Xeno woke in the bed of a black Ford F-150 pick up truck with his feet hanging off the edge of the open tailgate. He sat up and looked around the brightly lit showroom. Outside the storefront windows, everything appeared to be underground, made of glacial tunnels, illuminated by diffuse light. He slid off the tailgate and followed the tire tracks across the linoleum, passing through an open garage entry, leading out to the curb. The cavernous avenue was lined with deserted prefab offices, no sign of life, no doors shutting, no chairs creaking, no papers shuffling, just the hiss of plumbing from sinewy pipes running overhead along the icy ceiling. The roads were freshly paved, unraveling into snowy vanishing points, with no engine hum in the distance, no headlights appearing. The showroom had no company name affixed to the entrance, just empty drill holes and dirtied discoloring where the signage had been removed.

He projected his Blackmail holopane into the air, checking for recent messages . . . Nothing. He tried to contact Trianne on her black box via text message, video conference . . . No response. He tried to pin point his location with the black box GPS app:

CANNOT LOCATE SATTELITE

He walked past the showroom entrance, to the cavern wall, and ran his fingers along the surface. It wasn't ice, but rock of some sort, the climate feeling like a humid spring day in the upper seventies.

He went back into the showroom and explored the pick up truck. The exterior was pristine, freshly waxed to a gloss finish, the tang of auto detailing products in the air. He swung open the driver door and looked over the interior of the cab. There were no keys in the ignition, no driver identification in the glove box, just a shallow stack of familiar pamphlets on the passenger seat:

INTELLEGELLA JOB FAIR

CAN YOU PASS THE ZENER TEST?

FREE PUNCH!

He crossed to the reception desk, tripping a sensor that activated an infomercial on a wall-mounted telepane behind the counter:

WELCOME TO LIME LIGHT

“Welcome to the Lime Light Underground Business Park,” the narrator spoke with a cowboy's winsome southern drawl, over various angles of the cavernous region. “Once a limestone mining operation, one hundred and sixty feet beneath the surface, this facility was created using the room and pillar mining method, in which mined material is extracted across a horizontal space, leaving behind a horizontal array of limestone rooms and pillars. Tenants enjoy low lease rates. Low utility costs. Twenty four hour climate control. Spaces are filling up fast, so come by and apply today!”

Another info-mercial followed:

THE MALBORG BYTE

“The industrial black box has arrived,” the narrator spoke with the composed British accent of a female spy, “for all your secret service needs . . . Smoother . . . Slicker . . . Sleeker . . . Blacker!” The industrial black box slowly rotated on the telepane, floating in animated deep space, amidst a backdrop of twinkling stars. “Play your favorite 5-tracks, while you explore and investigate a reality that can only be described as . . . occult . . . to the average consumer. Order yours today and see what you've been missing in The Nth Dimension!”

“Tell your doctor right away if any of these unlikely but serious side effects occur . . .” the legalese narrator sped through the onscreen text as if on amphetamines, “unusual or severe mental/mood changes, vision changes, fast heartbeat, hallucinations, loss of coordination, severe nausea/vomiting/diarrhea, twitching muscles, unexplained fever, drowsiness, wakefulness, dizziness, busyness, silliness, frizziness, whizziness, tizziness. Rarely, males may have a painful or prolonged erection lasting four or more hours. If this occurs, do not stand around bragging about it, while showing it off to the general public, stop using this drug and get medical help right away . . .”

Xeno took a step forward, trying to follow along with the rolling legalese on the telepane. Something cracked under his foot and he stopped in his tracks. He bent down and picked up a broken acrylic sign, split into two pieces down the middle:

INTELLE GELLA

We're in the piece of mind business!

A burst of amplifier feedback erupted from the corridor, past the reception desk. There was a brief silence, then the sound of someone playing power chords on an electric guitar, somewhere in the building. He tossed the broken signage aside and followed the electric guitar sounds into a gloomy warren of empty cubicles, cleared of chairs and personal effects. He navigated through the aisles, getting closer to the amplified power chords, turning to a noodling solo. On the other side of the cubicles was the entry to a conference room with the double doors propped open, and a sign holder tipped over on the carpet, with the last announcement still in the frame:

ALL ASSOCIATES MEETING TODAY!

