I can’t even begin to tell you how frustrating it was to write this beginning part. I largely had not planned any of these events, and I’m desperately trying to make sure they aren’t filler. I plan to make these events crucial later in the novel, so what seems like the pretty mundane right now will have a significant impact near the end, or the middle. Anyways, tomorrow the interesting stuff begins – with the Curie family getting out of the way, that means their stuff is Graham’s for the taking. Tomorrow will most likely contain Graham’s entry into Talos.

Word Count: 6915

It was Adam who suddenly appeared wide-eyed and anxious at Graham’s front door a few hours after Vanessa had left begging to see the designs. The bags in his eyes had returned worse than before, and Graham couldn’t help but wonder who of the two was really sick. Adam collapsed onto the couch, and motioned to see the drawings. “This better be good,” he said with a groggy, coarse voice, “I had a bad day.”

“Well, we’ll see when you look at them.” Graham, who had already been standing by the drawings, slid them off the table and into his hand, then slowly brought them over to Adam on the other side of the room. Adam clenched his fingers around the pages, crinkling them unintentionally, and looked intently at the drawings on their surfaces. With each passing concept, Adams eyes grew wider. He smiled.

“You’re amazing, you know that? Why didn’t you ever go to CERN?”

Adam sure knew how to hit Graham’s soft spot. “Long story short, I like where I am… for now.”

Curie put down the pages, finished looking at them, and handed Graham another check for the remaining balance. “What?” Graham asked. “Why did you come with this?”

Curie stood up, revitalized slightly. “James, I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I’m paying you for the rest of this work. Build what you’ve got; I’m satisfied. More importantly, in a few days I might not have the money to pay you! So there it is – while I still have it. You know, my publisher spoke with me today…”

“Yeah, sorry about catching you in the middle of that.” Embarrassed, Graham raised his hand behind his head and smiled, hoping to look innocent and blame-free. “Did it go well?”

“Well? I’ve got nothing to show – they want me to produce something, anything, in two weeks, or I’m out, contract terminated.” The bags under Curie’s eyes returned, it was clear he was desperate for a solution, and that he’d known he was about to get the boot long before he came to Graham asking for the lock. Why would Curie be spending all this money – what did he want to put in the bunker that would somehow save him from this desperation? “Luckily, it looks like, if nothing else, I’ll get the shed and bunker before I have to foreclose… if I have to foreclose.” He tried to smile, but his muscles wouldn’t move. He paced the room, leaving more mud tracks. “Yeah, this is good work.”

Curie’s hair looked like it was graying – and with the thin layer of hair he had, Curie looked like an old man already. His steps were not in rhythm with one another, his hands shook, and his whole body pulsated with anxiety. He made for the door, but Graham stopped him. “You’re not going anywhere. Stay here, get some damned rest. I’ll tell Vanessa, it’s only across the street.”

Vanessa was concerned, but didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, she complained about the lack of power and wished that Graham could have just called, because she didn’t appreciate being lied to. Graham apologized and said that Adam was going through a rough patch at work – but this only made Vanessa more upset, to which Graham told her not to worry, it was nothing serious. But Graham knew it was serious, and given Curie’s work ethic they would most likely be forced to foreclose in a matter of weeks.

Curie most likely knew that it wasn’t enough time for Graham to literally build his elaborate lock. Design, sketch, prototype perhaps – but building it could take a month, or many months. Graham made it his mission that night to get Curie thinking, to get him typing somehow. Lucky enough, the power eventually came back on, and Graham could turn on his computer and sit Curie down in front of it with only one objective: Type.

“Nothing,” Curie said, banging his fist on the desk. “There aren’t any ideas, dammit!” Graham held his fist still and urged him to calm down. There were ideas – they were somewhere, lodged in his mind, and all he needed to do was use his hand to pull them out instead of using it to bang on the desk. It eventually became late enough the Graham fell asleep, but Curie was still awake, staring at the monitor. Eventually, the man fell asleep at the keyboard, and by morning the power was shot again – even if Curie had written something, Graham wouldn’t have been able to see it.

But what Graham was able to see was Curie’s excitement when he was woken with violent shaking. “James, I’ve got it! There’s no power here for God knows why, so I’m going back to my house to get started on a draft.”

They had been upstairs all night. Curie bolted down the steps, creating large thuds, with bags under his eyes and that same strange, unsyncopated rhythm in his step. Graham, tired, fell asleep once more, and didn’t wake up until noon – the power was still out.

He didn’t see Graham at all that day, but he did begin to see people out on the street, wandering around conversing with one another. It was another bright, yet chilly autumn day, but such beautiful days weren’t enough to bring droves of citizens out of their homes in this age. Graham’s instinct was right – they were out conversing with one another not about the beautiful day, but about the lack of power. It seemed to be a widespread panic; the general consensus of the group stated that power does not go out on such beautiful days.

