factor was privacy.
The capital was, to put it mildly, a fishbowl. Every move made by every senior figure was tracked by reporters, foreign intelligence services, political rivals, and corporate operatives. As long as Ethan stayed in Ashford City, his daily research activity could remain quietly hidden. Move to the capital, and everything became a public event. The construction of a single new lab would draw scrutiny. The procurement of unusual materials would generate questions.
And Ethan could not afford to have anyone — government, foreign or domestic — start asking questions about how, exactly, he was producing his inventions. Because the answer was a System that lived in his head, and that was the one secret he would protect at any cost.
He let Director Holt know first thing in the morning. Holt accepted the decision gracefully — Ethan suspected the man had been hoping for the capital but had also been prepared for either answer. The conversation took less than five minutes. Holt told him not to worry about the company registration paperwork, the ministry would handle the rest of the approvals end-to-end.
That, frankly, was a relief. Ethan had been dreading the bureaucratic gauntlet of incorporating a multi-billion-mark venture, and Holt's offer to take it off his hands meant he could focus on the actual work.
He left the documents in Holt's office and walked out feeling, for the first time in days, as if he had a clear schedule.
That feeling lasted exactly until he stepped out the main doors of the Energy Ministry.
The lobby was bustling. Ministry staff who had clocked out hours ago were filing back in, jackets still on, briefcases in hand, faces wearing the specific expression of people who'd been called back to work by a phone call they hadn't been able to refuse.
Ethan stopped, stepped to one side, and tried to make himself as small as possible.
These were the people Holt had pulled in to fast-track Ethan's incorporation paperwork. They were going to spend their evening processing his filings. They were not going to be home in time for dinner. They were not going to see their families before bedtime.
And the entire reason for this disruption was currently standing twenty feet away, having a quiet panic attack about being recognized.
If even one of them put two and two together — if they realized that the cause of their unscheduled overtime was the teenager loitering near the water cooler — Ethan was reasonably sure he'd never make it out of the building. They wouldn't be hostile. They'd be polite. They might even ask for autographs.
But the judgment. The mass collective judgment of three dozen exhausted civil servants. He could not survive that.
He pulled his cap lower, ducked his head, and walked very quickly toward the exit.
-----
It was nearly midnight by the time Bumblebee pulled up to the security gate of Hargrove's residential compound.
Ethan rolled down the window, prepared to give his name, and discovered that the soldiers at the gate were already standing aside. They'd been briefed. The senior officer on duty offered a respectful nod and waved Bumblebee through.
Ethan returned the nod and rolled forward into the compound.
In his rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of the soldiers exhaling in unison. He didn't entirely understand the reaction at first. Then he remembered that these men had probably watched the Aurelian Republic incident on classified channels, including the parts that hadn't been released to the public. The footage of him walking out of an enemy intelligence headquarters with the building burning behind him was, he had been told, a regular highlight reel at military training facilities.
These soldiers were professional. They were also, evidently, somewhat relieved every time he passed through their checkpoint without trouble.
He parked Bumblebee on the street outside Hargrove's residence and walked up the path.
He raised his hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles connected with the wood.
Hargrove had been waiting up. Of course he had.
"Get inside, kid. There's noodles in the kitchen."
-----
Ethan ate three bowls of noodles, then "discovered" a substantial cut of cured beef hidden behind a row of pickle jars in the back of the refrigerator, and consumed that as well.
He emerged from the kitchen wiping his mouth with the satisfied expression of a man who had just found and eliminated a snack he was probably not supposed to find.
Hargrove's grandnephew, Daniel — who lived with the old man and managed his household — looked at the empty plates and felt a slow, deep grief settle into his chest.
"Did you eat the cured beef?"
"I thought it was for me."
"It was not for me—" Daniel caught himself. "It was not for you. I hid it. I hid it specifically. I put a row of pickle jars in front of it. I put it in a region of the refrigerator that nobody but me ever opens."
"Was there a sign?"
"What?"
"Was there a sign saying 'Daniel's beef'? Because I didn't see a sign."
Daniel stared at him.
Then, with the careful patience of a man who had been Hargrove's caretaker for fifteen years and was very good at managing emotional outbursts, Daniel set the plates in the sink.
"Next time you come, I'm putting a lock on the kitchen."
"Locks don't really work on me, Daniel."
"I'll find a lock that works on you."
"That sounds like a research project. I could help you with that."
"Out of my kitchen."
-----
In the living room, Hargrove was waiting on the sofa with the patient expression of a man who had been listening to the entire kitchen exchange and was choosing not to intervene.
Ethan dropped into the chair across from him and got straight to business.
"Dr. Hargrove. About the recruitment work I asked you to handle—"
"Patience, kid." Hargrove raised an eyebrow. "You haven't fulfilled your end of the bargain yet, and you're already asking for the deliverable?"
Ethan put a hand to his chest in mock injury.
"Dr. Hargrove. I'm a man of my word. Every promise counts. You wanted me on the company roster, I'll put you on the roster. You wanted me to be CEO instead, I'll hand you the corner office."
"What CEO. I can't build seabed reactors. And that's not what I meant."
A pause.
"Oh." Ethan straightened. "The teaching thing? Sure. Glad to lecture at Hartwell whenever it works out. Maybe next semester—"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
Ethan's smile froze.
