Michael Frant was less than an hour away from appearing in court. 'I'm feeling nervous.' He revealed. 'I don't know if I can do this.' The lady accompanying him was less than a year out of law school. She was re-reading documents when she replied. 'That's a normal feeling. You'll be fine.' She attempted a tone of reassurance but in doing so, only exposed her inexperience. They both sat in a busy hallway. Business people in business suits walked past; they all carried folders, briefcases, and portable terminals. The important ones, the ruthless, unforgiving sharks could be identified by business people struggling to keep close to them. Michael recalled an old expression from his childhood. He couldn't form it fully in his mind but he was sure it had something to do with a flock of seagulls and a trawler. 'I think I'm going to go for a walk. Fresh air, calm the nerves.' He told her. 'It's raining.' She stated, deeming that enough to deter anyone, no matter how nervous. 'Just relax.' She finished. Michael was involuntarily leaning forward when he blurted out, 'I can't.' With one push he stood and briskly walked towards security. His skin was burning up. His suit was too tight. The law graduate was yelling something after him but it did not register. Michael detached his watch and emptied all his pockets into the plastic tray. He rushed through detection and stuffed his belongings back into his pockets.
The rain was cool on hot skin. Michael didn't stand under it like they sometimes did in old movies. He'd seen these movies and always got the impression that something about the rain was orgasmic to these characters. They always stood or knelt with an open posture, eyes closed, mouth open. Michaels life wasn't some fucking movie. At least that's how he felt, strongly, about it. He only intended on walking around the block, doing a single loop, but the rain was no longer cool, or to be more accurate, his skin no longer felt hot. The rain started to increase in intensity. It had dropped upon him rather harmlessly to begin with, dampening the back of his hand, his scalp, the tip of his nose. Now, it was striking him coldly. Soaking and sliding down the back of his neck, smothering his face, breaking apart strands from his combed hair. Michael ducked into a covered walkway and savored the reprieve. People of the city spoke about how the legal district retained an ancient appeal. Any edifice constructed by stonemasons was considered ancient. It was only a few hundred years old but with each passing century it had become antiquated by comparison. The bricks in the street were nothing more than bricks. They weren't sensitive to pressure, illuminating the section of the street you were walking in. There were no timed circuits installed anywhere. If you turned a tap on, it stayed on. There was no mechanisms installed to conserve energy. An old regulation, as well as the intricate design of the district, prevented any modern imprints. Michael walked the length of the covered walkway and upon realizing it did not continue around the corner, turned, and began to pace its entirety. He had the length to himself. He thought of the prepared statement he had to give. His lawyers had deliberated at length with the judge, and worked hard to grant him the right to read his prepared statement. The persecutors, who were essentially nothing more than federal agents, wanted to examine him, ask him tricky questions, pry for hypocrisy. Michael had never been one for confrontations, he knew that, the law graduate he left behind knew this as well. She figured it out quickly. If Michael wasn't a founding member of the company, he'd have avoided this altogether.
Deep Frontier was wholly involved in sonar mapping technologies designed for the, then, deep unknown expanse of ocean floor. Michaels company deployed both remotely controlled and artificially controlled probes tasked with reading underwater landscapes. In the darkness, echo-location was the only way to do it. Before he gained funding, Michael had worked with a small group of interns figuring out the correct frequency. They couldn't use a frequency that would attract marine life to the probes, as it could risk damage to come to an already expensive expenditure. Narrowing down the frequencies took time and upon finding the right one they still had to make necessary adjustments. The military, and all the industries working for it, wanted the data behind their frequency, as well as all the mapping data they had successfully retrieved. For over a year Deep Frontier had been under scrutiny. Suddenly an ethical debate arose over whether or not a private company should own such information. The fact that Deep Frontier probes had been mapping international waters naturally led people, both inconsequential and powerful, to assume the information should be public. What was there to hide, they reasoned, other than the delicate curvatures of rock surfaces? Because Deep Frontier had mapped so much, any country with a coast or island territory near international waters inquired what was beneath the surface. Michael had formed private suspicions. He believed certain islands had fallen victim to foreign intervention as coup-de-tats and color revolutions born overnight led these island territories to demand the mapped information close to their waters. After initially showing no interest, these territories had developed a newfound confidence, a newfound desire to assert themselves, a rediscovery of patriotism. All of this, preceded the subpoena. Michael had been able to fend off genuine inquiries for a while by explaining that if the data were to become public, it could be reverse engineered in a way that would allow anyone with the technological capabilities to create a probe of their own. This was only partly true and he feared a harsh decision to come against him should he confess the whole truth. Michael also feared the probes under artificial control had become compromised. He had combed through the data endlessly and was yet to come to a conclusion as to whether the artificial programming had evolved beyond itself, and was now acting at its own accord, or if it had been hijacked by an outsider. There was also the issue of foreign investors. Michael had made enemies by rejecting military contracts but in the midst of war, they offered a paltry sum that wouldn't solve his debt problems. He then turned to foreign investors, which allowed for further scrutiny to come his way. Last month a widely read publication ran the headline, "Is Deep Frontier breaching national security?" It was bluntly put, and Michael saw this as a coordinated, direct threat to destroy everything he had built from scratch. Michael stopped pacing and waited for his thoughts to settle. 'They want to take it all from me.' It was evident, Michael was sure of it but he did not know why.
