Page 6 of Artificial Moon

The office is nicer than any I’d ever seen, including Kingsley’s super-nice one in the city of Orange.

I hadn’t been aware that Fullerton could produce such luxury... or housed the kind of high-tech firm that warranted such an office. But here I am, not terribly far from my home, sitting in an office on the fifth floor, in a building I had been passing all my life—a building I had often wondered about. But now, I knew. Boy, did I know. Turns out, that a certain boy genius had acquired the building years ago... and had promptly kicked out the insurance company that had been here for decades. Apparently, this genius had started dabbling in implanting chips into human brains. So far, there had been a few dozen success stories. In fact, there had been no mistakes or errors or any reported problems—at least, officially.

I got most of this from Google... and some from the front desk clerk... whose mind I read with ease and no guilt. Yeah, I can read minds again. And let me tell you, it makes my job a lot easier.

How I got my telepathy back is a long story. But I will say this... it involves one very famous ship, perhaps the most famous ship in history not called Noah’s Ark. Yup, I’m talking about theTitanic. What a ship—and what a ride. Literally.

So, what about theTitanic?

Well, there’s nothing new to report. It crashed on schedule, sank according to history, and everyone on board who died over a hundred years ago, still died. That I happened to be on board, is the crazy part of the story, but yeah, one thing led to another, and lo-and-behold, I got my telepathy back.

So, here I sit, in an office far too big for any one human, though it does have a nice view of Hillcrest Park, of all places. Yup, the same park where I was attacked and turned into a vampire... all viewed through the big window behind the $1,000 ergonomic office chair and airplane landing strip of a desk, complete with a brass-studded leather top.

I hear voices outside the larger-than-necessary door. This is followed by laughter. If I really wanted to, I could focus on the voices and make out the words. But it sounds to me like ‘bro talk.’ Guys riffing. Nothing of importance. Until I hear my name. They’re letting my contact know I’m waiting for him.

A moment later, I hear the door handle turn, followed by a small squeak. This is followed by the thump of a shoulder hitting the other side of the door. Minutes earlier, I had watched the male receptionist struggle with the door himself. It was clearly heavy. The guy on the other side was having some problems. Shortly after that, the door swings open, and standing there is the same handsome receptionist, now holding the door open with a sure grip.

A smaller, portly man steps around him, straightening his suit and tie. He gives me a big grin, and I instantly recognize him from all the YouTube clips, newspaper coverage, and TV interviews he’d done.

“You’re Samantha Moon?” he asks as he steps into the room, his voice echoing.

“I am. And you are...”

He smiles. “Andrew York,” he says haltingly, with a faint British accent.

I know the guy without ever having met him. Thanks to his countless interviews, access to his mind, and my general all-around impression of him, I’m able to come to a number of conclusions about the billionaire.

Indeed, Andrew York is a man whose mind moves faster than his mouth. In his many interviews, his speech is often marked by halting pauses, occasional stutters, and moments where he seems to lose the thread mid-sentence—not out of nervousness, but because he’s already several steps ahead in thought. When searching for the right word, he tends to look off to the side, eyes flickering rapidly as if scanning some internal database.

He often fidgets with small objects if they’re nearby—a pen, a coin, the edge of his sleeve—or rubs the pads of his fingers together unconsciously when thinking. His hands are rarely still, betraying, I suspect, the restless energy bottled up inside him.

Facially, he has a slight but persistent twitch at the corner of his mouth—a half-smirk that suggests he’s amused by a joke only he understands. When he does smile, it’s sudden and wide, but doesn’t always reach his eyes. His grin can flicker on and off mid-conversation, especially when he’s excited or feels he’s made a clever point.

Despite his brilliance, his social timing is a little off. He can be abrupt when switching topics, or answer a question you haven’t asked yet because he anticipated it. There’s a subtle air of detachment about him, like he’s never quitefullyin the room—but when something piques his interest, he locks on with startling intensity, making the person he’s focused on feel like the center of the universe... at least for a moment.

“And you are the private investigator I’ve been hearing so much about? Some even call you a super private eye.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Super, huh? And where did you get that from?”

He eases into the chair behind the desk. “I have my sources. Some of my sources are... supernatural in nature.” He pauses. “Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“You didn’t flinch or bat an eye when I saidsupernatural. And, quite frankly, you haven’t blinked since I entered the room.”

“Perhaps I’m in shock at meeting you.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. Did you know your temperature registers at 65 degrees?”

I actually knew that, but raise both my eyebrows this time, and say, “Interesting.”

He chuckles. “Well, despite you not actually looking interested at all... I’m certainly interested!”

I consider making him forget his interest in me, but I can see, reflected in his glasses, that my information is still on his cell phone. It’s very obvious he’s done his research on me... with sources not yet known to me, though obviously from a non-standard source. The man is short, but dressed spectacularly in brand-new duds that fit him like a glove. I hadn’t known that my temperature had been taken upon entering the building. In these current times, I’m not terribly surprised.

Regarding colds, flus, diseases, cancers, and/or pandemics in general, I’m good to go. Such things avoid me like—dare I say?—the plague? I haven’t had so much of a stuffy nose in well over a decade. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a neck pain, knee pain... or even an itch. Flea and mosquito bites never materialize into anything, although I’m fairly certain there are some hybrid/partially immortal bugs out there scaring the hell out of people and spiders alike.

Meanwhile, as far as being contagious, no one here has anything to fear... and now that I’m an energy vampire, I don’t have a clue how to turn anyone anymore. Truly, they were safe with me, unless I decided to lash out and rip out throats or throw them out a fifth-story window. At the moment, I preferred to do neither.

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