Alari scanned dozens of emails that had arrived since logging off only a few hours earlier. A sharp pain lanced through his temples, as if skewers were being driven into his skull. He uncapped an orange prescription bottle, palmed a painkiller, and washed it down with espresso.

  “Jeeves, reschedule my afternoon doctor's appointment,” he said to his embedded AI assistant.

  “Just a reminder: this is the fourth time you have rescheduled, and you have missed your past two annual wellness checks. Given the severity of your acute headaches, shortness of breath, and blurred vision, I highly recommend you seek immediate medical assistance. Would you still like me to reschedule your appointment?”

  “Yes, Jeeves,” he said, annoyance seeping into his voice. “It’s a meeting with the board, I can’t miss that.”

  “After interfacing with the doctor's AI and stressing the urgency of your situation, I have managed to secure an appointment for later this week.”

  The company’s automated car stopped outside the facility: a hangar larger than anything used for standard vehicles, with an attached lab and office, while an open field for testing stretched for kilometers in the other direction.

  Inside stood the culmination of his life's work: a ten-meter-tall state-of-the-art humanoid mech, affectionately called the Colossus. It possessed everything a person had: electroreactive polymers for muscles, titanium-alloy plating for bones, and a ceramic-matrix composite for skin. In purpose, it was a custodian, a janitor for the inhospitable orbit around Earth.

  The mech was designed for resilience, able to withstand thousands of direct impacts from the debris cloud that permeated Earth’s orbit, or the Kessler Cloud. The debris cloud had arisen from the increasing demand for satellites, without a proper incentive to remove them. Eventually, one failure cascaded into several until, within a single hour, everything had been destroyed. Above Earth’s atmosphere was now inaccessible for industry or exploration.

  Careful not to get in anyone’s way, Alari approached the construct and studied it with reverence, like a priest before an altar. After returning from a mission, the ceramic composite was cracked in numerous places, but more concerning were the smaller fissures in areas the plating was meant to protect.

  “All our simulations predicted the plating could withstand these kinds of direct hits. It doesn’t make any sense,” the functional area lead commented.

  Looking over the damage report, Alari noticed a pattern. To test his theory, he had the AI reconstruct the events that caused the damage and run a simulation using the current specifications. As expected, the results matched the diagnostic report. He then made a few tweaks to the mech’s specification and reran it. This time, there were only minor cracks to the ceramic composite, and no damage to the internal systems.

  Seeing the lead’s disbelief, Alari explained, “The Kessler Cloud isn’t uniformly distributed; there are denser areas where satellites were clustered. This particular one caused a resonance within the plating, weakening its structure. Adjusting the grain structure of the composite would mitigate that risk.”

  Alari smiled, enjoying the challenge of solving technical problems. Unfortunately, most of his day was spent meeting with various parties: vendors to ensure delivery of critical materials; leads from various functional areas, who were always lobbying for more budget, time, or both; and the leadership committee, which was always asking him why they hadn’t made more progress or for the latest revised budgets and timelines. Just when things were on track, something would change, and everything would need to be redone. At times, it was infuriating, but he grit his teeth and bore it. He hadn’t worked so hard to become the youngest project lead, only to fall short now.

  Snacking on a power bar instead of lunch, Alari entered the boardroom. No agenda had been sent, which wasn’t typical for these sorts of meetings. Entering the room, he was immediately struck by the somber atmosphere; the executives loved gossiping more than a nosy secretary, but today, there was silence.

  The board chair started the meeting promptly. “I’m sure many of you are in tune with public sentiment; people are becoming accustomed to the Kessler Cloud, and critical infrastructure has been reestablished. I’ve been informed that the government will announce cuts to grants and incentives for the cleanup initiative, effective next fiscal year. Given that, it is the decision of the board to cease all projects related to the Kessler Cloud, effective immediately.”

  It took him a second to realize that was his project. To make it worse, they hadn’t even consulted him; they had just made a unilateral decision. Years of effort thrown out, as if blown away by an unexpected shift in the wind.

  “The public is still split on the issue. A single news cycle could shift opinion by a couple of percentage points in favor of the cleanup, and the incentives could reemerge. It would be prudent to continue the project given the investments already made,” Alari argued.

  “The board's decision is final,” the man said flatly. Looking around, Alari saw everyone staring at their computers, refusing to meet his gaze. This wasn’t a discussion; it was an execution, and he was being thrown out unceremoniously, like last week's trash.

  Before Alari could do something he would regret, he nodded and left the room, retaining what little dignity he had left. As further proof that everything had been orchestrated, several people waited for him just outside the conference room. Two guards in cheap uniforms flanked a woman in a pantsuit, whom he recognized as one of the leaders of the company’s HR department.

  “I’m so sorry, Alari. If you would please follow me, we can discuss your future in my office,” she said with painfully obvious false sympathy.

  “No need,” he said, before turning to leave.

  The two guards followed after him, as if he were some violent criminal that might damage company property. What did they expect him to do? He had given his life to this company, and as much as he hated them in the moment, he wouldn’t want to see it all burn down.

  His house wasn’t far; its proximity to his work was the primary reason he bought it. It was in a well-to-do cul-de-sac with cookie-cutter mansions in evenly spaced intervals. A small army of groundskeepers kept the landscape immaculately manicured for the people who infrequently inhabited the area. He didn’t know his neighbors and wondered if the board members lived nearby; it seemed plausible.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The car stopped at a house indistinguishable from the rest. Alari barely used any of the space within; he had spent most of his time on-site, with only his bed and office seeing occasional use. Still, the entire dwelling was as well-maintained as the grounds, with professional cleaners keeping it in order.

