April 12th, 2034 - 12am to 8am
Richard woke to total darkness, the disorienting kind that felt like falling headfirst into a void. He reached for his bearings, his hand brushing the sheets of the bed, the edge of the pillow. For a moment, he had no idea where he was—again. Then the faint, sterile tang of synthetic citrus reached his nose. Oranges, but not quite. His mind sluggishly pieced it together: the diplomat house. Xland. The lamp at the bedside flared to life as his fingers slid across its surface, flooding the room with warm light. No switch—just touch. That caught him off guard blinding him. He frowned. Technology was sparingly applied here, wasn’t it? A deliberate choice. But even deliberate choices had their surprises.
His eyes adjusted, taking in the room’s details. The bed was wide and soft, its white sheets tucked with the precision of a military hospital. The walls were pale and textured, likely plaster. The artwork—a single abstract painting in earthy tones—was the only splash of personality, and even that felt carefully curated to please no one in particular. Everything here was meant to soothe, to comfort. To make guests feel like their lives were still normal.
But nothing about this place was normal, not really.
Richard glanced at his watch. The glowing red Starlink icon confirmed it was 12:43 AM. He trusted the time without hesitation—Starlink’s clock was the only one that mattered now. He’d slept for nearly eleven hours after collapsing into bed that afternoon, utterly drained. Two days of near-constant movement, from Denmark to the mountain airstrip to here, with barely an hour of sleep during the fiasco at the refueling point. Magnus had been Magnus, of course, even as the situation devolved. Just moving chess pieces around the board, Richard thought bitterly. As if sending in drones to flatten the airstrip was the most natural thing in the world.
He pushed that thought aside. He didn’t want to think about Magnus, or the collapsing mountain runway, or the burning wreckage Magnus had insisted he watch from the air as they left. But it was impossible to escape Magnus here. Xland was his vision made real. Though little of this place whispered Magnus’s name.
Richard sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet sinking into a thick, surprisingly soft rug. A glance around the room showed it hadn’t changed while he slept: minimalist furniture, a polished wooden desk, a high shelf with a tin of something and folded towels. In the corner sat a stainless steel mini-fridge. His stomach growled faintly—two days with little more than a sandwich and an unknown fruit that had tasted terrible, yet he had devoured it just before sleeping. Sandwiches and adrenaline could only sustain a man for so long. He pushed himself to his feet, the cold air brushing his skin as he padded toward the fridge.
The cool air spilled out as he opened the door, revealing an array of neatly arranged items. No processed junk—just fresh food, though most of it was unfamiliar to him. A small container of sliced fruit: mango, papaya, something pale green. A wedge of soft, wax-wrapped cheese. A dish of roasted vegetables, glistening with oil. A dark loaf of bread. Everything looked fresh, untouched. He grabbed the bread, the cheese, and the roasted vegetables, piling them onto the small table near the fridge. He had a strange urge for the once-hated seaweed vine he had grown so sick of and wondered what it would be like in this climate. A jerky, most likely—and he really wanted to try it.
The chair creaked faintly as he sat down. He tore off a piece of bread, chewing absently as his thoughts drifted. Xland. What a name. It felt ridiculous, like the punchline to a bad joke, but it was no joke at all. Magnus had spent fifty billion euros on this place, handing the money over to Elon Musk without so much as a committee to oversee its use. Fifty billion. Richard still couldn’t wrap his head around that kind of money.
Money—once everything, and now nothing. How long until he forgot it, like the horse and buggy, which ironically had made a comeback?
And yet the largesse made a strange kind of sense. Magnus had always been strategic to the point of ruthlessness. His conviction that the collapse was coming—is coming, Richard corrected himself—meant the money was worthless anyway, at least in his mind. He’d been preparing for this for years. The collapse hadn’t been a hypothetical to Magnus. It was inevitable.
Musk, of course, hadn’t believed him. Not entirely. That was clear from the emails Richard had read—the endless chains of back-and-forths between the two men. Elon didn’t deny that the world was on a downward spiral, but he didn’t buy into Magnus’s timeline. He’d said as much, bluntly, in one of the exchanges Richard remembered vividly: “You’re catastrophizing. I’ll admit things are bad. I just don’t think we’re in the endgame yet.”
Still, Elon had taken the money. How could he not? Free money was free money, and Magnus had proffered almost no conditions. Almost. The only non-negotiable was the backbone project—the data infrastructure Magnus had insisted be built into Starlink’s network. All the information, all the records, all the archives—everything had to run through Starlink and be stored in Magnus’s meticulously designed cloud system. He’d even future-proofed it. Processed in Perfectland, where it was backed up and stored for active use in Svartsengi, Richard had later learned.
The negotiations had gotten messy around defense. That was where Magnus had drawn his line, insisting that Xland’s defensive systems be designed by—and ideally under the control of—himself. If he was going to put that many resources into the project, he was damn sure going to make certain it was secure. He didn’t trust Elon to make the tough calls. Magnus didn’t trust anyone else with defense. But Elon had refused, threatened to walk away, and for once, Magnus had backed down. They’d settled on a compromise: a three-person committee. Magnus, Elon, and the Countess.
Six months with Helena had left Richard fairly smitten—not that he would ever dare cross Magnus by acting on that impulse. But everyone knew she functioned as Magnus’s empathy, so even though they were a couple, her inclusion made perfect sense.
