What is the most annoying sound in the world? Ultrasound? No. It's an air conditioner running in a heavy silence. It hums in a specific rhythm: the tone climbs to a high-pitched whine, then drops into a low, deep thrum. It doesn't hit your ears; it simply wears you down by the simple fact of its existence. And it was this sound broken only by the occasional dry cough—that ruled in the hallway that had been filled with voices only moments ago.
"Please, take a seat, Mr. Smith, yo," the strange yo-alien offered helpfully, giving up his spot.
"Thank you, my good alien, but we won't be staying long," Smith said with a big, casual wave toward the others. "Continue your conversation."
The hallway filled with noise again. It turned out that even behind the doors of Mr. Brans's office, there was a heavy silence, as if a presentation had been placed on pause. The sounds started again along with everyone else's, and one could only hear Mr. Brans angrily asking the speaker to hurry up. It all felt like empty chatter, as if the presentation text had been generated by a soulless AI, without any meaning.
"Dad, why are there so many alien here? Didn't we have an appointment?" Smith's daughter asked, her eyes scanning the queue.
"Of course we did. But we've run into another performance by Mr. Brans," her father replied in a proud way.
"Are they here because of us?"
"What did you think? Everyone here understands perfectly that Mr. Brans has already made his choice."
"Then why are we here?"
"To talk about the deal. And I have a feeling Brans is playing a game... My good alien, would you mind showing me your presentation?"
Smith reached out toward Wilder. Despite being full of jealousy and a growing sense of hopelessness, Wilder automatically extended his folder.
"Forgive me, I was addressing your rival," Smith cut him off coldly, taking the folder from the "strange applicant's" hands instead. "See this, sweetheart? A useless crew, outdated ships, and a unclear research plan. Barely five hundred pages."
"We're ready to change it! Yo!" the yo-alien said suddenly, desperate for any opening.
"Oh, pardon me for thinking out loud," Smith said, not even trying to look at him. "I simply wanted to show my daughter how business is done. Brans only invited you for our benefit to show that we aren't the only option, even if the other options are complete garbage."
"I understand completely, which is why I'm betting on you, yo!" The yo-alien said, his voice full of fake praise. "Will you take us on your team?"
"Here's a card. Call the HR department; they'll talk to you there," Smith said, carelessly throwing a business card toward him.
"Dad, what about this one?" The daughter pointed a finger at Wilder, whose hand, still clutching his folder, remained frozen in mid-air.
"Ignore it."
At those very words, Mr. Brans's doors swung open. A second more and Mr. Smith wouldn't have said a thing to Wilder. He simply would have looked the other way. But fate had its own timing and the business bully to give Wilder a swirlie. There's no such thing as a coincidence like that, is there? Destiny with a capital D, disappointment in real. A group of businessmen shot out of the open door like they were in the middle of an emergency exit, with Mr. Brans himself right on their heels, walking toward Smith with his hand reaching out.
"Oh, Mr. Smith! A very warm welcome to you. Forgive us for keeping you waiting..." Mr. Brans was shining with a smile as he stepped forward to meet them.
"Indeed," Smith snapped. "If you hadn't appeared this very second, I would have turned around and walked out."
"Oh, how wonderful that you didn't!" Brans put his hands to his chest like an actor, then looked over at the guest's partner. "And is this your daughter? A lovely girl. Will she be joining you?"
"Yes. I'll leave the lawyers and consultants in the hallway, but all business will be discussed only in her presence. I have nothing to hide from my heir, and I want her to understand every detail."
"I see, I see... a family business," Brans paused for a tiny second. A flash of cold, planning chitin flickered in his eyes before he instantly pulled the mask of the kind host back into place. "Well, very well. It's not a deal-breaker. Come in."
"Let's skip the foreplay," Smith said over his shoulder as he entered. "We have absolutely no time for polite talk. My schedule is tight."
