part four: May 20 - Boston 9:00 am - The Crash

Valtech Corporation now sold more cerebral implants than any other tech company in the world—and Briant Coleman was Valtech Corporation. His company’s tentacles reached into every country on the planet, and he was now the top producer of internal cerebral receivers and transmitters worldwide. Sales of his CIRs—Catheter Implant Receivers—had just surpassed the combined total of all his competitors. He prided himself on always being on the cutting edge of technology. Early on, he had recognized the importance of this innovation and quietly began securing companies that manufactured the components needed to produce the implants. When the market opened to the public, his company was perfectly positioned to leap ahead of the competition. His biotech facilities could mass-produce the basic CIR devices at prices the majority of the public could afford. The products met all medical specifications and performed exactly as promised.

He was not the first CEO to cut corners to reduce production costs. That was just how the game was played.

For Coleman, it was all about the game—and he made sure he always ended up in the winner’s circle. He leaned back in his chair and admired his office. This wasn’t just his corporate headquarters in Boston; this was his personal trophy room. The furniture and artwork often clashed—no coordination of color, style, or theme. But Coleman saw the theme he intended: each item was a trophy of conquest, handpicked by him. He made a point of getting to know the owners of every business he set out to acquire. They often had a personal item symbolizing their own rise to success. When the final hammer blow landed and he took possession of their company, he took that item, too.

He stretched in his chair, which was upholstered with the hide of a rare 25-foot-long Nile crocodile—another corporate seizure trophy. He smirked as he surveyed the room, admiring his prizes. Most of these victories had been the result of brutal corporate takeovers, and he loved flaunting them. Each trophy was the symbolic equivalent of a vanquished CEO’s head. The antique credenza was an inside joke, inspired by an old stand-up comic. The rare oriental rugs were relics from the oil-rich nations of a fading world. Dressed in a custom-made, obscenely expensive suit, he lounged and waited for the signal from his 3D holo-phone to notify him that his latest expansion project was ready to launch.

Coleman glanced up at the holo-vision, which was tuned to the daily news report. He glowered at the newscaster as they highlighted the growing crowd of protesters outside his office building. What were they complaining about this time—higher wages? Better healthcare? Last week it was some environmental bullshit. His PR department had thrown out a couple more grants to tree-hugging bioscientists to document this week’s endangered species. Every time the public caught wind of his company’s profit margin, some charity mob came banging on his front door. His inbox would fill up with requests for funding the latest harebrained crusade to “save” something.

It was his company and his money. How had it become legal for these civic-minded bandits to rob him?

He stood and walked to the window, glaring down at the street. While he stared, he accessed his personal DCIR—his Dedicated Catheter Implant Receiver—one of his top-of-the-line models with secure backups and specialized firewalls. His had been customized to his specifications, with the best protections money could buy. With a flicker of thought, he could shield himself from any outside signals. He scanned through his bookmarks for updates on international stock reviews.

His 3D holo-phone buzzed. Finally—the call he’d been waiting for.

“Everything is ready to go, sir. You will have full access to the target in five minutes,” came the ever-so-polite, sing-song voice of Dr. Veer Gupta.

Coleman returned to his desk, confirming his personal DCIR was fully activated. He wanted immediate access when the link opened but had no intention of falling prey to his own greedy manipulations. Years of planning and the best internet hackers money could buy—or blackmail—were about to pay off. Soon, he would directly control the world markets, manipulating investments, making and breaking companies at will and without detection.

“So, are you finally ready?” he growled at Gupta’s image on the 3D holo-screen. “We have a lot at stake here.”

He struggled to contain his impatience. The network would soon be his to command—he could manipulate the populace and control consumer behavior. Mass mind manipulation hadn't been attempted since the primitive subliminal messaging spliced into old movie reels: Buy popcorn. Get a drink. You’re hungry. You’re thirsty.

“Alright then, here we go, Gup. Everything we’ve worked for is about to become reality,” Coleman prompted.

Dr. Veer Gupta hated it when Coleman called him “Gup.” The man had no regard for anyone’s dignity. It was ironic—Gupta had applied to dozens of respected research organizations for a grant, but the only offer had come from one of the most callous men alive. Valtech Corporation had funded the continuation of his research into implanting empathy in the developing psyche of young people—via CIR technology.