"Excuse me?"
"You're giving your first lecture tomorrow afternoon. I've already informed the President and the Dean of the Faculty of Physics. They're expecting you at fourteen hundred."
Ethan stared at the old man.
He had been planning, in his secret strategic heart, to ride this teaching commitment out indefinitely. Once the energy company started operating, he had a perfectly defensible excuse to defer any specific lecture date. Apologies, Dr. Hargrove, we have a critical reactor commissioning. I'll catch the next semester. And then the next. And the next. Until eventually, the pattern of deferrals became its own answer, and the teaching position became a polite ceremonial title that nobody actually expected him to honor.
Hargrove had, somehow, anticipated this exact strategy.
And had pre-empted it by approximately fourteen hours.
"Dr. Hargrove. Tomorrow is too soon. I haven't prepared anything—"
"I told the President and the Dean that you would deliver an exceptional lecture. Don't embarrass me."
The old man's voice had taken on the specific register Ethan had now learned to recognize. The tone that meant: this conversation is concluded, you are now committed, attempting further negotiation will only embarrass both of us.
Ethan slumped in his chair.
"What am I supposed to lecture about?"
"You're a physicist, Ethan. You'll figure it out."
"I'm not a—"
"Don't say it. You are absolutely a physicist. You've been a physicist for almost two years. You can figure out what to lecture about for ninety minutes."
"Ninety minutes?"
"Possibly two hours. The students will probably want a question-and-answer period after."
"Dr. Hargrove."
"Tomorrow afternoon, Ethan. Get some sleep."
The old man stood up, patted Ethan's shoulder once with surprising gentleness, and left the room.
Ethan sat alone on the chair for several minutes, staring at the empty space where Hargrove had been.
He had been absolutely, comprehensively outmaneuvered.
By a ninety-one-year-old man.
He sighed and stood up.
If he was going to lecture at the most prestigious university in the country in fourteen hours, he had some preparation to do.
-----
Six AM. The guest bedroom on the second floor of Hargrove's residence.
J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice came softly through Ethan's watch, calibrated to the specific volume threshold that would wake him without startling anyone in the adjacent rooms.
"Sir. Good morning. Your lecture at Hartwell University is in eight hours."
Ethan groaned into a pillow.
"Sir, your schedule is moderately aggressive. You'll need approximately three hours for travel, contingency, and parking. That leaves you five hours for breakfast, attire, hair, and lecture preparation."
"J.A.R.V.I.S."
"Yes, sir."
"Help me figure out what to wear."
"Right away, sir."
Ethan's wristwatch projected a soft holographic display above the nightstand. A three-dimensional image of him appeared, rotating slowly, dressed in a casual blazer over a fitted dress shirt, slim trousers, and clean leather shoes. The cut accentuated the lean, defined musculature the serum had given him without crossing into the kind of bodybuilder bulk that would have looked ostentatious. The blazer was charcoal. The shirt was a soft ivory. The trousers were a deeper graphite that complemented both.
The overall effect was professional but approachable. Mature without being stuffy. Confident without being arrogant.
Ethan stared at the projection.
"J.A.R.V.I.S., did you design this?"
"I cross-referenced contemporary academic dress conventions for visiting lecturers at top-tier Valorian universities, ran the results through aesthetic models tuned to your physiological proportions, and selected the configuration with the highest predicted reception score from the target demographic."
"What demographic is that?"
"Faculty, Sir, Ages 40-65, and undergraduate students, ages 18-22."
"…both?"
"You will be evaluated by both."
Ethan, who had not previously thought about being evaluated by anyone at the lecture, felt a small, fresh wave of anxiety roll through his chest.
"J.A.R.V.I.S., you're amazing. I am keeping you forever."
"Thank you, sir. Brand information, current pricing, and the closest retail locations for the listed garments have been compiled in your briefing notes. I have also flagged the nearest reputable barber for an appointment between nine and ten this morning, in case you wish to update your hair before the lecture."
"You think I need a haircut?"
"I think you have approximately forty minutes of growth beyond your last trim. The hair has not yet reached the threshold where it impacts your overall aesthetic, but a precision cut would meaningfully improve your appearance for a public-facing event."
Ethan considered this.
The hundred thousand Prestige he'd spent on J.A.R.V.I.S. had, he reflected, been one of the best investments he'd ever made. Most of his recent purchases had been military-grade or research-grade. The juvenile-stage A.I. that handled his daily logistics was, in pure quality-of-life terms, easily worth the points.
He was about to give Hartwell University a lecture. He was going to be evaluated by faculty and students. He was going to walk through a campus of bright young people his own age, some of whom he might actually enjoy talking to.
Some of whom might even include — and his brain, at six AM after four hours of sleep, latched onto the possibility with embarrassing enthusiasm — a particularly thoughtful, intelligent, kind upperclasswoman who appreciated guest lecturers in well-cut blazers.
The kind of senior who might offer to show him around campus. Who might know all the good coffee shops near the physics building. Who might have a quiet, easy laugh and a habit of asking questions that were actually interesting.
Ethan, lying in bed at six in the morning with eight hours until the most academically prestigious appearance of his life, allowed himself a very specific, very embarrassing daydream.
A kind, brilliant senior.
God help me.
He sat up.
"J.A.R.V.I.S. Tell me about the barber."