Time moved toward lunch, but no one hurried to the restaurant on the first floor—everyone was waiting to see how this presentation would end. Through the doors, you could hear Mr. Brans practically bowing before the businessalien, offering him a rare wine that had once aged in the carton of a long-abandoned shop. In that wine, at least, there were still traces of a natural product—a luxury in their world. The strange neighbor nervously twiddled his thumbs. He was already at the starting line in his mind, ready to be the first to rush out and congratulate Smith the moment he emerged.
"Waidy... I've been thinking, maybe it's time to stop banging our heads against a closed airlock?" Phoebe said with a quiet, weak smile, one that had lost all its usual sparks. "Let's not waste any more time. Let's just... well, take another look at what your dad offered. Sometimes you have to know when to change course."
"Phoebe, I am in a state of confusion. Since when has your vocabulary become full of defeatist sentiments?" Wilder asked. "You were the primary architect of the 'push through' doctrine. From a mathematical perspective, our chances are exactly 0.1 percent. But if we use a lottery analogy, every number in the drum carries that same minuscule chance. And according to statistical reports, someone always hits the jackpot; that's why '0,1' chance has come up seven times. Why can't it be us?"
"Waidy, I totally-totally get it..." Phoebe's voice lacked its usual "spring" for the first time, and this new seriousness sat on her like a heavy, bad-fitting spacesuit. "Let's just call it a 'tactical retreat before the leap.' We'll just lay low so we can, like, jump out later!"
"Boy, Yo! I'd listen to your friend if I were you," the "strange" neighbor cut in. "You have zero chances. Ever since the rights of global companies started getting cut, the rules of the game changed. Smith came here personally, hell, and brought his daughter! His face is on every package. I bet half the stuff in your house is made by Smith."
"He is perfectly capable of conducting research autonomously without resorting to Brans's sponsorship. Therefore, your argument lacks logical consistency," Wilder said, his shoulder twitching with annoyance. "There is a high probability they simply won't reach an agreement on the contract terms."
"Boy, Yo! Ever since he was sidelined by the King, his company has been making nothing but losses. No bank in their right mind would give him a loan. Haven't you heard of the 'shadow ban' at the highest levels for corparation? Smith is a bankrupt shark who needs to rebuild his relationship with the King."
"You know, Wilder..." Phoebe gave a sad little shrug, staring at her shoes. "I guess this was our first real business lesson. No rose-colored glasses, no cotton candy. We just got dunked into reality like it was ice water. At least now we know how it actually works. Practice is a sharp thing."
"You know, Phoebe... you can't study a wormhole twice. If they open a shortcut to the Far Lands, they'll destroy it or foul it up before we ever get there."
"Boy Yo! Listen to your friend, she's talking sense. You're stubborn, and it's only gonna hurt you," the entrepreneur said, reaching out a hand. "Let me, Yo! Take a look at your folder. Let's see what you were planning to conquer space with."
Wilder handed over the folder that Cheddar had spent half the night agonizing over. Cheddar had insisted they had a twenty-five percent chance, but now those numbers felt like a cruel joke. A lie that offered hope only to trick the mind was worse than an honest rejection. Wilder felt he didn't deserve a life like this—on this planet, among these aliens. To his left, a laugh broke the silence. The "strange" neighbor began reading their cover letter. At first, he tried to hold it back, but then he snorted. "Yo! You've gotta be kidding me, boy! I can't believe you actually wrote this..."
Wilder stopped listening. He focused on a tiny spot on the floor tile. His thoughts were "under" someone again: under Bucks, under the King's army, under his parents' plans that had locked him in that school. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. He didn't hear the hallway noise anymore; he only saw his life ending before it had even begun. Tears hurt his eyes and spilled over. I'm just a freak. Goddamn it, I'm just a freak!
