"What do you think, Paul? It could be the job that makes or breaks us."
Paul Seton's hands trembled as he held the typewritten letter. The piece of paper would have been strange in their digital world had not a single letter been imprinted upon its surface, the paper alone an artifact worthy of a museum. His fingers thrilled to feel the indentation of the serif characters on the page, to feel the imprint of the letters tied together to tempt him with a client of such danger and reward.
"You think he's serious?" Marshall leaned over Paul's shoulder. "Do you think we should meet with him?"
Paul held the letter to the light and marveled at the watermark.
"There's no doubt the watermark is Maven Burns' trademark flame," spoke Paul, "and someone's taken care to type this when email would've been so much easier and quicker. Whoever put this letter together wanted privacy, and that makes me think this letter's for real."
Marshall whistled. "But if there's anyone who knows more about the Singularity then we do, it's going to be Maven Burns. The guy's likely got all kinds of teams working on it."
"Maybe. But that doesn't mean he thinks the Singularity is impossible. We just have to convince him that we've found it. No different than with any other client. We can't ignore what he's offering in this letter. It could be our final job, the one that lets us drift into obscurity inside the castles we build on our private islands."
Marshall nodded. "Then you're ready to drop everything today and meet with him on such short notice? You're ready to meet with Maven Burns at the time and place of his choosing?"
"It's not how we like to work," Paul agreed, "but I think it's worth the risk."
Marshall collapsed into one of their office's leather love-seats. "I hope you're right. We have everything to lose."
Paul produced a flask of fine whiskey from his desk and poured glasses for them both.
"We put everything on the table the moment we convinced our first client to push the button," Paul paused and grimaced in his drink's bite. "We've had everything to lose since day one. We gambled everything the moment we persuaded our first client we could store his soul within our machine. We're all in. Maven Burns could provide us with the reward we've jeopardized everything to gain."
Marshall said nothing more and dialed a number printed upon the letter. Their office door chimed before they could cancel the last of the afternoon's appointments. One of Maven Burns' faceless, robotic assistants greeted them beyond the door, a top of the line model bearing the bright, red flame the world instantly recognized as Maven Burns' trademark.
The robotic assistant bowed forward slightly upon its spherical base before rolling to lead Paul and Marshall to a private sedan parked outside their office building. With a whirl of motors, the robotic assistant folded behind the driver's seat while its passengers bent into plush backseats. The car's windows were thick and dark, shielding them from the teeming city's shrilling alarms and blaring horns, from the sight of the sullen crowds shuffling along the streets.
Paul and Marshall hardly felt the car navigate through the traffic. Streetlights turned green upon their sedan's approach. Roadways cleared of traffic whenever the robotic driver turned upon them. All the crowds and delays of the city vanished before the dark sedan that carried Paul and Marshall to the unspoken location Maven Burns intended for their conference. Their car turned upon narrow, twisting streets before entering a dark and empty tunnel, through which they sped onward in quiet comfort.
Their car stopped before they exited out the tunnel's other end, and their faceless escort rolled quietly next to them as Paul and Marshall walked through a wide pair of swinging glass doors into a labyrinth of walls decorated with the red flame of Maven Industries. Escalators and conveyors carried them through turning corridors before gliding them alongside a wide wall of glass which revealed a fleet of planes taxiing upon a runway before rising steeply into the clouds.
"I haven't seen one person in this entire airport," Marshall spoke as they followed the faceless robot through more turns. "The entire facility is automated."
"And if that wasn't enough to tell us it's a cog in Maven Burns' empire, the red flame printed and painted everywhere leaves no doubt," Paul added. "It's his own private airport in the city. And to think we've never even heard about it."
Stepping off the conveyor, Paul and Marshall followed the robot and boarded a waiting tram. Their escort drove them beneath wide wings and between planes before slowing as it approached a black, arrowhead of a plane unlike any jet they had seen. Not a single window was built into the plane's fuselage. They could see no windshield to define the location of the cockpit.
A gentle ramp descended from the fuselage, and Paul and Marshall's tram ascended into the plane's belly. Though the exterior had been so spartan, the interior brimmed with opulence. The faceless robot secured the tram before rolling behind a bar, immediately there occupying itself in the preparation of martinis. Delicate vases and goblets of crystal and glass filled shelving lining the interior. Paul and Marshall sat into separate leather sofas, neither finding any semblance of a seatbelt to secure them for that rumble they anticipated when they would lift off the runway.
They hardly noticed when the plane energized to life. They heard a slight whine as hidden engines gathered power. They sensed movement more than felt it. The collection of fine crystal and glass lining the interior didn't even shake. They felt no shudder as the engines roared the plane through the clouds at speeds well beyond that of sound. They would not have guessed they had left the tarmac at all had a projection monitor not descended from the forward ceiling to provide them an aerial view of the lands they so rapidly crossed.
They watched the modern world's giant cities web over the earth, their concrete roadways stretching like silk to thread one city to another. They sighed as they viewed the desert that blanketed the middle of the nation, its sands rarely broken by an irrigated square of green to mark a homestead whose wealth still afforded the water to hold the terrible drought a little longer at bay. The continent rolled beneath them before Paul or Marshall could finish the martinis the faceless robot served them. So quickly they flew from one ocean shore to the other.
The projection monitor went dark and ascended again into the ceiling, the only indication the plane gave Paul and Marshall of its descent. They again felt no sensation when the plane landed upon another runway. They did not hear landing gears descend. The felt no bump as brakes slowed the plane's momentum. Making not a sound, the faceless robot returned to the tram and waited for Paul and Marshall to follow. The ramp lowered from the plane's belly the moment they boarded their transport which rolled Maven Burns' guests upon the other side of the world after a flight that had taken hardly anything more than an hour.
"Where do you think we are?" Marshall asked as the tram rolled through a warm breeze.
Paul shrugged. "We could be anywhere."
Paul recognized nothing in their surroundings. He saw no trees nor foliage to break the monotony of gray concrete and darker asphalt. He saw no people, from which he might discern a sense of place from complexion, dress or language. There was only iron and metal. Tall frameworks of steel rose towards the clouds, topped with cranes transporting beams into the rising skeletons that circled them. Roadways fanned out in all directions, filled with driverless trailers hauling material from one tower to the next.
"Wherever we are," Marshall started, "it belongs to Maven Burns. His red star is painted everywhere."
"Our conversation should be a private one," Paul answered. "There's not a person in sight."
"I'm not finding that as comforting as I'd hoped."
Their tram entered another dark tunnel. Paul and Marshall gaped at the hollow, giant cylinders that dwarfed their small tram.
"I know what those pieces are for," Marshall pointed as stranger components emerged from the tunnel's dark. "Those are engines, Paul. They're colossal engines. T
hose hollow cylinders are rocket stages."
Paul nodded. "You're right, Marshall, and over there are capsules. These pieces are huge. The rockets these pieces build must be immense."
"I wonder why Maven's letting us see all these toys," added Marshall.
Paul forced a stiff smile. That typewritten letter had clearly expressed they had been summoned to discuss the Singularity. All the surrounding construction was only clutter, nothing but pieces in an environment in which an extravagant tycoon would feel comfortable to discuss with Paul and Marshall his most painful and private of needs.
Paul shuddered regardless. A strange phobia of being launched into the void far overhead filled him with fear.
"Is that a barbecue grill up ahead?" Marshall asked as the tram slowed.
Paul nodded. "I think so. The flames are just dancing out of that thing. And I'm guessing that's Maven Burns standing beside it."
The figure of a man stood silhouetted in that grill's red glow, waving a wide greeting at them while the tram covered the last meters that separated Maven Burns from his guests.