Richard reached for the roasted vegetables, their rich, smoky flavor pulling him out of his thoughts for a moment. He still didn’t fully understand why Magnus had trusted Elon with so much freedom. It was so unlike him. Magnus had spent decades controlling every variable he could, playing a game no one else even realized they were part of. And yet he’d given Elon fifty billion euros and walked away. No oversight. No micromanaging. Just one demand: the backbone project. That was all he seemed to care about.
But why? That was the question gnawing at Richard’s mind as he chewed another piece of bread. He knew Magnus well enough to know there was always a deeper reason. Always another layer. Magnus wasn’t sentimental, and he wasn’t wasteful. If he’d given Elon free rein, it wasn’t out of trust or generosity. It was strategy.
And Richard hated not knowing what the strategy was.
The clock in his head ticked steadily, counting down to his meeting with Vry. Five hours. Plenty of time. Or maybe not nearly enough.
His mind had been barely functional when Vry dropped him off here, handing him a sandwich on a plate. He’d inhaled it without tasting, the vague impression of bread and something salty, and then collapsed into bed. But now, in the quiet of the room, he dug through those hazy memories. He remembered the guard stationed outside the door. He was there for Richard’s protection—or so he’d been told. The real reason, of course, was that Richard didn’t know the safety protocols yet, and knowing Magnus, those protocols were probably labyrinthine, layered, and entirely unforgiving. Staying put was likely the smartest thing he could do. It went against his natural inclination to wander, to explore, to gather information and piece together the bigger picture. But for once, he decided to suppress that urge and remain where he was. After all, he could easily imagine Magnus, with his signature clinical detachment, dropping a missile on his head and thinking, He should have known better.
From ground level, Xland had been far from the blank slate it might have seemed from above. Everything was sparse, deliberately spread out, yet each element stood out vividly in Richard’s memory, etched there by sheer force of habit. Even half-dead with exhaustion, he had cataloged every detail he could, the way someone desperate for context clings to scraps of information.
The land had been flat, stretching unbroken for what felt like forever. With so few obstructions, he’d been able to make out nearly the entirety of the four walls enclosing the 75 square kilometers of Xland. The walls weren’t much—functional barriers, not fortresses—but they were enough to mark the boundaries of this strange experiment. He remembered the water towers first: hulking, utilitarian structures rising high above the otherwise low profile of the settlement. Each tower was a massive cylinder tapering into a cone, the narrow tip leading to a large pipe supported by white scaffolding. Painted pure white, with no logos or markings, they blended seamlessly into the pale horizon. He realized now why they’d been so easy to miss during the landing.
To the west, he’d seen an eight-story building, the largest structure by far in the immediate vicinity. It partially obscured the city he assumed was Vredenburg, its distant outline softened by heat haze and harsh light. He hadn’t been sure whether the city was really Vredenburg or if his exhausted mind had simply decided it must be.
His room, by contrast, was in a much humbler building. The Diplomat’s Lounge, they called it. A single-story, solidly built structure designed to put no one off. It was, in a way, an architectural balancing act: opulent enough to comfort the well-to-do, but understated enough not to offend those who disliked extravagance. Even now, thinking back, Richard couldn’t decide if the building’s neutrality was calming or unnerving. It felt like a space designed by someone who understood people—but didn’t necessarily like them.
Across the small road from the Lounge stood Musk’s quarters, known simply as the Compound. It wasn’t what Richard would have expected. It wasn’t sprawling or grand. It looked more like the practical nerve center of a man who had far too many projects to manage and far too little patience for anything else.
Somewhere in the stillness of his dizzy stagger he had heard chickens. At first, the sound had seemed out of place, a faint but steady clucking carried on the breeze. He hadn’t seen them, but the sheer scale of the noise suggested a vast operation—a distant, sprawling coop where they likely produced eggs by the ton. The idea had been oddly grounding. Chickens, of all things. Even here.
And then there was the Starlink launch scaffolding, thin and skeletal, the tallest structure on the horizon. It stood with a strange sort of defiance, as though it was trying to impress someone but didn’t quite have the presence to pull it off. He remembered squinting at it, wondering whether it was finished or if someone had simply decided to stop halfway through.
That had been his first impression of Xland: an odd, sprawling expanse of contradictions. Purposeful, yet somehow incomplete. Functional, yet strangely hollow. At the time, he’d been too tired to process much more. His thoughts had been drowned out by the ache in his legs, the grit in his eyes, and the growl in his stomach. He’d collapsed onto the bed and slept like a dead man.
Now, in the quiet aftermath, his memory pieced the scene back together, each detail vivid but slightly warped by fatigue. Xland was a place that didn’t yet make sense. Maybe it never would.
He organized his thoughts, tightening his grip on the briefcase cuffing it to his wrist. The handcuffs were for dramatic effect, of course—he wasn’t naive enough to think they would stop someone determined. A decent blade and a strong arm could part him from his wrist just as easily as from the briefcase. Still, the theatrics served their purpose. He wished he knew what was inside the damn thing and whether it was important. For all he knew, it could be one of Magnus’s elaborate jokes—a jack-in-the-box loaded with sugar powder and a puff of confetti, ready to shower Musk when he opened it. Or, just as easily, it could contain something critical. Vital information. The kind of thing wars might be fought over. Either way, no one had bothered to tell him.