Suddenly, someone began pulling at his arm. Strongly and rudely, trying to drag him out of his private hell and back into a world of mockery. Wilder was certain this "Yo-alien" was about to laugh at his plan, just like the bullies back in school. A memory appeared: a quiet afternoon during break time. Wilder had been sitting by himself, sipping juice and listening to music. To the rhythm of heavy beats, he had been drawing fighting scenes in his sketchbook—Mr. Artificial, a robot-like hero with an alien mind fighting for justice. It was that very justice Wilder lacked most. Then, as expected, Bucks' gang had approached. They snatched the sketchbook. Wilder tried to grab it back, but they just shoved him to the ground. Bucks slowly flipped through the pages, his voice full of hate. "Terrible drawing. Some of this is straight-up perverted." He began carefully ripping out the pages, crumpling them, and tossing them at Wilder's feet. Then he stopped at Mr. Artificial. "Hey, Wilder, is this our teacher, Mr. Arti Fisher? You want to go to his 'island of knowledge'?" They tossed the artbook back and forth like a piece of trash until it broke into pieces. Wilder was left sitting in the dirt, surrounded by the shredded remains of his dream.
And now, this stranger was pulling at his arm. He probably wanted to read the most simple lines of the letter out loud so everyone could laugh. Something inside Wilder's chest snapped. Giving up vanished, replaced by a deep, white-hot rage.
"What do you want from me?! I'm just a freak! Leave me alone, I haven't done anything wrong!" Wilder screamed, surprised by the heavy feeling of his own sudden courage.
"Mr. Wilder, I agree with you... you are an absolutely wonderful freak! Yo!" The "strange" yo-alien's face was a mask of total confusion mixed with sudden, deep respect.
In the few seconds that Wilder had been lost in his breakdown, the atmosphere in the hallway had changed completely. They were suddenly surrounded by alien who, only a minute ago, wouldn't have even looked their way. A sound of quiet voices rose, growing into a dull roar of excitement.
"Mr. Wilder, we're with the Lirex-S global company. Could we discuss the terms of a partnership?"
"Boy Yo! If I offended you in any way, forgive me..." Yo-alein struggled to speak, his hands trembling. "I was just joking, Yo!"
"Mr. Abraham, you already missed your chance. Twice. Give the documents back to Mr. Wilder!" someone from the crowd shouted, shoving the strange alien aside.
"Of course, of course!" Abraham, utterly panicked, shoved the folder back into Wilder's hands. "You want me to kiss your feet? Just don't leave, Yo!"
He actually looked like he was about to drop to his knees, but Phoebe, feeling the scale of the madness, grabbed Wilder firmly by the arm and began pulling him toward the exit. The entire mob immediately broke into a run after them.
"Mr. Wilder, would you care to dine with us?" came the shouts from behind.
"Wait, Mr. Wilder! I'm an agent for Mr. Smith... Please, just one minute!"
Wilder looked back over his shoulder as they sprinted away. The hallway was nearly empty now. Only one alien from Smith's group remained—he hadn't managed to push himself into the crowd. At that exact moment, the office doors swung open. Smith and Brans stepped out into the light, their faces at first shining with triumph, only to turn dark instantly at the sight of the dead silence in the corridor. They had planned to proudly announce the deal of the century, only to find that their own consultants and lawyers had chosen to chase after the "freak" Phoebe was taking away quickly.
The last thing Wilder saw as they rounded the corner: Smith's only remaining assistant was pointing wildly at the running mob. He didn't even bother to congratulate his boss on the contract; he was waving him over, begging him to leave Mr. Brans behind and join the chase. Phoebe led Wilder into the only open room and locked the door. She almost threw him into a deep armchair and, without losing a second, snatched that very patent from the folder.
"Do you know what this is, Wilder?"
"I presume this object is Cheddar's initiative," Wilder exhaled, closing his eyes. "Our original plan involved the study of spatial anomalies, not arms logistics. Likely, his cognitive model predicted our failure, and he implemented this scenario as a Plan B. Apparently, we should clarify with him what the next phase of his 'brilliant' plan entails."
