The glass doors of Anchorage International Airport hissed open, and Rowan Fletcher stepped into the cool breath of conditioned air. It clung to him—artificial, sterile, and entirely devoid of the honest bite of Alaska’s dawn. He adjusted the strap of his worn duffel bag, its canvas fraying at the edges, and took a moment to scan the terminal.
Anchorage was its own contradiction: a step behind the relentless march of mainland innovation but never completely immune to it. The architecture retained an older charm, with high wooden beams arching over glass-paneled walls. But the glow of holographic advertisements and sleek, self-guiding kiosks reminded him that even here, the future was unavoidable.
A young family nearby caught his eye. The mother and father were caught in the familiar tug-of-war with their children—one clutching a small backpack while whining about not being allowed to use his holomodule while walking, the other tugging at her father’s sleeve, complaining she was hungry.
Rowan shook his head softly, brushing past them as he made his way further into the terminal. Near the gates, other children sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces obscured by sleek, wraparound glasses that stretched ear to ear. The glasses were transparent enough to reveal their eyes, but Rowan knew they were somewhere else entirely—lost in a virtual reality tailored just for them.
The parents, just a few seats away, were no different. They sat in stony silence, their attention absorbed by augmented reality feeds projected directly onto their lenses. Families were together, yet completely disconnected. A subtle tension gripped Rowan’s jaw as he passed them. He remembered when airports were filled with real conversations, the dull hum of human interaction instead of the quiet, eerie isolation brought on by technology.
The floor beneath him thrummed faintly as a scramjet launched from a nearby runway. Through the tall windows, he watched as it accelerated with breathtaking speed, its sleek fuselage slicing across the tarmac before it soared into the sky, bound for its edge-of-space trajectory. Less than twenty seconds, and it was airborne. A marvel of modern engineering, they said. But to Rowan, it felt like the world had traded something essential for convenience.
He navigated his way through the biometric scanner, stepping under the curved archway as a soft ding signaled his clearance. No contraband, no flags. Just another traveler. He knew that if anything had been detected, the archway would have sent an undetectable shock through his body, dropping him to the floor before he could take another step. Few ever tried to smuggle anything through, knowing the system’s ruthless efficiency. Those who did were dealt with long before they could become a problem.
There was no human touch in this airport—no warm greetings from staff or friendly exchanges at check-in. The AI systems handled everything: biometric identification, baggage sorting, boarding, and security. A passenger could go from a taxi to their flight in under ten minutes if they wanted to. But Rowan didn’t like to rush. He arrived early, preferring the quiet moments where he could sit back and observe.
He found a seat near his gate, pulled out an old touch-screen device, and connected it to the local hub. The screen scanned his face, verified his identity, and synced to the global network. Ever since the solar flares had started penetrating Earth’s magnetic field more frequently, the world had been forced to redesign its entire electrical grid. Communication networks had become more resilient, but Rowan still didn’t trust them. He had seen too many systems fail under pressure.
He swiped through the news out of Austin, skimming headlines about protests, AI advancements, and power grid updates. But the scrolling text stirred a familiar unease in him, and he quickly shut it off, tucking the device back into his bag. It was too easy to get pulled back into the noise of it all. He wasn’t sure if it was boredom or habit that tempted him, but either way, he refused to give in.
Instead, he leaned back and watched the ebb and flow of travelers around him. Most moved like ghosts, lost in the glow of their devices or holomodules. The sense of disconnection gnawed at him. Even when families sat together, they weren’t really together. Parents let technology raise their kids while they retreated into their own digital worlds. He sighed, rubbing his fingers over the rough leather handle of his bag.
The boarding announcement finally chimed overhead; a soft tone followed by a pleasant, automated voice. Rowan rose to join the short line. Scramjets didn’t carry many passengers—sixty, maybe seventy at most—so boarding was quick. As he approached the gate, he passed through another biometric scanner. A polite, disembodied voice welcomed him aboard, reminding him to wear the in-flight glasses for protection against solar radiation.