He sighed and turned to the bathroom, indulging in another shower. Hot running water was something he’d learned never to take for granted, not after so many places where it was little more than a fantasy. Refreshed, he dressed deliberately: thick denim jeans, a wide-brimmed hat, sturdy work boots, and protective sleeves. Better to be hot and over-prepared than sliced to ribbons by some unseen hazard.
With hours still to kill, he tried to make himself useful, though his productivity amounted to staring at his watch and willing it to move faster. By the time the display read 3:00 AM, he’d had enough. He opened the door to find himself facing the broad back of his guard.
The man was a mountain in a pale blue jumpsuit, standing almost motionless outside the door. Nearly 200 centimeters tall, Richard guessed, though it was hard to be sure when someone looked like they were carved out of granite. His skin was tanned—or maybe he was biracial, Richard couldn’t quite tell. At the sound of the door opening, the guard turned, revealing Caucasian features and a surprisingly warm, inviting smile.
“Hi…” Richard ventured, holding out his hand.
“Dylan, sir,” the man said, taking it in a firm shake.
Richard chuckled softly before he could stop himself. “You’re kidding?”
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “What? Do you know a Dylan?”
“Several, actually, years ago. Sorry for laughing—I was just expecting something a bit more… exotic.”
“Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Morununhand.”
Richard winced internally but brushed past the butchering of his name—he was used to it by now. “Vry—sorry, I don’t think I caught his last name—said he’s wherever he’s needed, whenever he’s needed, or something like that. Any chance that means I can have him three hours early, which would be… now?”
Dylan pulled a smartphone out of a deep side pocket, the smooth motion practiced and efficient. Richard froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the device. It was the first time he’d seen a cell phone since the collapse—outside of Perfectland, at least. The sight of it felt almost surreal, like spotting a relic of a world long gone.
Dylan pressed a few buttons and spoke into the phone. “O.T.3 needed at D.L.One.Two,” he said, his tone clipped and precise.
Richard winced, guilt prickling at the back of his mind. He hadn’t even considered whether Vry might have been woken up on his account. If he had been, Richard could only hope he was one of those rare people who took such interruptions in stride.
“Thank you, Dylan,” Richard said quickly, trying to smooth things over.
“No gun?” Richard asked, stalling before heading back into his room.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, his tone casual but firm. “Why would I? It’s not like I’m gonna shoot a diplomat. If you get out of line—or, more likely, endanger yourself—I’d… gently…” He emphasized the word with a sly grin. “Shove you to the ground and truss you up like a turkey with zip ties.” He patted his pocket for effect. “Then I’d wait for Mr. Musk to decide what to do with you.”
Richard blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and the sinking feeling that Dylan wasn’t entirely joking. The man’s delivery had a practiced ease, and Richard couldn’t help but wonder how many people had tested those boundaries before.
Deciding it was best not to press his luck further, Richard took a step back toward his door, but hesitated. As an afterthought, he added, “Excellent English, by the way.”
Dylan’s expression shifted just slightly, his voice turning coolly professional. “Thank you, sir. It’s my native language.”
Ouch, Richard thought, grimacing inwardly. Really batting a thousand this morning. Without another word, he retreated back into his room.
Vry showed up barely twenty minutes later, and if he’d just rolled out of bed, he certainly didn’t look it. He was impeccably dressed, his shirt crisp, his shoes spotless, and his dark hair styled neatly—as if he’d come straight from a dinner party instead of the middle of the night.
“I was hoping you’d call for me earlier,” Vry said cheerfully as he stepped inside, his energy almost unnervingly fresh. “It will give us more time to chat. I love meeting new people.”
He set what appeared to be a hand-knit picnic basket on the table, the kind of detail Richard couldn’t help but find oddly charming. The basket looked handmade, probably local, and faintly out of place against the sterile simplicity of the room.
“I was hoping we could talk while we ate,” Vry continued, gesturing to the basket with a flourish.
Richard finally managed to steer himself into the conversation. “Well, I’d been hoping to see your version of the commissary.”
Vry smiled, settling into a chair. “We can do that after the meeting with Mr. Musk. Besides, the commissary wouldn’t be open now anyway.”
“Oh, please let there be seaweed vine in there,” Richard said, eyeing the picnic basket as if it held treasure. “I thought I was sick of it, but now, after a few days without it, I’m actually craving it.”
Vry’s grin practically lit up the room, so bright it felt like a second light source. “Sorry,” he said, his tone teasing. “The chickens love it. They eat it all.”
Richard chuckled. “I thought I heard chickens when we got off the jet.”
“Be grateful you only thought you heard them.” Vry leaned back slightly, clearly enjoying himself. “Chicken Coop City is enormous, horrendously loud up close—and man, does it stink. But it’s worth it. Enough chickens to make sure every man, woman, and child gets two eggs a day and, every now and then, a chicken meal.”
His zest was infectious, and Richard couldn’t help but be drawn in. “We had a fair number of chickens in the Iceland complex,” Richard mused, “but it never amounted to anything like two eggs a day per person.”
“I don’t remember the exact numbers off the top of my head—apologies,” Vry said, tapping his temple in mock thought. “But I think it’s somewhere around 17,000 chickens. I could show you if you’re curious, but I wouldn’t recommend it. And definitely not at dawn, when the roosters start up. Trust me, you’ll want to keep your sanity intact.”