"No, Wilder! Don't you see?!" Phoebe suddenly stood tall, those crazy little sparks dancing in her eyes once again. "He didn't just leave us an emergency exit. He didn't just double our chances—he increased them by a million! BAM! And we're back in the game!"
"We'll ask Cheddar what his next move is..." he muttered.
They sat in that room for about four hours and played a simple game on the phone. Outside the window, the sky darkened, and a stinging acid rain began to hit the city. By the time they decided to leave, all the businessaliens had already headed home. At the exit, a security guard was waiting for them. He blocked their path and clearly demanded money for his "silence"claiming he had helped them by not calling the police for being there illegally, and buisnes aliens didn't storm the room, although if it weren't for the guards, they would have. Wilder counted out a large amount of money. The guard nodded toward the door, saying one last thing: "Clean up in there before you go." The entire door was covered with the business cards of company representatives—this pile went straight into the trash. But when they reached the main lobby, Abraham caught up with them again. The "strange" Yo-alien chased them all the way to the exit. Wilder and Phoebe burst out into the street, almost into the streams of chemical rain. The smell was unbearable—a mixture of a smelly swamp and factory smoke. More accurately, a swamp at a chemical plant.
A line of expensive cars waited at the entrance. Right at the edge of the roof stood Mr. Smith and his daughter, locked in a fierce argument, ignoring the sound of acid droplets hitting the canopy. Seeing them, Abraham quickly ran back inside, leaving Wilder and Phoebe alone under the shelter of the roof.
"You know, Magdalena, I am not in the habit of letting opportunities slip through my fingers. That is why we are standing here, waiting for Mr. Wilder to come out..."
"You were the one who said to ignore him! He probably left through the back door ages ago, just like the rest of them. Or just send your consultant to him."
"If I have to, I'll lick the dust off his boots with my own tongue," Smith snapped. "Those 'others' are exactly why they aren't rich—because they left. I'm telling you straight: you grab every chance. If we have to stand here until dawn, we will..."
"Dad, look!" Magdalena pointed toward the doors.
At the sight of Phoebe and Wilder, Smith looked as if he were having a standing micro-stroke, but his control returned in a flash. He awkwardly held out a trembling hand and immediately ordered the drone-umbrellas to stay in the air closer to Wilder.
"Mr. Wilder, would you like to join us for dinner?" Smith forced a heavy, almost painful smile. "The rain... whew... it'll eat right through that lovely face of yours... and we are going to dinner for perfect dishes."
"Forgive me, but I am following the strategy of an extremely sharp individual: ignoring irritating biological parasites," Wilder replied coldly, staring Smith directly in the eye.
"I appreciate the irony, Mr. Wilder. You can blame me for anything you like, except for missing out on a profit." Smith gripped the handle of his limousine door. "Get in. We can discuss details about the wormhole where it's warm."
"Thank you, but I must refuse the offer. While I have an extremely negative view of the rain, this vehicle has exactly three passenger seats. I have no intention of breaking capacity rules or the cabin's thermal balance."
"Magdalena can take the security car," her father offered without blinking.
"What?! Dad! No! You usually suggest that to your 'partners,' not your own daughter!"
"Take your pick, Magdalena: either that, or you walk."
"Mr. Smith, the growth of family conflict is an incredibly useless task. I have no desire to be its cause. We will go to the monorail on foot." Wilder prepared to run toward the station, despite the risk of chemical burns.
"Mr. Wilder, you haven't even heard the offer, and you're already running?" Smith looked at him a soft way. "This whole wormhole business—it's pure romance, dreams of pioneers. I have no use for that; I'm an alien of action. And I am prepared to give my grant over to you..."
"In exchange for the patent?" Wilder stopped in his tracks.
Mr. Smith didn't answer. He simply gave his daughter a gentle push to the side and opened the car door wider, inviting a conversation that could change the map of the entire star system.