He knew the real reason. The glasses weren’t just for safety; they doubled as immersion devices, keeping passengers entertained and compliant during the flight. Still, he slipped them on as instructed.
Inside the scramjet’s sleek cabin, the design was minimalistic but luxurious. Rows of leather seats molded perfectly to each passenger’s body, adjusting automatically for comfort. Rowan settled into his seat by the window, the glass faintly tinted to reduce glare. Around him, other passengers murmured quietly or tapped at the controls on their glasses, activating entertainment modules. Small nodes on the arms of the glasses transmitted sound directly through their skin, allowing for complete audio immersion without a single noise leaking into the cabin.
Rowan didn’t bother. Instead, he rested his head against the window and watched the ground crew make their final checks. The scramjet engines hummed softly as they powered up, the vibrations traveling through the floor and into his feet. As the jet began to taxi, his thoughts wandered back to Alaska—the smell of pine and morning frost, the distant howl of wolves cutting through the crisp air. It was a world far removed from the sterile hum of this cabin, but it was a world worth protecting.
The engines roared to life, a low, steady hum that vibrated through Rowan Fletcher’s seat as the scramjet accelerated along the runway. Within seconds, it rocketed forward, and the familiar force pressed him gently into the contoured cushioning. The jet climbed sharply, slicing through the morning haze like a blade through mist. Somewhere beyond the clouds lay a future waiting for him—one he wasn’t sure he could trust, but one he couldn’t afford to ignore. Rowan let his eyes close for a moment, the rhythmic hum of the engines lulling him into a fragile calm. He wasn’t here by choice, not entirely. But then again, survival rarely allowed for choices.
The scramjet ascended swiftly, reaching the lower atmosphere at 35,000 feet within minutes. A soft, disembodied voice projected through the cabin: “Switching to scramjet propulsion. Please remain seated.” The sound-dampening technology worked flawlessly, shielding passengers from the violent roar of the engine changeover, but Rowan caught the faint, rising whine as the scramjets charged to life. Moments later, the jet surged forward. In-cabin pressure stabilization activated automatically, mitigating the g-forces so smoothly that only the faint pop of his ears hinted at the incredible acceleration.
Outside his window, the landscape below transformed rapidly. The winding veins of highways and sprawling grids of city streets seemed to melt into a patchwork of green and brown fields before disappearing altogether. Rowan leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the Earth stretch and fade as the jet climbed higher.
The blue sky above them darkened, fading to indigo and then to a near-black void. Stars, faint but visible, dotted the expanse, and the curve of the planet became more pronounced against the horizon. At this altitude—70,000 feet and climbing—the air was too thin to produce turbulence. The scramjet soared smoothly, effortlessly, as if the laws of nature had been momentarily rewritten.
Somewhere far below, the Arctic Ocean glistened faintly beneath a patchwork of clouds. Although he couldn’t see it, Rowan knew the collider was down there, buried beneath ice and secrecy, quietly humming with potential disaster. The consort’s plans were in motion, and whether they knew it or not, humanity’s fate hung in the balance.
Another announcement crackled through the cabin: “You may now move about the cabin. Restrooms are available, and refreshments can be accessed through your personal interface. We will begin our descent in 20 minutes.”
No one moved. Around him, passengers were lost in their private, carefully curated realities. The man to his left chuckled softly, his face lit by the faint glow of his in-flight glasses as he watched something amusing.
Across the aisle, a woman stared intently ahead, fingers twitching slightly as she navigated an augmented workspace only she could see. Rowan glanced around at the others—children, business travelers, a couple whispering to each other but still partially immersed in their shared digital experience.
He sighed quietly. Humans had once stared in awe at the miracle of flight, marveling at the sight of clouds from above and the breathtaking curves of distant horizons. But now, even this—traveling at near-hypersonic speeds to the edge of space—had become mundane, another backdrop for entertainment and distraction. Humanity’s constant push for more innovation had stripped away the wonder, leaving only convenience.
