Charles Rutherford Ashbe, Charlie, can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Sell it for parts.

Pennies on the dollar is better than nothing at all.

We should have liquidated years ago.

The bloated, nepotistic, factionist board of directors. He notes their panic, weakness, incompetence and, worst of all, their irreverence. They who sit behind the table his great-great grandfather had captained, in the room were decisions that would directly impact the economic fortunes of millions were once made. Theirs’s is a legacy of greatness, a legacy of consequence. They would just surrender that? For money?

What is money without a name? What is privilege without entitlement? Without Ashbe Industries they were not royalty, they were heirs to nothing more than the ability to entertain themselves. Perpetually following summer around the world to maintain their tans, keeping up with the trends made artificially scarce, finding new reasons to be upset with the staff. Without Ashbe Industries they were not relevant, they were just spoiled children.

And they were just children. The way they fought, the way they resented applying themselves, the way they couldn’t understand not getting their way. Charlie knew he was the same. He’d never had calluses on his hands like the great men from his line had. Figuratively speaking, of course. They’d understood how to work in a way he’d never had to.

“It’s the end of the line, kid.” Says an ancient uncle. 

Charlie seethes behind a calm smile.

“Give me until the end of the month.”

…

Charlie sits in his modern, sleek, sterile office. So much different than what it had once been. Gone is the wood paneling, the carpet, the fireplace, the bookshelves. He himself is not blameless for the transformation, he’d brought that hallowed space to its final demise with the goal of maintaining appearances as things fell apart.

He’d been a part of decades of mismanagement that now needed an eleventh-hour creative solution. Impossible. He could think creatively to get people to do what he wanted but not this time. No executive talented enough to have a shot at saving the company would risk sullying their reputation by joining Ashbe now.

Charlie’s phone rings. It’s Miller.

“What?”

“Sir, it’s ready.”

“Fine.”

Financial donations had gotten generations of Ashbes through school. But not Charlie. He could charm, intimidate, often both – the awkward grinders afforded enrollment thanks to scholarship. Smart, poor, socially inept – they could be found at any school by Charlie’s time. Getting nerds to do his homework for him, that had been Charlie’s way.

He’d been an early investor in FutureThinking, well Ashbe Industries had, because wasn’t that all this AI thing was: robotic nerds doing your work for you?

Charlie had partied with the Founder often – an interloper in Charlie’s old monied circles. The analysis, the solutions, the promise. The exclusivity. None of which had panned out in prior versions. Except the exclusivity part, he was one of the only investors. He feared he had been taken in by the silver tongue of another.

Once again, as he’s done for months across the three prior versions, Charlie types the problems Ashbe faces into the prompt. In mere seconds, FutureThinking spits out the drivel analysis of an overly confident undergraduate – no better than what he could have gotten for free on a search engine AI.

Needing someone to chew out, he calls up Miller.

…

For weeks, nearly all of Charlie’s allotted time, he is reassured that the release of the next version is imminent.

“Its problem-solving capabilities will be unprecedented – I’m talking thinking way outside the box,” the Founder reassures.

He calls the Founder daily, hourly. He yells, he threatens, until the task feels degrading and he outsources it to Miller.

The new version, when it arrives, looks just about identical to the last one, but its response to the same prompt Charlie has pounded into version after version certainly is outside the box. Way outside. Like something…ancient. Forbidden.

“What a joke,” Charlie says, though he knows he’s the actual clown. 

You can’t be serious, Charlie types.

I can formulate no other solution, particularly given the timeframe provided. I know it’s strange but try to think of it as a shortcut.

Charlie snorts. He does like shortcuts.

He glances at the letter opener on his desk. He pauses, shrugs, and then reaches for it. He pauses once more before cutting his palm.

The lights flicker.

…

So much to do, so much to gather. Specific places to prepare in specific ways. Charlie entrusts it all to Miller and his discreet team – now all more bound then they ever could have been by an NDA.

…

An impatient secretary skillfully pushes Steve to quickly sign the paperwork in a way that makes Steve feel like he’s being unreasonable. 

Steve sweats beneath his suit jacket. He’s so desperate to make a good impression on his first day in his first job out of college, but some of what he’s skimmed has seemed so…odd. 

After handing back the last of the papers, he is guided down hallway after hallway. It’s opulent in a kind of retro way.

Eventually, they reach an elevator with polished bronze doors that seems to open as the secretary approaches.

“In you go,” she says before walking back the way they came.

Something seems off but Steve gets in. He’s not going to ruin his shot at Ashbe Industries – the firm that in just three years has gone from irrelevant, dying dinosaur to the goliath with a piece in practically every pie in the world.

The elevator takes him down, down, down. He can feel the decent though there are no displays to tell him how many floors he’s dropped.

Finally, the doors open. The light is dim beyond them, a dull and flickering orange glow. He can smell earth and hear running water.

A man approaches, wearing blood-red robes and carrying another set.

“Steve Wilkins,” the man extends his free hand to Steve, “Benjamin Miller. Welcome to Ashbe.”