Episode 1 - The Beam

unavailable,” Simon said. “How may I help you?”
    “Tell Nicolai to call me,” he grumbled at the composed young man. The assistant was infuriating. He was grinning at Isaac like an idiot.
    “Of course, Mr. Ryan,” said Simon, reading Isaac’s Beam ID.
    “Tell him it’s urgent.”
    “I will.”
    Isaac stared at Simon’s perfectly combed virtual hair and wanted to yank it in frustration. But of course, Simon’s hair was fake, just like his wide public relations smile.
    “Where the fuck is he?” Isaac demanded again.
    “Nicolai is unavailable,” said Simon.
    “He’s paid a ton of money to stay available! He can’t just go off the grid! Not without okaying it with me first!”
    “Of course, Mr. Ryan.”
    “If he doesn’t return this call soon, he’s going to lose his fucking job!”
    “Certainly, Mr. Ryan.”
    Isaac was moments from slamming the connection closed in Simon’s face (Simon would remember it this time because Isaac had left a message), but he couldn’t quite let the whole thing go. If Nicolai was gone for a while, then he was gone for a while. But Isaac needed an estimate of how long he’d have to wait, at the very least. The open-ended nature of Nicolai’s desertion was intolerable.
    “Simon,” said Isaac, calming himself — again, as if Simon might respond to emotion, which he wouldn’t.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Could you please tell me where and when you last tracked Nicolai?”
    “I’m sorry Mr. Ryan,” he said, “but I cannot reveal private information.”
    Well, that wasn’t a surprise, but it caused ire to bubble into Isaac’s throat anyway. He was in a crisis. Who was he supposed to vent to if not Nicolai?
    “Simon,” said Isaac again.
    “Yes, Mr. Ryan?”
    “Go fuck yourself!”
    Simon started to reply, but Isaac raked the connection shut and once again found himself staring at Les Demoiselles d’Avignon and the naked figures that weren’t quite naked. They were ideas articulated in broad strokes, like so many manifestations birthed from The Beam.
    Isaac paced his apartment. He knotted his hands behind his back and lowered his head, treading heavily as if showing the universe his agitation, hoping to encourage its sympathy. But the world, the universe, and the room remained impassive, and all Isaac heard were his own footfalls echoing off the Plasteel walls. Maybe Natasha knew he was out here pacing and maybe she didn’t. The last time Isaac had seen her, she was slamming the door to her “office.” Not that it was an office of any sort. Isaac wasn’t sure what she did on the Beam while she was “indisposed” in there, but Natasha allowed no interruption and the walls were soundproofed. She wouldn’t hear him or likely care if she could (Natasha could be a real self-absorbed bitch sometimes, if not most times) yet still Isaac paced, as if to show someone how intolerable this situation was. Anyone .
    This should be a moment of celebration. His speech had gone beautifully. For the appropriate number of hours, the entire Directorate had praised their Czar of Internal Satisfaction and told him in various sycophantic ways that he’d managed yet again to turn lemons into lemonade. Isaac’s peers had promised him great swings in pro-Directorate sentiment. Underlings had kissed Isaac’s ass. Natasha had stood beside him, looking beautiful, even with her stupid dog peeking out from the open mouth of her purse. For a few hours, things had looked rosy. He’d seen Nicolai sneak out, and even his right hand man had seemed pleased.
    Then this morning, the bullshit with Micah had started. Typical. Lemonade turned back into lemons, then into piss. The entire Directorate found itself waist-deep in their own bullshit, and all of a sudden Isaac’s brilliant reframe was crumbling. The riots again started to feel like riots. Unrest among the Directorate citizenry regained its previous feeling of unrest, rather than rosy camaraderie. The public anti-Directorate sentiment that had fallen to quiet over the past twelve hours again blistered like a festering sore.
    Isaac tried telling himself that he was especially sensitive because he was getting hurled through the storm’s middle. He tried telling himself that the average citizen wasn’t feeling the swings like he was. He tried telling himself that Micah’s posturing only seemed so damaging to him because his brother had owned the ability to get under Isaac’s skin since birth, when Isaac had found himself no