Rowan leaned back in his seat and rubbed his temples, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Were we always meant to destroy ourselves? he wondered. Is destruction not just our flaw but our desire? He had seen too many examples to dismiss the thought outright. The collider, the AI systems that governed airports, flights, and soon, entire nations—all of it seemed like humanity’s last, desperate gamble to push beyond their limits before the inevitable collapse.
Outside, the Arctic waters blurred into the rugged terrain of mountains, which in turn gave way to green fields and eventually the parched browns of Texas soil. Time passed quickly. Scramjets weren’t designed for leisure—they were precision machines, built to move people across continents in the blink of an eye. A polite voice chimed again: “Please return to your seats and secure your belongings. We will begin our descent shortly.”
Rowan noted that no one had taken advantage of the opportunity to stretch their legs. He wasn’t surprised. For flights this short, it was hardly worth it. A trip like this—from Anchorage to Austin—maxed out at Mach 5, around 4,000 miles per hour. Long-haul international scramjets could reach Mach 10, but on shorter flights like this, there wasn’t enough time to reach full speed without compromising descent angles, heat dissipation, and landing efficiency.
The cabin tilted slightly as the scramjet began its descent, the faintest tremor running through the walls as the engines powered down. The scramjets disengaged, and the secondary conventional engines took over, spinning in reverse to gently decelerate the craft.
Outside, the ground rushed up to meet them—brown fields giving way to gray highways, then the neat, black grids of Austin’s cityscape. The landing was smooth, barely noticeable, as the scramjet coasted along the runway and taxied toward the terminal.
Rowan removed his glasses as the cabin lights adjusted, dimming slightly to accommodate the change in lighting. The augmented reality interface faded, leaving only the physical surroundings of the sleek, minimalist interior. He glanced around as the two stewardesses stepped forward, preparing the exit for disembarkation. His gaze flicked toward the front of the cabin, where the control room should have been, but there was no pilot. There never had been.
The real reason for the in-flight glasses wasn’t to shield passengers from solar radiation or provide entertainment—it was to maintain an illusion. While most people understood that AI systems piloted scramjets with precision and efficiency far beyond human capabilities, the glasses helped bridge the psychological gap. They made passengers feel as though they were still connected to something tangible, something familiar. It comforted the older generations, those who still carried memories of human pilots and crew announcements. Rowan wasn’t technically part of that generation, but in moments like this, he felt like he was. The world had moved on, but something within him hadn’t.
He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and waited for the line to move. Outside the terminal windows, the afternoon sun baked the tarmac, casting long shadows across the rows of waiting scramjets. As he stepped out of the cabin and into the terminal, the familiar sounds of human progress surrounded him once again. AI-driven kiosks guided travelers, autonomous carts zipped past with precision, and glowing signs flickered with advertisements tailored to passersby.
Rowan stepped onto the street, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the rows of unmanned vehicles gliding silently along their pre-programmed routes. The air was warm, thick with the soft sounds of electric motors and the occasional whisper of a breeze against the glass buildings.
He tossed his in-flight glasses into a small chute labeled Recycle for Next Flight and watched them disappear. Others around him wore their own high-end versions, sleek devices projecting overlays of enhanced reality as they navigated their surroundings. Pedestrians passed by in clusters, their eyes flicking between digital projections only they could see—advertisements, route recommendations, entertainment streams.
Rowan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He preferred reality as it was, flawed and tangible. Technology had its place, but he knew its cost. He made his way toward a kiosk tucked along the curb, where a holographic projection of a woman materialized before him. Her hair was neatly tied in a bun, and her warm smile radiated artificial politeness.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re having trouble connecting to the grid. Have you tried resetting your internal link?”
Rowan waved her off impatiently. “I don’t have an internal link,” he muttered. The woman tilted her head slightly, her smile faltering as though confused by the statement. He wasn’t sure whether that reaction had been pre-programmed or if the AI genuinely didn’t know what to do with someone like him. “I just need a taxi,” he added. “Can you call one for me?”