Vry appeared to be four or five years younger than Richard, whose next stop was thirty-five. As Richard watched, Vry pulled two plates from the basket, each covered with thin, recyclable plastic. He unsealed one with practiced ease, releasing a faint, savory aroma into the room.
The meal was curious, to say the least: thin slices of sheep topped with something that looked like yam, coated in a glossy layer of white fat—hopefully butter, Richard thought. The entire ensemble was served on what appeared to be a cross between a crepe and a pancake, its edges slightly browned and inviting.
Noticing Richard’s hesitation, Vry grinned and picked up his own plate. He grabbed the wrap by its ends, folded it up expertly, and took a hearty bite from one side. Whatever the wrap was made of, it didn’t tear or fracture under pressure. It simply gave way, soft yet sturdy, and Vry chewed it with evident satisfaction.
“Try it, my friend, try!” he said enthusiastically, gesturing for Richard to follow his lead. “If we were eating at the commissary this morning, we’d be stuck with fish. And I don’t know about you, but I could go the rest of my life without another damn fish.” He paused, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Though I shouldn’t complain. So many are starving out there in the real world.”
Richard picked up his own plate, mimicking Vry’s technique. He took a cautious bite, fully expecting the wrap to crumble like a taco. Instead, it held together perfectly, yielding easily to his teeth. And the taste—he paused mid-chew, stunned.
If there were an animal made of velvet, Richard thought, this is what it would taste like. The meat was smooth and tender, with a faint gamey sweetness that danced on his tongue. The yam added a subtle earthiness, while the buttery fat tied it all together into something that was more than a meal—it was indulgence itself. The wrap, soft but resilient, melted into the mix, binding everything in harmony.
“Delicious,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice tinged with genuine awe.
He didn’t need to ask Vry why he didn’t consider this the real world; he’d had similar thoughts about Perfectland. The bubble of order, safety, and abundance felt too detached from the chaos outside, too engineered to feel entirely real.
Over the next half hour, Vry gleefully shared pieces of his life, his energy infectious as he gestured animatedly between bites of his food. He didn’t hold back, and Richard, while still processing the layers of this odd yet charming man, found himself drawn into the conversation.
“So, where did this all start for you?” Richard asked, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, you don’t exactly scream ‘corporate ladder.’”
Vry laughed at that, the kind of full-bodied laugh that made Richard wonder if he’d hit the nail on the head. “Oh, you’re right about that. Corporate life? Not exactly my thing. I grew up near Cape Town, in a little place called Darling.”
“Darling?” Richard repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know. It sounds like the name of a rom-com or a Hallmark movie, doesn’t it?” Vry grinned. “It’s a tiny town about halfway between Cape Town and Vredenburg. My mom, Marta, raised me there on her own. She’s Afrikaans—strong as hell, though, let me tell you.”
“What about your dad?”
“Oh, Grappie?” Vry said, the name practically dripping with disdain. “He was an Afrikaner too, but you won’t find him on any Father of the Year lists. He bailed as soon as he found out my mom was pregnant. He left behind a monthly stipend, though. Came through some shell corporation, so we never even knew where it was coming from, not really. It helped keep us afloat, but… well, you can imagine how it felt, knowing he was out there and just couldn’t be bothered.”
Richard nodded, letting the thought settle before asking, “So, what was life like in Darling?”
“Simple. Small. Poor.” Vry shrugged, though there was no bitterness in his tone. “It was just me and my mom. She worked long hours to keep us going, and I spent a lot of time on my own. School? Forget about it. I hated it. Couldn’t focus, always clashing with teachers. Eventually, Mom let me homeschool myself.”
“Homeschool?” Richard asked, intrigued. “What does that even mean in a place like Darling?”
“Well, there was the local library,” Vry said, grinning. “And that’s pretty much it. I spent hours there, reading whatever I could get my hands on. Tech books, stories about innovation, coding manuals—anything that caught my interest. And then there was Pieter Klum.”
“Who’s that?”
“A German expat who ran this dusty little internet café. It wasn’t much, but to me? It was like a treasure trove. I made a deal with him—I’d clean up the place, and he’d give me free internet access. He even taught me some basics, like how to fix a busted hard drive or troubleshoot old equipment. From there, I taught myself everything else. Coding, programming, repairs… you name it.”
Richard leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “And that’s how you ended up here? From a dusty café to Xland?”
“Not exactly.” Vry smirked. “In 2024, I started hearing whispers about this massive construction project near Vredenburg—Xland. Everyone in the area was talking about Musk and his crazy plans. I mean, come on. How could I not want to see it for myself? So I borrowed a moped, grabbed some tools, and started showing up.”
“You just… showed up?”
“Yeah,” Vry said with a laugh. “I didn’t even have a plan. I just made myself useful—organizing tools, fixing small things, troubleshooting network connections when someone needed it. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough to get me noticed. Eventually, I moved into the worker encampment at the edge of the property. Spent almost every waking hour either helping out or sneaking around to learn more about the project.”
“What did you find out?”
Vry’s expression shifted, his smile softening slightly. “Mostly that Musk was serious about this place. Everything was focused on self-sufficiency, infrastructure, and setting up a backup mission control for Starlink. Even back then, it felt like he was preparing for something big.”