Michael doubled over and guided all his hanging hair between his hands. With one big squeeze he rung the excess rain free. It fell to the floor in an audible splatter. He straightened up and realized himself to be at the far end of the walkway. A soft light caught his eye. On the other side of the street, a blossoming burnt orange illuminated all four panes of an old sunken door. The satisfactory yet curious signage above the door spelled nothing more than "SHOP". Michael unbuttoned his blazer and pulled his collar upwards until it hung over his head. Using the blazer to protect him from the rain, he crossed the brick road and entered the shop, unsure of what he would find. A bell rang as he entered. It was real, not artificially triggered. The burnt orange light was cast by a gas flame. It reached all corners, exposing the organized mess of items for sale. "SHOP" had turned out to be as accurate as it was vague as Michael enjoyed making out all the assortments attempting to hide. Rolls of fabric were cubbyholed towards the ceiling, furniture was stacked beneath it. Fishing rods fitted with lines and bait leaned in the corner. Immediately to the right of the entrance sat old whiteware, a full car engine, a red metal toolbox open on top of it. Exposed brick wall crumbled behind it. Certain bricks were missing and here the shop owner advertised small toys. They were much too high to be seen by a child. Michael entered further into the space and saw an opening leading deeper into the shop. Through the gap he identified withering plants, stacks of bagged concrete and old plasma screens. Michael wondered how many people shopped here, especially in the legal district where no one lived. He turned and was confronted by an old man surrounded by stacks of literature. It seemed he had created a counter out of the stacks, leaving the shelving behind him to store everything but books. 'Of course an old man owns this place.' thought Michael. 'Hello.' Michael greeted him. 'You've never been here before.' said the old man. Michael attempted to make eye contact with the old shopkeeper but found his eyes to be drifting away, searching for something behind Michael. 'You have a lot of regular customers?' Michael asked. 'No. You're the first in a while.' The old shopkeeper said. Michael looked to the shelving behind the old man. Fermenting jars, almost all packed tightly with some kind of reptilian sample, sat above the shopkeepers head. 'Are those real?' Michael asked, pointing to the reptilian jars. 'Everything in here is real.' the shopkeeper answered. Michael had his eye caught once again, this time by a tray of small colorful tubes just visible behind the shopkeepers shoulder. Each tube was brazen with a particular word. Michael made out, "Vitriol", "Scorn", "Lament". He couldn't make out any more since the old shopkeeper sat directly in front of the rest. 'What are they? Those small colorful tubes on the shelf behind you?' The old man rotated his shoulders slightly, yet his gaze remained stuck on nothing. The shopkeeper groped for the tray and retrieved it for Michael. 'They're lip balms, I think.' The shopkeeper said. He placed it on the book constructed counter. Michael started reading the tubes he wasn't able to make out initially. "Pitch", "Fawn", "Tangent", "Dissuade", "Entice". There was only one "Boast" left. "Pitch", "Entice", and "Vitriol" seemed to be popular as well. Michael was going to buy one. The way he saw it, he would be talking for a long time. Lubricated lips wouldn't hurt his chances of survival. 'How much? For one of these lip balms?' 'Ten pounds.' 'Are they flavored?' Michael asked. 'In a way. They all taste the same if that's what you're asking.' 'Do you have a favorite? Is there one you'd recommend?' 'I've been told "Consent" is a popular one.' There were none with the word Consent. It must've been sold out. Wanting to know the time, Michael twisted his wrist towards him, only to remember that in a rush he stuffed his belongings in his coat pocket. He retrieved his watch. He had five minutes until he was expected in court. 'You say they all taste the same?' Michael asked. 'More or less.' The shopkeeper answered. Michael bought one "Tangent" lip balm and headed back towards the court buildings where the law graduate awaited him.
After being in the beautifully arranged mess of the 'SHOP', Michael found the courtroom and all the hallways which directed him towards it to be unnervingly sterile. There was no color, just grey, no intimate objects to attract his eye, and a crude white light exposed all detail, or lack of detail. A tall, well groomed, well dressed lawyer from the federal district stood below him. He dominated the open space beneath the stand. 'Before we get underway here Mr. Frant, I understand you have a prepared statement that you are going to read for us?' 'Yes.' Michael confirmed. 'Very well.' There were less than a dozen people in the courtroom, much of the seated area remained empty. Michael cleared his throat and pulled the "Tangent" lip balm from his pocket. He applied it and immediately felt something. At first he thought it was burning his lips but he persisted in applying it evenly and found it had a static effect. He did his best to ignore it, focusing intently on the task at hand. Spotting this, the federal lawyer smiled privately into his palm as Michael began to read his statement.