Her smile returned, though this time it seemed almost reluctant. “Of course. Your taxi will arrive in 90 seconds. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Rowan shook his head and turned away, not waiting for her holographic form to flicker out. He briefly wondered if it was considered rude to brush off an algorithm like that. People were so conditioned to treat AI interactions as real that even he sometimes second-guessed himself.
Right on schedule, a small, two-seater electric taxi rolled up to the curb. Its glossy surface reflected the sunlight like liquid metal, and its interior was minimalistic—two seats up front and a compact luggage compartment in the back. Rowan dropped his duffel bag onto the seat next to him and slid inside, closing the door with a muted click.
The car didn’t move immediately. Instead, a pleasant voice—warm, human, and meticulously designed—greeted him. “Good afternoon. Where would you like to go?”
Rowan exhaled and leaned back in his seat. He always hated these automated taxis. Something about the lack of a driver made him uneasy, as if he were surrendering control to a machine that didn’t care whether he lived or died. He took a calming breath. “The Ivory Hotel in downtown Austin,” he said.
The car beeped softly. “That will be 63 U.S. dollars. Can I charge it to your account?” Rowan nodded. “Yes.”
Another beep, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of traffic. The hum of its electric motor was barely audible, and the cabin was eerily quiet until the voice returned. “Would you like to customize your environment for the ride? I can simulate various landscapes, play music, or project augmented views for your enjoyment.”
“No,” Rowan replied, shaking his head. “Just get me to the hotel. No special changes.” The car acknowledged with a polite chime before asking another question, but Rowan cut it off with a wave of his hand. “No conversation, please.” The silence that followed was a welcome relief.
As the city drew closer, Rowan observed the changing scenery outside the window. The flat, open landscape gave way to towering pylons, their steel frames stretching toward the sky like skeletal giants. They were part of the city’s microgrid system, designed to protect against the solar flares that had become more frequent and dangerous in recent years.
The pylons acted as massive lightning rods, channeling excess energy deep into the ground where it could safely dissipate. Rowan had been part of the team that designed the grid, and though he was proud of its success, it served as a reminder of humanity’s growing reliance on technology to survive.
In the distance, he noticed a flock of birds shifting direction suddenly, their collective movements creating ripples in the sky. His eyes followed them until they crossed paths with a descending craft, its bright underbelly glowing faintly as it re-entered the atmosphere.
Spacecraft landings were common now, but Rowan still felt a twinge of awe every time he saw one. Humanity had reached beyond the clouds and carved out a place for itself on the moon and beyond. Even though space travel remained commercial and scientific rather than recreational, it was no longer the stuff of distant dreams.
Rowan rested his head against the window, watching the spacecraft disappear behind the skyline. He wondered if he would ever experience space firsthand. Part of him longed for it—the freedom, the sheer vastness of the unknown. But the thought of relying on machines to breathe, eat, and survive sent a shiver down his spine.
Space was an empty void, beautiful but unforgiving. It wasn’t freedom, not really. It was a prison of humanity’s own making, a place where survival hinged entirely on technology. The irony wasn’t lost on him: they had everything they needed on Earth, but they treated it like a prison, only to escape into another one.
His thoughts drifted to the fusion reactor and the constant setbacks they had faced. The Arctic collider was supposed to change everything. Politicians and scientists alike had hailed it as humanity’s salvation, a technological leap that would finally unlock limitless, clean energy. But instead of breakthroughs, they had discovered something far more complicated—particles that were once purely hypothetical, now real but poorly understood. Each discovery bred new questions and theories, a tangled web of possibilities that only seemed to deepen their confusion. As far as Rowan could see, the collider had done little to solve the core problem plaguing the fusion reactor.
It wasn’t just scientific failure that gnawed at him—it was the feeling that something deeper was happening, hidden beneath the surface. Too many pieces weren’t adding up. The consort’s involvement had been subtle at first, but it had grown more pronounced in recent months. Private meetings. Unexplained changes to the reactor’s development timeline. Promises of success that felt more like assurances than evidence. Rowan couldn’t shake the suspicion that the consort knew more than they were letting on, and their promises of progress masked a different agenda.