Graham didn’t get the newspaper, but if he had he would have seen the headlines, as the people in the street had – inexplicable rolling blackouts in suburbs across the country we causing people to approach their power companies in protest. But the power companies couldn’t do anything; according to their monitoring systems, and their engineers, everything was working properly. They had even sent men to investigate the power lines and see if there was some form of break; the simple explanation provided by the media was that there was no explanation. Naturally, it was more than just Graham’s neighborhood in an uproar.

Graham went outside. The thin air was saturated and made thick by mindless chatter and the sounds of drills and saws working to set up Curie’s bunker and shed. The workers were making great progress – Graham had never seen a structure set up so quickly. They didn’t just wheel in a shed an turn it into a room; they had laid a small foundation and built it up, the way one would a home. He shoved his way through the crowd to get a better look at the house, and noticed that the people around him were attempting to organize themselves and go to the nearest power plant, and eventually they had all left, their homes still just as dark inside as they had been before.

Graham went back into his home and began working on Curie’s lock. His firm would cut the metal and the parts required to assemble the lock if he provided all the accurate dimensions and drawings, and he imagined that would take over a week to machine. The problem remained that Graham hadn’t actually designed the lock – he’d only sketched it, and yet he’d been paid for the full design, manufacturing, and assembly of a product that didn’t yet exist. So he sat down, and began to make it exist. Hours passed by, and he worked by the light of his Maglite – and when the batteries died, and he discovered he was out of batteries, he used a candle. It was during times like these that he was thankful for not relying on computers for his drafting. By morning, having worked nearly twelve hours straight on the mechanics, he had a rough draft that was probably suitable for a rudimentary machining, and mailed it to his firm, which he was sure would have power. While he was out mailing the drawings, he picked up a newspaper from someone else’s doorstep without guilt – it looked like they had gone and camped overnight at the power plant in protest of the lack of power, and wouldn’t be coming back until late that afternoon. At least, Graham thought he’d heard someone saying that the other day – if he was wrong, the most someone lost was his or her newspaper.

The headline on The New York Times read, “AMIDST SHRINKING ECONOMY, POWER FAILURES SPARK CIVIL UNREST.” A recent collapse of several large American banks had left many investors concerned about their futures, and alternative fuels eventually took center stage because fossil fuel producers were making record profits during a recession. When the power companies suddenly failed to provide sufficient energy, communities at large began demanding that they use renewable, unlimited sources of power as opposed to the limited fossil fuels. But Graham knew that the power companies didn’t cause the problem and, in fact, sympathized with their management teams, whom he figured must have been having one hell of a time calming down entire townships.

And yet, the entire fiasco would cause his manufacturing to take several more days than it could have. Normally, he would scan and email the drawings to his superior, who would approve the designs and begin the machining process. Under normal circumstances, assembly instructions were provided in the drawings, but this time Graham did not provide them. He didn’t want the finished product delivered to him – he wanted to assemble it himself.

As the days passed by, he saw less and less of all three Curies’ and more of the citizens around the neighborhood. Power was sporadically turning on and off, to which the people attributed the efforts of the power companies to restore electricity to their homes. But it was problematic; light fixtures would burst from the rapid power switching. A fire broke loose at one point, causing half of an older couple’s home to burn down. Graham began to hear emergency room stories, both through the newspaper and through town residents just looking for something to do outside, about people who had suffered lacerations caused by shattered glass and plastic.

And yet, the power companies were praised for their efforts. A nearby PSE&G plant, unbeknownst to Graham, was holding a corporate party in celebration of their marvel of engineering that “fixed” the problems they had supposedly caused. They hailed, amongst themselves, their innovation in clean technologies that effectively restored citizens’ active, electronically driven lifestyles. But this was no time for a party.

It only took so long before Graham’s computer suffered an ill fate, but this was no loss to him – he kept very little important files. Too many people had told him he was living in the past, but here he was, completely prepared for an electronic crisis. Not a single important document was lost when his computer wouldn’t turn on. He didn’t even bother trying to get it repaired.

In the middle of the week, just as the construction workers finished Adam’s external room, the man decided to visit Graham. When Graham opened the door, Curie was holding a package. “I think this is for you,” he said. “It’s pretty damn heavy!”

Graham took the package, and then saw that Curie had been carrying a thick stack of papers underneath it. It looked like writing was on the pages. “I’m glad this is here. These are the machined parts to your lock, Adam. I should have it assembled soon, so you can have it by next week.”

“Good! I’m going to see my publisher tomorrow, and I think I’ve finally got something worth showing. Check it out.” He handed the stack of pages to Graham, who laughed.

“Did you go out and buy a manual typewriter to do this?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It seems like something I’d do, I suppose, not you.” Graham didn’t bother reading the manuscript and instead handed it back to Curie. He wasn’t interested in the story, so long as it kept the man in his house. “Is Vanessa better?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been taking care of her as I write. In a way, she’s been taking care of me, too. I finally remember why I married her… she’s such an inspiration, James. You should get yourself married; I’d bet your engineering would improve. Not that it needs improving, let’s see that lock.” He eagerly went to open the package, but Graham stopped him, and told him not to touch property that wasn’t yet his.