Coleman leaned forward eagerly. If his people had done their jobs, the hacking would go unnoticed. He would tip the commercial scales in his favor, boost sales, and quietly suppress the competition. He couldn’t eliminate rivals entirely—it would look suspicious. He planned to let the Bangladesh production line collapse eventually. It wasn’t doing well anyway, and the loss would make a great tax write-off. He’d even put on a show of trying to save the plant that employed the district’s destitute population.

In his sub-basement lab beneath Coleman Towers, Dr. Gupta scowled at the 3D screen. “Everything we have worked for?” he thought bitterly. Coleman had provided funding and a lab—but Gupta had done all the real work. He had endured three years of the man’s arrogance, condescension, and foul-mouthed tirades.

Gupta had started this project to help humanity. Teenage violence was surging worldwide—gang attacks, senseless brutality, and rising sociopathy. Experts across disciplines were baffled, but many believed it began around the age of implantation—14 to 15—when the brain reached maturity for full CIR installation. While toddlers could receive basic location chips, true implants came later. CIRs evolved with the child, eventually granting instant internet access with nothing more than a thought.

He checked the data. The signal was ready to embed in today’s celebrity gossip—another fading starlet, now a has-been. The headline read:

“Here Today, Gone Tomorrow: Will This One-Time Beauty Be Found Floating in the Lake?”

Gupta linked the subliminal signal to the headline. By tomorrow, tampon sales would increase 20%. It was just enough to raise profits without drawing scrutiny. The new “improved” product was virtually the same—only a tiny bit of synthetic cotton had been added.

Coleman’s voice barked from the monitor: “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Gupta shook his head. The man was soulless. He didn’t care about safety, ethics, or consequences. All that mattered was profit—and Gupta’s grant depended on proving commercial value. His research budget was thin. He had to play the game to fund his true mission: saving the children.

“Check, check, check,” he murmured. His old physics professor used to say: “The minute you think nothing will go wrong—it will. If you walk into a lab and it doesn’t work, you’ve entered a physics class.” Gupta smiled at the memory. But now, he worked for a monster.

Still, Coleman had promised a share of profits would support the empathy project. Gupta’s nephew Jimmy—once a gentle violin prodigy—was now in prison for assault. Something had gone terribly wrong. If it was too late for Jimmy, perhaps Gupta could still save others.

Final check: calculations correct, signal clean. The subliminal wavelength would ride just beneath the newscast, invisible to detection.

“Alright, Mr. Coleman, the system is ready,” Gupta announced. “I’m initiating the first bi-directional data stream… now.”

Coleman studied his monitor. “Well? Is it working?”

Gupta nodded. “Yes, sir. The signal is piggybacking cleanly. I’ll open the link now. Tomorrow, you should see a 20% increase in your product’s sales.”

“Full injection in… 3, 2, 1—now. The signal is live.”

Coleman chuckled greedily. Mass influence, finally realized.

“Everything is a go, sir,” Gupta confirmed. “You will have access to the target in ten seconds.”

Coleman checked the time: 9:29 AM. He was ready. Moments away from direct access to the International Exchange. As soon as Gupta’s little program was deployed, he would give him a lab of his own to tinker with. Then his real team would get to work.

He listened to Gupta’s countdown.

Then the screen went black.

The signal didn’t just embed. It collided—merged—with a second, unknown subliminal signal already riding the WWN. The two signals amplified each other into a constructive tsunami wave. As they fused, they overwhelmed systems globally. Protocol after protocol failed. Network after network shut down. The WWN went dark—except for one signal: a mutation of Gupta’s wave.

His signal, designed to increase empathy, had fused with another signal designed to increase impulsivity.

Coleman frowned at his chronometer. It had frozen.

“Gup! Did it work?” he snapped. Silence.

He stormed to his private elevator and punched the keypad. Nothing. He jabbed it again. Still nothing. He slammed the comm key. “Gup! I have a blank screen up here!”

Silence.

Rage building, Coleman stormed to the emergency stairwell panel. The keypad didn’t respond. He tried to force it open but couldn’t budge it.

He was a strong man—he trained with a personal coach—but the panel refused to yield. Panic crept in. Trapped. He stared at the antique suit of armor and the heavy mace it held.

He jabbed the comm key again. “Veer! Answer me, you son of a bitch! What the hell is going on?!”

Nothing.

Screaming, Coleman tore the mace from the armor stand and attacked the elevator door, slamming it over and over with all his strength.