Story Excerpt

Silas massaged his left thigh as the town car pulled through massive wrought-iron gates. Three layers of private security checkpoints stood between the street and the main house. Dynastic wealth screamed from every manicured hedge and imported cobblestone.

"Mr. Silas Kovacs to see Miss Isabella," the chauffeur announced to the final checkpoint.

The guard's biometric scanner blinked green. "She's expecting him at the manor," he said while waving the car on.

Silas forced his hands to stay loose in his lap. When he started three years ago, he performed two or three such consultations a month. Now he was conducting them two or three times a week. Often in different cities, but always in affluent neighborhoods.

The front doors swung open before the town car reached the marble stairs. A woman in black lace emerged—not Isabella McGraven, unless the heiress had aged two decades since her last public appearance. The household coordinator, then.

"Mr. Kovacs?" Her smile didn't touch her eyes. "Ms. McGraven is waiting in the west parlor. If you'll follow me?"

His cane tapped marble flooring while his left leg lagged behind him. The mansion's interior matched his expectations: Industrial Age opulence—furniture costing more than his annual salary. Every surface gleamed of lacquered wood, copper, and brass.

His guide paused before double doors and waited silently. A minute ticked by until the beeping of a digital alarm sounded. The woman pulled a door open. "She will see you now."

The parlor was small and decorated in silk wallpaper and Art Nouveau paintings popular a century earlier. Perched on an antique settee sat Isabella McGraven. Sunlight from floor-to-ceiling windows caught the organic sheen of the grapefruit-sized Remoria grafted to her spine—a silver creature, its rubbery flesh quivering with her pulse.

Isabella didn't stand as he entered. The fingers of her right hand formed the hand gestures to control the translucent lens of extended reality (XR) glasses perched an inch from her right iris. A constant data stream concealed her eyes. Silas hid his disappointment. The telltale signs of Knowledge Gluttony in its early stages were unmistakable. The young woman's compulsive need to consume information in exchange for a dopamine rush granted by her parasitic Remoria. Her free hand clutched a calorie-dense smoothie popular among human hosts of the alien Remorians.

"Ms. McGraven," Silas said.

Isabella waved a dismissive hand without looking up. Her XR lens flickered with scrolling data streams: stock tickers, news feeds, personal messages. The soft blue glow reflected in her dilated pupils. She muttered, "This can't be right. Hong Kong profits are down 0.2 percent."

Silas exchanged a glance with the third occupant of the room. A fit young woman in dark blue nurse's scrubs tailored to fit like a business suit.

"Nurse-Practitioner, Level 1, Naomi," the woman said, extending a muscled hand that could crack walnuts.

"Silas Kovacs." His grip was firm, professional, but his tone was dismissive. "They sent a Level 1? How long have you been a member of The Temptation of Eve?"

Naomi's cheeks burned red at his remark. "I'm fresh from the organization's training. Top of my class. Miss McGraven personally requested me." She gave him a tight smile. "I look forward to working with a seasoned Interventionist."

Silas suspected her ageist remark was more insult than flattery.

Isabella cleared her XR display with an irritated flick of her fingers. The lenses turned transparent, leaving a ghost of blue iris-tracking light in her pupils. "The market's been… volatile, but you have my attention for now." She gestured at the empty seating beside her. "No need for pleasantries. Let's get right to it."

Naomi sat in a stuffed chair; Silas settled onto the settee's edge, closer to Isabella. He placed his cane across his lap, holding it lightly in both hands. "Ms. McGraven—"

"Bella, please." She leaned forward, the movement ruffling the silk edges of the hole tailored into her blazer for her Remoria. A reflexive hand went to her neck, massaging the area where flesh met alien tissue. "Dr. Voss at Columbia Memorial said you were the best at handling such delicate cases."

Silas retrieved a notepad from his jacket pocket. "Tell the good doctor I appreciate his vote of confidence." He opened the notepad and poised his fountain pen to write. "Now, please tell me why you contacted us?"

Bella took a deep sip from her smoothie and began. "My great-great-grandfather started McGraven Global Shipping with a single steamship in 1892." A practiced speech, delivered with the precision of someone who'd recited it a thousand times. "Under Dad's leadership, we've recently expanded into suborbital and translunar freight. Last quarter—" The XR lens flickered to life again, and she trailed off, her eyes darting across images only she could see. "We posted a four-hundred percent increase in year-over year profits."

Naomi noticed Silas' scowl and cleared her throat.

Bella looked up. "Apologies. You're not here as investors but to help my father." She sighed, and her voice softened. " He's become childlike, abandoning all adult responsibilities in favor of endless entertainment."

Silas spoke in a neutral tone. "Bella, what you've described are signs of Intellectual Rot. His grafted Remoria has exceeded his brain's capacity to learn."

"The company's suffering. Can you cure him? Naturally, your organization will receive a sizable donation."

"His Remoria is using him like a toy until it can move to a new host."

Bella jabbed a finger at Silas. "That's baseless anti-Remoria propaganda! You're not grafted, so you have no idea how they yearn to help us. They make us better. It saved him and it's kept McGraven Global a market leader." She scowled at Silas, her eyes shining with a religious fervor. "The Remoria chose him, just like mine chose me. It's not trying to abandon him!"

Silas massaged his bad leg and exhaled a deep breath. "Perhaps I misspoke. Tell me more about his relationship with his Remoria."

"He took the Graft three years ago and became a visionary overnight. New markets, new technologies. He used to be called 'The Wizard of Shipping'."

"Used to be?" Silas prompted.

The light in her eyes dimmed. Her hand trembled as a finger extracted the last drops of her smoothie from the empty bottle.

"Three months ago, he stopped going into the office," she said, speaking to a spot on the carpet between her feet. "He had a special chair built in his study." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He sits in it day and night, consuming social media nonstop."