Richard studied him for a moment, his curiosity growing. “And then what? You just stayed on?”
“Well, the Great Collapse helped with that,” Vry said, his tone matter-of-fact. “When everything started falling apart in 2026, Xland became one of the safest places to be. Musk gathered everyone, laid out the situation, and gave us a choice: stay and contribute, or leave and fend for ourselves. I stayed, obviously. Worked my ass off to prove my worth.”
“And it paid off,” Richard said, gesturing to the confident man in front of him.
“Eventually,” Vry said with a grin, “by the time I was twenty, I was running one of the Starlink subsections. Then Musk pulled me into his Odd Tasks task force—a team meant to be a Swiss Army knife for the whole operation, tackling whatever needed fixing or brainstorming ways to improve the system. It’s a lot of responsibility, but honestly? It’s the kind of work I thrive on. Keeps me on my toes.”
Richard couldn’t help but smile at Vry’s easy confidence—so open, so unapologetically himself. “So, now you’re Musk’s personal problem-solver?”
Vry laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Something like that. One of twelve, anyway. Wherever I’m needed, whenever I’m needed. And right now, that means here, making sure you’re ready to meet the man himself.”
“So, we’ve got three hours left,” Richard said, leaning forward slightly. “How about a two-hour tour, then I come back here to get dressed for Musk?”
“Darn,” Vry said with mock frustration, snapping his fingers. “I lost track of time—I do so love talking about myself. I was hoping to show you the sun hitting the Pimples.” He paused dramatically, waiting for the inevitable question.
“Pimples?” Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The desalinization stations,” Vry explained, his grin widening. “Their dome tops are designed to focus sunlight at a point. But when the sun hits them sideways in the morning or evening, they all light up like giant bulbs—kilometers of them. It’s… something else.”
Richard smirked. “Well, if it was truly magical, you would’ve called them something like fireflies. So now I’m picturing something a little more grotesque. Am I getting warmer?”
“No, no,” Vry laughed, shaking his head. “It is magical. We just have a weird sense of humor down here.”
Richard smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Well, assuming either of us are allowed to chart our own course this evening, count me in to watch the fireflies. Or Pimples. Whatever we’re calling them.”
Vry grinned. “It’s a deal. But I’ll warn you—they’re Pimples until you see them. After that, I bet you’ll be calling them fireflies, too.”
They left the room, with Dylan stepping aside silently to let them pass. He didn’t acknowledge either of them beyond the slight movement, remaining as still and impassive as ever. Richard and Vry continued down the hallway toward the central exit.
Exiting the Diplomat’s Lounge beside Vry, Richard immediately noticed a structure less than a kilometer away, looming right in front of him. He blinked, surprised by how he could have missed something so obvious yesterday.
“What’s that?” Richard asked, pointing toward the building they seemed to be heading toward.
“That’s Bet—” Vry stopped himself and adjusted. “The hospital. Do you want to see it?”
“It’s not exactly high on my list, but it’s right there. Might as well check out the lobby, at least.”
Vry gestured toward a golf cart-like vehicle parked nearby. They climbed in, and with a simple tap of his finger on the console, it hummed to life. Richard raised an eyebrow as he watched.
“Guess you don’t worry about theft around here.”
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” Vry replied, smirking slightly. “They’re communal. If you see one, take it and go where you need to go—just don’t expect it to be there when you’re ready to leave.”
“What happens if there isn’t one where I need it?”
“Then you walk until you find one—or a scooter, or a bike. Worst case, you just walk all the way. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Most people are close to where they need to be most of the time.”
As they approached the building, Richard studied it more closely. It was two stories tall, made of that same whitish-beige material that seemed to dominate nearly everything here. The windows on the second floor gave him an impression of 20 to 25 rooms, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was off by as much as 50 percent.
When they arrived at the grounds, a stone arch framed the entrance. Richard noticed what would have been a nameplate on the arch had been removed—or deliberately obscured—and replaced with something far more striking: a hand-carved sign, made of dark, richly grained wood. Mahogany, maybe. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the letters carefully etched in a flowing, ornate style.
He leaned forward, squinting as they passed under it. The sign had little contrast with the wood, making it nearly illegible until he was directly beneath it. Finally, he made out the words:
“Better Hope.”
Richard let out a sharp laugh. “Someone here’s got my sense of humor. I love it. And Musk let it stand? That says something about him,” he said, shaking his head in amusement.
Vry smiled faintly but said nothing, pulling the cart to a quiet stop outside the building alongside two other carts. Richard finally noticed the difference: these carts had solar panels on top, unlike the similar carts in Perfectland—dear God, he almost called it home. Those were fully encased in solar glass, not just on the top but along the entire chassis. Then again, given the additional sunlight here, it probably didn’t make a lot of difference in performance.
He gestured toward the entrance of the hospital as they stepped inside. The waiting room was modest, clean, and functional, with a few rows of mismatched chairs that had clearly seen better days. The walls were painted a soft white, and a single ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, barely cutting through the humid air. A young ebony woman sat behind the intake desk, her hair pulled into a neat bun, scanning something on a battered tablet. She glanced up briefly when they entered, her expression professional but not unkind, before returning to her work.
“Welcome to Better Hope,” Vry said with a grin, waving his hand theatrically. “It’s not exactly cutting-edge, but it gets the job done.”
