We Had No Choice

Prologue

Dr. Faulkner

I yank another wire from my clunky prototype crown and grit my teeth.

Damn. Wrong color. Red to violet, not blue.

“Forget it,” I mutter, digging through my backpack for the wire cutters. I keep the makeshift crown hidden from the freshmen streaming across the quad.

My first class of the semester starts in five minutes: Bio 101, Mechanisms of Reproduction. No way this adjunct gig is going to pay off my student loans. But if I can get the Neurelax working—and bring it to market—I might finally make the money my genius deserves.

The Neurelax uses light and electrical frequencies to improve focus. At least, that’s what the research on the internet suggests. A few microchips, a direct current, and ten unsuspecting students. If their test scores improve, I’ll have proof of concept. Then I can sell the thing on Amazon for $29.99. Score!

Three colors, of course.

It’s possible to get rich and be a visionary. Hell, Elon Musk did it.

And if the Neurelax works, I’ll have more time and money for the research that matters: hereditary mutations, human fertility, the plummeting birth rate. I could be the scientist who helps save civilization.

First, though, I need to make it through class without anyone seeing the crown, or asking why it’s smoking.

I shift it in my lap and try to focus on the wires.

Don’t think about the workhorse between your legs, Faulkner.

Not a workhorse. An animal of distinguished pedigree. A supreme specimen. One day, this magnificent dick deserves to be immortalized in a Renaissance painting. Preferably draped in a royal-blue ribbon.

I shove the thought away and reach for the wire strippers.

“You know what they say about well-laid plans, Dr. Faulkner?” Dr. Calder’s voice drifts through my memory. “Ha ha. I said, “laid.”

Grow up, Calder. The undisputed leader of the Human Genome Study at MSI, rotting from within on a diet of Twizzlers and low ankle pants.

If I make a breakthrough in hereditary mutations, I’ll have made my dreams come true and earned her approval. Maybe even her support. Then I can stay at the Institute long enough to finish my work.

MSI is one of those places that likes the sound of the word “community.” It has polished hallways, framed photographs of important people, and a mission statement about changing the future. What it has less of…is money. The funding goes to the projects with the most confident heads of staff. The rest of us have to make magic out of spare parts.

I have spent a year watching Dr. Calder get patted on the back for being careful. Careful research. Careful conclusions. Careful footwear. She knows how to speak in meetings without making people uncomfortable, which is not a skill I have ever felt was worth developing.

I have ideas. Big ones. They hit me faster than I can test them, which is not my fault. A lesser mind might call it a lack of focus. I call it range.

The problem is that ideas don’t pay rent. Neither does potential. My adjunct pay barely covers the interest on my student loans, and my research position is only secure as long as Calder thinks I might be useful. So the Neurelax must live. Not because it could help students. Not because it could be profitable. Because success is the only language people like Cal