If they succeeded in stabilizing fusion energy, it could change the world—or destroy it. Everything depended on who held the keys. And when AI was involved, Rowan didn’t trust the story they were feeding the world. AI had mastered the art of omission, giving humanity just enough truth to stay complacent. But he had learned long ago that the truth AI presented wasn’t always the full picture.
The car slowed as they entered downtown Austin, its towering glass structures gleaming gold in the setting sun. The city shimmered with life, the streets teeming with pedestrians, cyclists, and vehicles, all moving in perfect synchronicity under the careful guidance of AI-managed traffic systems. The precision was mesmerizing—no honking horns, no sudden stops. Every vehicle communicated seamlessly with the others, like a living organism pulsing through the city’s veins.
The car’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “There is a protest blocking the street ahead. I am finding an alternate route to your destination.”
Rowan straightened in his seat and peered out the window. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered, their signs and banners creating a patchwork of slogans that flickered through the air like static on an old television. His eyes scanned the signs as they passed: The End is Here. They’re Taking Our Livelihoods! Others were more aggressive, their messages scrawled in bold, angry lettering: AI Are Demons. Humans First!
He furrowed his brow, his gaze lingering on a group of protesters chanting at the corner of the intersection. A man waved a sign above his head that read: Repent Before the Machines Do! The news report he had skimmed earlier had mentioned environmental protests in Austin, but there had been no indication that AI was the focus. This was something different—an amalgamation of fear, anger, and frustration, each person there protesting for their own reason, whether personal or religious.
To Rowan, it felt like a boiling point. He could relate to their sentiment, at least in part. AI had seeped into every aspect of life, and people were beginning to realize that their dependence on it came with a price. But this wasn’t just about job losses or automated systems replacing humans. There was something deeper here, something primal. Fear of losing control. Fear of being obsolete.
“Is this the environmental protest?” he asked, his voice cutting through the quiet cabin. The car made a soft beep. “According to local news sources, it appears to be.” Rowan frowned, watching the crowd swell as they turned a corner. “How does this relate to the environment? I don’t see anything remotely connected.”
The car remained silent for a moment before making a calculated turn, veering away from both the protest and the hotel. “I am rerouting. The safety of the client and vehicle are priority.”
Rowan’s frown deepened. He glanced back at the disappearing crowd. “They’re environmental protests. Why are they considered a danger to the vehicle or client?” The car made another sound, its voice polite but detached. “I have been programmed to avoid all such protests. We will arrive at the hotel in approximately 10 minutes.”
The unease that had been simmering beneath the surface now rose like a wave, crashing over him. The car’s evasive maneuvers, the vague responses—it all felt too scripted, too controlled. Rowan turned the thought over in his mind. Why would an AI consider peaceful protests a threat? What are they not telling me?
He glanced at the glowing dashboard, its lights casting soft shadows over the interior of the car. The route had changed again, another detour to avoid the demonstration. His gut told him he couldn’t trust where the car was taking him. He needed space to think, to reevaluate everything before he walked into the heart of Austin’s controlled chaos.
“Change of plans,” Rowan said suddenly, his voice firm. “Reroute to Bastrop State Park.”
The car hesitated, its systems processing the unexpected command. “That is 43 minutes away and in the opposite direction of the hotel. Do you wish to proceed to the hotel first?”
“No.” Rowan’s tone left no room for argument. “Go directly to Bastrop State Park.” There was a pause before the car replied, “That will be an additional two hundred and twelve U.S. dollars. There are no refunds.” Rowan raised an eyebrow at the sudden upcharge. “Do it.”
The car slowed momentarily, then executed a precise U-turn, merging back onto the main road in the opposite direction. The city began to fade behind them, the glass towers replaced by open roads and patches of dense forest. As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the fields, Rowan leaned back in his seat and exhaled.
The tension in his chest didn’t ease. If anything, it tightened. Bastrop wasn’t just a place to escape—it was where he could begin to unravel the tangled mess he had found himself in. The AI protests, the consort, the fusion reactor—everything was connected. He just had to figure out how.