Richard raised an eyebrow, taking in the worn but orderly surroundings. “So what’s the job, exactly? What kind of care are we talking about here?”
“Think glorified ER,” Vry replied, his tone light but matter-of-fact. “We can patch you up after a fall, set a broken arm, stitch a nasty gash, and handle the occasional case of dysentery when someone drinks water they shouldn’t. We’ve got antibiotics, painkillers, and the basics to treat most minor issues.”
Richard asked, “And for anything major?”
“We have an X-ray machine upstairs,” Vry said with pride. “It’s a real old one, 60s technology with vacuum tubes. Mr. Musk was able to find it. It’s not new and fancy, and I wouldn’t want to get a bunch of X-rays, but it also won’t self-destruct like something with irreplaceable capacitors. Treated right, it should last a lifetime.”
“For anything major,” Vry continued, his grin faltering for the first time, “we cross our fingers. Mr. Musk decided there was no point in building a full hospital. No MRI machines, no dialysis, none of the fancy stuff. Too expensive to maintain, and too fragile in a world where spare parts are... scarce. Before the collapse, we could go to the hospital in Vredenburg for anything major and, to a lesser degree, we still can.” He gave a small shrug, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Here we focus on what we can fix.”
Richard nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to a young man sitting in one of the chairs, cradling his arm in a makeshift sling. The intake nurse glanced up, called the man’s name, and gestured for him to follow her into the back. As the door swung shut behind them, Richard caught a glimpse of a cramped treatment room, where a medic in a faded uniform was washing his hands in a metal basin.
“So, this is part of the deal?” Richard asked, turning back to Vry. “Free medical care for anyone in Xland?”
“Yep,” Vry said, his tone brightening. “Part of the package. You work here, you contribute, you get taken care of. Food, water, shelter, and basic medical care—all guaranteed. And I mean basic. You’re not getting a heart transplant here, but hey, you won’t bleed out from a rusty nail, either.”
Richard smirked faintly. “Sounds... utilitarian.”
“Xland’s all about pragmatism,” Vry replied, gesturing for Richard to follow him back outside. “It’s not glamorous, but it works. Besides, it’s better than what most people out there have.”
As they stepped into the warm morning air, Richard took one last glance over his shoulder at the carved mahogany sign hanging above the entrance. Better Hope. A fitting name, he thought. Not perfect, but better.
“Alright,” Vry said, clapping his hands together. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about the perimeter defenses. They’re a little more exciting than stitches and dysentery.”
By the time they left the waiting room, their cart had vanished. Richard frowned but wasn’t particularly surprised—it seemed to be the way of things here. The other two carts, however, were still parked neatly in their spots, and Vry gestured for him to climb into one.
“This one’ll do,” Vry said casually as he settled into the driver’s seat.
The cart hummed to life as Vry tapped the console, and they started off, skirting the edge of the long, rectangular hospital building. As they rounded the corner, Richard’s attention was drawn to the outskirts of what looked like a decent-sized town. From here, he could make out the eight-story structure he’d spotted yesterday—but now, as they got closer, he could see it wasn’t a single building at all. It was actually a cluster of four separate buildings arranged in a square, surrounded by three or four concentric rings of structures. Beyond those rings, the orderly arrangement unraveled into a chaotic sprawl of lean-tos, tents, and an eclectic assortment of shacks and hastily erected buildings. The further out you went, the rougher it all looked.
“This is Workertown,” Vry said, steering the cart onto a dirt road that bordered the settlement. His voice carried a hint of nostalgia. “I used to live here. It was much smaller then.”
“Looks rough,” Richard observed, his gaze scanning the outermost ring of improvised shelters and ramshackle homes. “But then, you look pretty tough.”
Vry smirked, his eyes flicking toward Richard for a moment before returning to the road. “I don’t need much. But you’re seeing the worst part of it—it’s expanded faster than the structures could keep up with. Beyond this outer ring, the houses are pretty nice, and the central compound? Way better than what I grew up in.”
Richard turned his attention to the inner circles of the settlement, where the buildings looked more solid, more deliberate. He could see the faint outlines of well-built homes and orderly streets tucked behind the rough outskirts.
“What’s the population?” Richard asked, his voice casual, though he was genuinely curious.
“Well,” Vry said, gesturing toward the central compound, “that big structure—what we call Worker Central—can house about 3,000 people. Last official number I heard was 4,200, but I’m pretty sure it’s well over 5,000 now.”
Richard let out a low whistle, his gaze lingering on the sprawl. “That’s more than the population of Perfectland shoved into, what, five kilometers around? And all of them work here?”
“Most do, yeah,” Vry replied. “If you’re in Xland, you’re contributing in some way. Farming, construction, logistics, maintenance—you name it. The outer rings are mostly for newcomers and overflow. They’ll get absorbed into the better housing eventually... assuming they stick around long enough to earn it.”
“What happens with the old or ill, those who can no longer contribute?” Richard asked, his tone quieter now.
“What happens to them in Perfectland?” Vry shot back without missing a beat.
“Point taken,” Richard said softly, his eyes downcast for a moment. Safety nets were a thing of the past. Still, this was better than being out in the chaos.
Richard peered toward the horizon they were approaching, watching as the endless expanse of white pavement began to give way to patches of gray and black. Just beyond that, he noticed a small wall, unassuming at first but clearly long enough to demand attention. It seemed to stretch all the way around Xland, a quiet but deliberate reminder of boundaries.