'When I started Deep Frontier in Twenty Thirty-Two, I didn't anticipate the success and attention that would follow. The intent of the project was to develop sonar technology to the point where a comprehensive map of the ocean could be created. The way I see it, there are two areas of our earth that remain unknown, the Antarctic continent and the deepest areas of the ocean floor.' Michael paused briefly. His lips were tingling past the point of being itchy. They were oscillating violently. He reminded himself they wanted to take everything from him and persisted through the pain. 'I worked countless hours, all unpaid, to develop a frequency that worked independent of the marine life around the probes.' A strand of drool escaped his mouth. He cleaned it away with his hand and realized his lips were no longer in pain. They had gone completely numb. He felt detached from them. The prepared statement on the page before him continued on as so: The military and federal government want to acquire Deep Frontiers data without specifying exactly why. It is my belief that Deep Frontier has a right to privacy. Michael did not speak any of these words from the page. Instead his lips began at their own accord. 'The greatest problem of our time is the abstract.' 'What on earth am I saying' thought Michael. 'I don't know where that came from.' Michael scoured the page before him to rediscover where he lost his place but carried on speaking. 'The abstract itself can be interpreted in so many ways, and understanding ones interpretation in the right way, the correct way, is becoming increasingly difficult. Barriers of language certainly don't help now do they?' Up until his lips went rogue, Michael had been speaking in a dignified manner. Now he was speaking in a more informal, casual way. Michaels lawyers began flicking through their copies of the prepared statement, attempting to rationalize what he was saying. Michael watched them whisper to each other. 'Language evolves over time, words either lose meaning entirely or gain a new meaning altogether. Long ago the word mystery represented the ritual initiation, practiced by pagan worshipers.' Michael spoke these words but did not know anything he spoke to be a fact. He looked to the judge, who sat with an eyebrow raised, clearly perplexed but intrigued enough to let Michael continue. 'We don't seem to see pagan worshippers in society anymore, probably because of the negative connotation the word carries nowadays. To be a pagan is to be an enemy, a lowlife, somebody not worth clashing.' Michael hoped the petrified look he carried was apparent to everyone in the courtroom. They must surely know he had deviated from the statement. 'Why hasn't anyone stopped me?' he thought. 'These pagans wear pajamas and call it fashion.' Michael did not know anything of paganism, nor fashion. He was the epitome of uncouth. 'These heather grey tracksuits? I am not a fan. Too prone to stain. My mother died soon after I left home and I never asked her what her secret was to getting out stains. It sounds crazy but it may be my biggest regret.' The judge decided he had heard enough at this point and spoke in a loud and clear voice, 'Alright Mr. Frant. I think we've-' Michael could not stop. 'Some people regret lying. Some people regret their first love. Some people are psychos and regret nothing!' The judge slammed his gavel down. 'Please Mr. Frant.' He could not stop. 'As long as we retain the psychopathic gene within our population, so much regret will go without manifestation. Talk about a cosmic imbalance!' Michaels team stood in unison and motioned for a recess which the judge quickly approved of. Within five minutes of Michael sitting down to talk the courtroom had been emptied.
Michael Frant had been rushed into an empty room across the hall. His team, consisting of Carol, the law graduate, and Victor, the lead defense lawyer, had seated Michael on a cardboard box. They both watched Michael who hadn't stopped speaking since he started his prepared statement. 'What do we do now?' Carol asked. 'Do we declare him unfit to continue?' Michael shook his head and carried on talking. 'No.' Victor said. 'I think I know what's happening.' He offered his palm to Michael. 'Give me the tube.' Michael retrieved what he thought to be lip balm and placed it in Victors hand. To Carol, he asked. 'You got a magnifying glass on you?' Without answering she opened her briefcase and searched through it. 'Yes.' She offered it to him. Victor trained it on the tube. He studied it for a moment before offering the tube and the magnifying glass to her. 'Yep. Just as I thought. Here, have a look for yourself.' Bringing the two objects together, Carol noticed that the insignificant patterns printed on the tube actually formed together to create a script. She read parts at random and recognized it. At one point, what she read aligned exactly with what Michael was saying in the moment. To Victor, she asked. 'He's been drugged?' 'Yes. Unknowingly, he drugged himself.' He turned to Michael. 'You did do this unknowingly didn't you?' Michael nodded. To Carol, Victor said. 'You'd be surprised how many witnesses accept to be drugged. Most accept by way of threat. It remains the most novel problem I've encountered in my career.'