“I still have to assemble this. It’s complicated; don’t screw it up for me. It’s going to take long enough as it is. And Adam,” Graham said, “don’t mention my personal life.” For only a moment, Graham regretted not having written the assembly instructions for his firm. In hindsight, it might have saved him a lot of work – but on the bright side, he thought, there would be something to do while the power continued to jolt on and off.

Adam continued to talk about his newest novel, and then transitioned into the loss of power. “That’s why I got this typewriter. It’s been surprisingly reliable. I’ve been doing a lot of my writing in my new room, too, when I’m not with Vanessa. It’s nice to have a space all to yourself, away from the home – if even only a few feet away. And the clicking of the old typewriter keys is soothing.” Graham could tell that Curie was proud of the typewriter, and more proud of his own ability to forge words from ideas. It’s a skill that Graham had always wished he’d had, and in a sense he was jealous of Curie now that the man was writing once again.

He wouldn’t remain jealous for long.

Curie soon left, and Graham began building Curie’s lock. Within an hour he had assembled it nearly a quarter of the way, and began to wonder if he underestimated his skill as a builder. But it was here that he began working on the smaller, almost microscopic portions of the lock – the most important portions of the lock that would ensure that it not only stayed together in one piece, but also created the backbone of the locking mechanism.

With precision tools Graham assembled the framework for the most complicated lock he’d ever built – or seen, for that mater. A delicate and intricate network of gears, pipes, rods and bearings created a flowing, circular motion inside the lock. The lock itself looked like a six-pronged star, with a hole at the tip of each prong for a color to display through. Unfortunately, it was powered by an electronic LED display, so Graham did not know how he and Curie would activate it.

The entire matrix of gears and electronic innards was placed inside the metal shell that had been specially machined for the lock. This lock would fit into any door, if the door was modified, and Graham could modify any door himself with enough time. And so he painstakingly assembled the miniature parts, connecting them to create a structure Graham could only call stunning and beautiful. As much as he wanted to work at CERN, he often forgot how fascinated he was by his own technology. This lock was certainly not the work of someone living in the past – it looked like the work of someone from ten years in the future.

It greatly upset Graham that he wasn’t able to turn it on. There was no software running the machine – every color was represented by a simple number, and inputting the number triggered a series of events within the locking mechanism’s system that, in turn, displayed the correct color on the LCD screen through the little circular hole at the tip of each prong on the star. It was by no means simple, but that only meant that an outsider would have that much more trouble unlocking the system without the combination.

And yet, Graham worried that because it was still a prototype design, it could, somehow, be easily broken through. He had no way of knowing whether or not this fear was baseless, though he supposed he’d eventually find out.

He never would.

The afternoon of the next day, Adam Curie once again appeared at his door – his eyes lined with the dark stains of fear, the bags underneath those eyes flooded with tears, his hands shaking from the cold autumn breezes. “Cancel it,” he cried, “give me back my check! I need it; I need everything I can get. They hated it, hated everything about it!”

“What are you talking about?” Graham asked, motioning for Curie to come in, utterly confused. Curie was shaking furiously, and his disheveled appearance suggested he hadn’t been home yet.

“They didn’t like my concept. They got rid of me, told me I was worthless. That I should find a new hobby. A hobby! They honestly said ‘hobby’!” He broke down, and once again collapsed onto Graham’s couch. “Fuck the drawings, James. Fuck the lock.”

“Adam, I can’t just give you the money back… I’ve already built a lot of it. I used the money you gave me to pay for the materials. Now, calm down.” But Curie was restless; he wouldn’t even lie still on the couch. His whole body twitched, and he complained of aches and pains near his stomach like a whining child. There was nothing Graham could do or say to make Curie feel comfortable with what had just happened.

“Listen, James, I haven’t told Vanessa yet… but without a job, well, it looks like I won’t have another one for a while. I’ll probably have to sell the house, liquidate a ton of shit. Get my hands on whatever I can and move Vanessa, my son and I to somewhere cheaper.”

“You’re talking crazy. You won’t have to do any of that.” Graham looked at Curie’s face – it looked as though the man had aged another twenty years since the day before and two hundred years more miserable. “Listen, get up, and go back home. Tell this stuff to Vanessa, not to me, and you two will work something out. I doubt you’ll have to sell your house. I’ll keep this lock around, and I will finish working on it by next week, at which time I’m sure you’ll still be here.”

Curie just shook his head and wailed louder. Slowly, graham coerced him to get off the couch and go back to his house – even if the man’s life was falling apart, Graham figured the mental breakdown stage should happen in front of his caring family, not in front of a friend who didn’t need a greater burden. As Curie walked across the street in the cold, alone, Graham wondered if Curie really believed that he would have to sell his house in order to afford basic needs and, by the next day, wished that Curie, too, hadn’t taken stock into his own words, because the very next day the “For Sale” sign went up, and the Curie family began making plans to relocate far, far away.

Graham wished he had electricity so that he could substitute breaking something physical with something virtual. But there he was, standing next to his desk by the front door, the contents of Curie’s lock scattered across the room like the millions of tiny snowflakes soon to fall upon the frostbitten ground.