“That’s the perimeter, I assume?” Richard asked, gesturing toward the wall.
“Yep,” Vry replied as they drew closer. “Now pay attention, because Mr. Musk told me you’ve got a bit of a reputation for doing the opposite of what you’re told. I’d advise against that here.”
Richard smirked faintly but said nothing, letting Vry continue.
“Just hear me out,” Vry said, his tone light but edged with warning. “Once you’re inside the perimeter, you can do whatever you want—though I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t break anything. But the perimeter itself? That’s another story. So listen carefully, because it’s pretty simple, but it’s important.”
“I’m all ears,” Richard said, his curiosity piqued.
“Mr. Musk wanted me to give you the full history. Most people get a simple list of dos and don’ts, but he said you’d appreciate knowing the why behind it all. And,” Vry added with a slight grin, “because this is largely Magnus-inspired, and while Musk tried to temper its lethality... well, you know Magnus.”
Unfortunately, Richard thought to himself, his internal tone weary. Outwardly, he nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
“Okay,” Vry continued, leaning slightly on the wheel of the cart. “Mr. Musk said you’ve spent time in America, so you know what an American football field is, yeah?”
“Sure,” Richard replied.
Vry stopped the cart just short of a thick, tan-colored zone—the first of five distinct layers, all of which seemed to lead to the wall. This particular zone was thinner than the others further ahead, and the texture of the ground looked coarse, almost like sand. The wall itself, which had seemed imposing from a distance, now appeared shorter than Richard—though it was hard to judge with absolute certainty from where they were.
“Right, then,” Vry said, gesturing ahead. “Let me break it down for you. This tan zone is 25 meters wide and is purely a visual indicator. If you stay clear of the tan zone, you’re in no danger of accidentally stepping into the gray zone—or, God forbid, the black zone. I’d still stay out of it, but there’s no danger if you do wander in. Think of it as a buffer.”
“The tan zone is the boring, talkative cousin I prefer to avoid. Got it,” Richard quipped with a smile.
“Please take this seriously,” Vry said, his tone sharpening slightly. “The gray zone is almost exactly the length of a football field. As you can see, it’s 100 meters wide. Step into that, and the drones are alerted and begin tracking you. Yes, those drones—Magnus drones. Now, at this point, Elon—excuse me, Mr. Musk—intervened and forced Magnus to add a human element. There’s always someone sitting at a console watching the drones’ feed and able to intervene if necessary—aborting their... intervention.”
“And stick a toe in the black zone,” Richard said dryly, “and the drone pops your head with a laser.”
“Exactly,” Vry confirmed, seemingly relieved that Richard had guessed the punchline so he didn’t have to say it himself.
Richard shook his head in disbelief. “Hard to imagine Magnus giving in on anything. How did Musk pull that off?”
“By not giving Count St. Sere an option,” Vry explained with a sly smile. “The Count needed Mr. Musk more than Mr. Musk needed him. He wasn’t going to agree to a fully automated system—and certainly not shock-and-awe-level defenses. Eventually, he caved and agreed to a system designed by both of them, with Countess St. Sere as the tiebreaker.”
“Oh, I would have loved to sit in on that,” Richard said, the thought slipping out before he could stop himself.
Vry grinned but continued. “By the way, the drones kill anything—birds, sheep, rodents, pretty much anything that moves. For larger animals, though, they’ll wait until they’re just into the gray zone so they can be easily removed afterward.”
Richard’s eyebrows lifted. “How many drones has he invested in this?”
“That’s above my pay grade,” Vry said with a knowing smile, “but logistically? It has to be at least four, maybe six.”
Richard let out a low whistle. He was one of the few people who knew that Magnus could only manufacture twelve drones a year—and that the Count was already stretched thin trying to use them across his various operations. The idea that Magnus had committed up to half of his annual production just to guard Xland said a lot about how much he valued this place.
“What’s that final gray zone after the black?” Richard asked, nodding toward the distant section.
“That’s for anyone climbing the wall from the outside and entering the black zone,” Vry explained. “It’s the same as this gray zone, but there are speakers in the wall to warn you that your life is in danger. The wall itself is only one and a third meters tall—it’s not meant to stop anyone, just to slow them down long enough for the drones to get into position. And to serve as a warning.”
Richard stood in silence for a few moments, absentmindedly kicking a small stone into the gray zone. He watched it bounce once, then settle against the coarse ground. “How do you get out?” he finally asked.
“There are four spots in the wall with heavy-duty retractable bollards instead of concrete,” Vry explained. “They’re wide enough to let vehicles pass. When you leave, you’re given a photo pass—sort of like a personalized ticket. You’ll need it to get back in.”
“The guards have guns?”
“No,” Vry replied, shaking his head. “But they tell the drones you’re cleared to pass. That’s all the protection you need.”
Richard nodded slowly, mulling that over. “I find that both elegant and chilling,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of unease. Then, almost as if to himself, he added, “I really must look into how smart these things are.”
“Well, we’ve only got about 40 minutes,” Vry said, glancing at his smartphone. “We’re about as far away from the chicken coops as we could possibly get. But, if you’re really keen on getting close enough for an earful—and a snootful—we could just about squeeze it in.”
"Tempting," Richard said with a playfully sour face, "but I think my time would be better served getting your impression of Elon."
