Chapter 1

The email subject says, "Meeting request." It doesn't say "Open me, and you'll end up making a sex tape in the office."(The robotics lab specifically, but let's not focus on the details.)

Clueless to the drama the simple message would stir, I click on the bolded line and read the confusing text.

The president of Mercer Industries, Nolan Mercer, wants to see me in his office on Monday morning. At eight o'clock sharp.

The request is unusual and unexpected. Mr. Mercer and I may abide by the six-degrees-of-separation rule in theory—he's the boss of my boss's boss—but I've never spoken to the man in real life. Not even when I was first hired as a robotics systems product owner in the research and development division of Mercer Robotics, which I now lead.

Have I seen him around?

Sure, occasionally. Mostly as one of the thousands of employees listening to his end-of-year address to the company—he was a far-off figure, speaking on a stage, unreachable, untouchable. Once, I even crossed paths with him in the main hall. He was being fussed about by suits, while common mortals like myself were doing our best to scramble out of his way, flee elevators in case he needed to ride in one, or just stare awestruck at the multi-billionaire mogul.

So even if only three layers of managerial corporate crust separate us, in reality, Nolan Mercer is to me what Steve Jobs could've been to Apple Geniuses working retail. A myth, a creature of legend. Hence why it's super weird that he's summoning me to his office—let alone that he knows I exist.

My next reaction to the email is relief that his assistant let me know in advance. At least I won't make a complete fool of myself. I push my wheeled chair away from the desk and assess my wardrobe. Yeah, black baggy sweats and a hoodie that says, "Dear Math, grow up and solve your own problems" wouldn't cut it for a meeting with the big boss. Nor would the space buns on my head.

Even if it's Friday, my outfit isn't casual Friday wear. Informal clothing is par for the course for me and my staff.

In most companies, RD engineers are lab rats. We're secluded away in our research facilities, where we live on a parallel plane to the rest of the organization.

I can count the times I've had to wear a suit to work on one hand. It's exactly two. One each for the two years I've been head of the department and had to present an advancement report to the CEO and general director of Mercer Robotics. Nolan Mercer, of course, wasn't present.

"K-2P?" I ask aloud to my droid. "Why do you think the big boss wants to see me?"

The robot replies in a mechanical voice from his position beside my desk, "I have calculated a 98.9per cent probability that the meeting is related to the department's work."

K-2P is not part of my research at the company. He's an AI project I've been working on since college—even if now I think of him as more of a friend. Maybe my only real friend.

I stare at the compact, claw-armed tripod android. His face is a mass of buttons and switches surrounding twin radar eyes, one of which has its red light focused on me.

"That's a very unimaginative reply." I pull the chair closer to him. "We need to up your creativity drive."

I make to touch him, but he scurries back on his wheeled feet.

"Please leave my drives alone. My imagination is fine."

"Really? I asked an ironic question, and you gave me an ultra-boring, to-the-point answer."

"My hearing sensors could not detect the irony in your tone." The droid lets out an offended beep-beep. "You should probably review the empathy code Garrett uploaded to my CPU last week."

"Stop being distrustful of Garrett. You know he means well."

"I do not. Since he tangled with my operating system, my capability to interpret human behaviors has been clearly diminished."

"But not your creativity?" I give the droid a dry stare.

"My creativity is perfectly fine." K-2P swivels—the robotic equivalent of shrugging. "I answered your question straightforwardly. I could've given you a million sarcastic answers."

"Fine. Let's go over it again. Why has the big boss asked for a meeting?"

"Mr. Mercer wants to start a rocket division like any respectable multi-billionaire on the planet and wants you to lead it."

"Better." I nod, suppressing a smile. "I appreciate the scornful touch toward billionaires and their rocket measuring contests. Give me three other funny reasons in quick sequence." I snap my fingers.

"One. He wants you to steal the secret prototype of a revolutionary assembly robot code-named Project Nemesis. Two. He needs you to develop better weapons for conquering the galaxy after his rocket project becomes a success. And three, my simulations show the likelihood of him offering you a promotion is at 0.00000003per cent."

A burst of laughter escapes my lips. "That last one wasn't funny. Now you're just being mean."

"My facial scan detects upturned lips and bared teeth, clear indicators of mirth. You're laughing at my jokes."

"Because I, contrary to you, can take jabs with irony."

K-2P lets out a series of electronic sounds. "You ruffled my circuits; it is not my fault."

I pat his dome. "I'm sorry, K-2P, I didn't mean to."

A low beep lets me know my apology has been accepted.

I stare out of my office's half-glass, half-panel walls at the dark prototype lab. Like every night, I'm the last one in. I don't have much of a life outside of work, and I'm mostly fine with it. I'm a bit of a lone introvert who needs a lot of time by myself. I've tried being in relationships before, but they've been nothing but a letdown. My family has always been absent. My father bailed before I was born. And my mother has always been a bit distracted when it came to me, forcing me to become self-reliant from a young age. Plus, I've never been great at making new friends, especially since I've always been on the fast track, skipping entire grades and outpacing colleagues, making it tough to stick with the pack.

But work has been a reliable constant. It has never betrayed me.

I let my gaze span over the massive research facility beyond the glass. The technology we're researching is state-of-the-art. And working here is my dream job. My career is the only aspect of my life that I have under control. My work is who I am. And I'm afraid whatever Nolan Mercer wishes to tell me in person can't be good.

For the first time since opening the email, my stomach churns with anxiety. I hope it's not bad news. They wouldn't fire me? Would they? And if the meeting were to fire me, I doubt Mr. Mercer would do it in person. He'd send an HR hit squad.

Still, it's Friday, 13 October, and an email like that lands in my inbox out of the blue? Can't help a shiver of foreboding from running down my spine.

I sigh. "Time to go home."

K-2P lets out a succession of pitiful beeps. "Can I come with you?"

If droids could make puppy-dog eyes, that's the expression he'd be giving me now.

I clasp my hands with his flat-fingered ones. "I've told you a million times, you can't come home with me."

Whining beep. "Why?"

"Because I can't be seen walking a droid who's not part of any Mercer Industries research project in and out of the office every day."

I made sure the IP for K-2P would remain mine by never using company equipment or resources on him. He was already complete when I brought him here after they promoted me to head of the department and I gained a private office. I did it because otherwise, I'd never see him. But he's also good for morale. K-2P has become the lab's unofficial mascot, and my co-workers have sometimes taken an active interest in his coding. But even when I or someone else in the lab work on him, I ensure it's in our break time and on a laptop I own that is dedicated solely to his upgrades.

Three disgruntled beeps. "It wouldn't be every day. Just for the weekends."

"Trust me, not a good look, either."

Low, dejected beep. "I understand."

"I promise Monday will arrive before you even notice. We'll be together again soon."

"No, we won't." K-2P lets go of my hands. "You're probably getting fired, anyway."

"Now you're being hurtful again."

With no further sounds, K-2P retreats to his portable charging unit. He plugs himself in and shuts down all his lights.

And I know droids don't have feelings, yet leaving him cracks my heart every single time. But keeping him at home would only mean spending less time with him, seeing how I practically live at the office.

"All right, little guy." I switch off the lights. "I'll pop in tomorrow, so you're not alone all weekend, okay?" I'm actually glad for the excuse to come to work even on my day off.

No response.

Oh well. Shrugging, I pull the door closed and plug my earbuds into my ears, blasting Fleetwood Mac at top volume and hoping Monday will be just a day like any other, that I won't get fired, transferred, or who knows what else.