  It was late afternoon, around the time most people would typically be coming home from work, but Alari couldn’t remember the last occasion when he had returned home this early. He wasted hours scrolling through news feeds, hoping to glean some insight into why everyone had just accepted their new reality. Unfortunately, there was no prophetic truth to uncover, just people vehemently disagreeing with untempered certainty.

  As he was getting out of bed the next morning, his vision blurred and spun, and the agonizing headache had returned. Ignoring it until he could take his pill, he showered and dressed as he always did, as if it were just another day. The morning news included discussions about the announced cuts, with the markets acting in their typical, arcane manner, somehow reading the bones as some omen of future bull markets. Some people were celebrating it, too shortsighted to see that they would spend the next generation barred from the stars. Doing his part, Alari posted a well-thought-out piece about the implications of the policy, only to be drowned out by angry comments, half of which probably weren’t even real people. That didn’t matter, though; he only needed to convince the two percent of people he had mentioned to the board.

  Dreading the lecture he would receive for neglecting his health, he made his way to the clinic. Everything was clean and well-maintained, including the waiting room, where clients sat only a couple of minutes before being whisked away. Alari was no exception, and shortly after arriving, he was in an exam room, a middle-aged man asking why he was there.

  Alari listed his symptoms; they were bad, but certainly not that bad. He was just getting old and wasn’t getting enough sleep. Judging by the expression on the man’s face, that wasn’t the case.

  “How long have you been experiencing these symptoms, and would you categorize them as steadily getting worse?” the doctor asked.

  Alari frowned, considering the question. “I guess it's been a couple of years, and yes, they have been steadily getting worse. I know I need to get more sleep, but I’ve just been too busy. I just got laid off, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Alari, this is more serious than just a lack of sleep. I’m going to order some lab tests, an MRI, and an X-ray. I implore you to get these tests done today.”

  Something in the man’s tone brooked no argument, and Alari nodded. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of tests. The severity of the situation began to creep in as more and more tests were added to the list. He was waiting in the room when the doctor returned, this time accompanied by a younger female doctor. He was confused when she introduced herself as the head of oncology.

  “Alari, our tests show that you have metastatic brain cancer. It has spread to multiple organs throughout your body and is considered stage four cancer,” the oncologist said, her tone serious and sympathetic.

  Alari’s mouth felt dry, and he swallowed hard before saying, “That sounds serious; I’m assuming I’ll need surgery and chemotherapy.”

  The oncologist shook her head. “Given that the cancer is non-localized, surgery is not an option at this time. We can discuss treatment options, but at this stage, it is not curable, but there are many options that can extend or improve your quality of life.”

  “What do you mean it isn’t curable? I’ve read numerous articles about the advances in medical technology, how more and more cancers are becoming treatable,” Alari reasoned.

  “Had this cancer been detected earlier, there were treatments we could have done,” she explained.

  They went back and forth refining a treatment plan. He barely remembered returning to the car. In the weeks that followed, he was listless, like a satellite with no propulsion, whose orbit inexorably decayed into a black hole. His pristine, hollow abode felt more like a tomb, as if he were a pharaoh with a monument to his folly. In a fit of anger, he took a hammer to the formal dining table, smashing it into kindling. He had never liked that table anyway.

  What finally seemed to help were walks through a park, as if nature herself were a welcoming embrace. With time to reflect, he kept returning to a single regret. Knowing he was being selfish but not caring anyway, he reached out to his ex-girlfriend, Sam. Eventually, she agreed to meet him at the local cafe.

  Sam came dressed in professional attire, undoubtedly on her way to a meeting, a reminder that the world continued on even as he slipped away. She looked frazzled and worn out, and a large bump showed she would soon be a mother.

  “Alari, I’m so sorry about…” Sam trailed off.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me; I wasn’t sure if you would,” he awkwardly deflected.

  “I almost didn’t, but my husband convinced me I would regret not coming. Not to be rude to a dying man, but we haven’t spoken in years. Why did you reach out to me?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. I guess to say I’m sorry,” he said with a shrug.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “That I was an ass.”

  “Alari, you weren’t around enough to be an ass. You don’t owe me an apology for choosing work over everything else, and I don’t owe you an apology for moving on.”

  “Your husband sounds like a good guy. What does he do?” Alari asked.

  “He is a mechanic,” she replied.

  “What department does he work in? I might know him.”

  “He works at a local autobody shop,” she said. Seeing his confusion, she added, “Cars, Alari. Not some aeronautical engineer, the kind of mechanic normal people think of when they hear that word.”

  “Why a mechanic then?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  She sighed. “This is why we never would have worked.”

  “What is?”

  “His profession had nothing to do with anything. I married him because he is a good, caring person, not because he is the best mechanic and can fix cars like no one else. In fact, he is going to stay at home when our child is born.”

  “And you're alright with that?”

  “Alari, you can’t have everything. I wanted a family and a career; I found a partner who let me do that.”

  “You’re happy then?” Alari asked.

  “I am,” Sam said without a moment’s hesitation.

  For a month, he steadily got worse: it started with soreness and getting winded easily. Then, like a dam breaking, his body started failing: his bones broke, his muscles atrophied, and his lungs struggled to keep up.

  Despite the severity of his situation, he avoided the hospital. He hired in-home care and purchased all the medical devices he would need. The steady presence of caregivers was a relief, if for no other reason than to see someone else. Still, they were professional and kind, but they weren’t family.

  He awoke one night, clear-headed for the first time in weeks. At this point, he knew his body well enough to know the end was coming, and this wasn’t some miraculous recovery. All the staff had gone home, and the only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the monitor.

  “Jeeves, I’m scared of dying,” Alari confessed.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that.”