Vry closed his eyes for a moment, clearly weighing his love of talking against his professional responsibilities. It helped that he idolized Mr. Musk—his enthusiasm practically radiated—but even so, Richard could tell he was carefully choosing his words.
"Okay," Vry said finally, opening his eyes with a thoughtful smile. "Here’s what I’ll say. Mr. Musk is… complicated. Most people think of him as the guy from the memes, right? The billionaire who tweets weird stuff and likes rockets. But that’s just surface-level. If you spend any real time with him—especially working under him—you start to see it. The guy’s relentless. It’s not just his brain, which is obviously operating on some next-level frequency, it’s his ability to see through the noise. He has this way of cutting right to the heart of a problem and saying, ‘Why don’t we do it this way instead?’ And nine times out of ten, he’s right."
Vry paused, as if debating how far to go, before leaning forward slightly. "But he’s also... demanding. Not in the sense of being rude or shouting at people—he’s actually incredibly chill most of the time. It’s more like, he has this presence that makes you want to push yourself harder than you thought you could. He doesn’t even have to say anything; you just know he expects excellence. And, honestly? It’s exhausting. But it’s also exhilarating, because when you deliver, he lets you know. A single ‘good job’ from Mr. Musk feels like winning a damn Nobel Prize."
Richard smirked, intrigued. "Sounds like the kind of guy who runs on caffeine and sheer force of will."
Vry laughed at that. "Oh, he’s powered by more than just coffee. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the man definitely drinks his weight in it. But I think he’s fueled by something bigger—this almost obsessive need to fix things. Like, he genuinely believes it’s his responsibility to save the world, and he’s not going to stop until he’s done it."
Vry’s expression softened, his admiration shifting into something more personal. "It’s inspiring, yeah, but it’s also... a lot. He’s one of those people who can make you feel like you’re part of something monumental, something that’ll go down in history. But at the same time, he’ll burn through you without a second thought if you can’t keep up. I’ve seen it happen. Not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t afford to slow down for anyone."
Richard nodded slowly, digesting Vry’s words. "So, what’s it like working for someone like that? Would you call it worth it?"
Vry smiled, his tone light but sincere. "Depends on the day. There are times when I’m so drained I wonder why the hell I’m still here. But then, there are days when I look around and think, Holy shit, we’re actually doing this. We’re actually building the future. And that’s when I know—yeah, it’s worth it."
Then Vry’s voice shifted, taking on a nostalgic tone. His words slowed, as though the memories themselves were pulling him back.
“When I got here, there was nothing. Flat land, a couple of hills, a few trees, maybe a house or two... and just a long patch of nothing as far as the eye could see. And we worked day and night—digging this land, tilling it, chopping it up, flattening it. Back then, we hadn’t even seen Mr. Musk yet. Everything was done through foremen. I used to think about how much easier it would’ve been with machines, but now I see the brilliance of it—attracting tons of people willing to work hard for something. He gave us purpose before he even gave us infrastructure."
Vry paused, his eyes scanning the horizon as though he could still see the empty land they’d started with. “After that, the contractors came. The professional men. And they started really digging up the ground—laying pipes, ductwork, electrical conduits. Everything underground: sewage, water, you name it. Once that was done, they filled it all back in, and we got back to work paving. Hundreds of us out there, working with sticks and hammers, while the contractors built the wall around us. That was... exhausting. But then Musk arrived, and that’s when the real work began.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Vry’s mouth. “I got involved with some of the electrical work when Worker Central went up. Mr. Musk noticed me then and put me to work—just a small part of a huge crew working on a special shunt to the power station. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, but I learned fast. This place... it went up so fast, like nothing I’d ever seen. We were running at full speed, and then—bam—the Collapse. Which, by the way, I later found out Musk obviously knew was coming, but even he didn’t expect it to hit that soon.”
He sighed, his gaze dropping to the pavement as the memories carried him along. “A lot of the professional workers got stuck here when it happened, along with the laborers. Supplies stopped coming in, and work slowed down enormously. See those little clusters of concentric metal circles in the pavement?” He gestured toward a nearby section of road where the metal shapes shimmered faintly in the sunlight. “That’s where houses were supposed to go. You see them all over Xland. This was meant to be more—so much more—but the world didn’t give us the time or resources to finish. So, we adapted. This place became a combination of the old world and the new—because it had to.”
Vry caught himself and straightened, his hand instinctively adjusting the edge of his shirt. He gave Richard a sheepish grin. “I seem to be rambling, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Feel free to ramble anytime, son. That was most illuminating,” Richard said, his tone warm as he cautiously placed a hand on Vry’s shoulder. “So there’s no way they could’ve built a big underground complex without you noticing?”
“Sorry, sir, no,” Vry replied with a small shrug. “There are some huge underground tanks for water storage, a big leaching field, and the mushroom cavern... but that’s about it.”
“Darn,” Richard said with a wry smile. “My inner young boy really wanted to see that. Oh well, let’s get back. I’ve got a meeting to get ready for.”
“Oh, I’ll be sitting in on that as well,” Vry said casually, climbing into the cart.
Richard paused, reappraising the young man’s importance. He’d assumed Vry was just a guide and a liaison, but this revealed there was more to him than met the eye. He said nothing, though, as they both climbed back into the cart and headed toward the lodge.