He entered the conference room and walked down the center aisle, passing several rows of empty foldout chairs, his feet obscured by a low blanket of fog. At the end of the aisle, the guitar player stood on a mobile performance stage, rocking out to empty front row seats, with a cherry red Gibson double-neck SG. He was an old man with stringy gray hair in black military uniform, decorated with silver trim, looking like some sort of glam-rock gestapo. He played with his eyes shut tight, lost in his own world, riffing sweet amplified nothings to himself, filling the auditorium with whale noises by stroking the guitar necks with a cello bow, just going on, and on, and on, in the blankets of smoke pouring from the automatic fog machine.

Xeno walked around the mobile stage, behind the speaker cabinets, found the main power strip to the equipment and shut off the power switch, killing the fog and the wall of sound.

“What the—,” the old man stumbled in the middle of his guitar solo, dropping the cello bow, wondering who pulled the power to his jam session. He looked through the mist into the front row of empty seats. “Who's there?”

“Xeno.” He emerged from the mist, fanning it from his face. “We met at the Intellegella job fair, and I failed the Zener—”

“Xeno!” the old man beamed. “Hey, you made it!”

“Made it? Made it to what?”

“Intellegella!”

“You were expecting me?”

“More or less.”

“You're . . . Lenny? From the job fair?”

“Garry.”

“You remember me from all those applicants? There were dozens.”

“Were there?”

“This place looks deserted.”

“Well, we had a bad year. Everyone had their fantasy job, and the accounting department had theirs.” Garry continued noodling with his fingers on the guitar fretboard. “I know how to operate the flagship equipment, so they keep me around and let me jam in the conference room. Always wanted to be a rock star.”

“Why am I here?”

“Would you rather be somewhere else? I overheard you and that guy with the orange hair . . .”

“Zoom?”

“Yes, Zoom . . . chatting about The White Boys . . . by the punch bowl at the job fair.”

“I'd love to meet The White Boys.”

“Then come up onstage and sit on the sofa.”

“Are they on next?” Xeno climbed a small flight of steps to the stage and sank into a sofa near the speaker cabinets.

“The White Boys? Oh, they . . . they passed through here many moons ago.”

“When do I get to meet them?”

“In time . . .” Garry swung the double-neck SG off his shoulder and set it down on a stand. He opened a cooler, grabbed a can beer, cracked it open and handed it to Xeno. “Sip . . . Sip the beer . . . Relax.” He grabbed a beer for himself, cracked it open, took a gulp. “What's that on your wrist?”

“My wrist?” He glanced at the inscription on the underside of his wrist:

R A N

“Oh, that . . . A tattoo, I guess.”

“Ran . . . Chaos in Japanese.”

“It wasn't intentional. I think it said something else, but the letters washed off.”

“Get a refund.”

“I wouldn't know where to go. I don't even remember getting the tattoo.”

“Ah, the vagaries of memory and partying too hard.” Garry set his beer down, opened a shiny carrying case, and removed a small hand-held device with the inscription:

ERGON SUM PROBE

He sat beside Xeno on the sofa, switched on the probe, and pointed the nozzle with the eerie sapphire glow towards Xeno's head. “Turn away from me, just a little.” He stuck the small nozzle into Xeno's ear. “Don't worry. It won't hurt.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh . . . holes in your brain from all the Black Magic you've ingested, and I want to take a quick peek at your implant.”

“So, I was right all a long. There is some sort of device lodged in my brain, How did it get there?”

“You drank her in the punch at the Intellegella job fair.”

“Her?”

“Drinama. A nano-app the IT department threw together, nesting in your neocortex, dissolves in thirty days. She forces you to talk to yourself, so you don’t fade out.”

“You mean, like, die?

“'Die is such a . . . negative word.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You were part of a blind experiment. We wanted to observe you going about your life and see if the implant could revive you from the brink of a heavily medicated death. If you were aware of what was going on, you would have contaminated the results by seeking medical attention or altering your intake of designer drugs.”

“Is it legal to experiment on someone like that?”

“No one's complained.”

“Is the experiment over?”

“Part of it.”

“Which part?”

“You failed the Zener test, but your neocortex didn't reject Drinama. So, we can move forward.”

“Forward to what?”

“EPG's look good.” Garry looked over the Ergon Sum Probe results on the mini display screen.

“EPG's?

“Electro-precephalograms. A unit of measure for extra sensory potential in the pineal gland. Right now you're peaking at fifteen . . . eighteen . . . twenty.”

“What's normal?

“About nine volts. When was your first black out?”

“The first one? I barely remember the last one.”

“What do you remember about the girl at Klownburger?”

“Trianne? I was really beginning to like her. We were supposed to go back to The Ultramango for drinks and hot tubbing and then . . . kablooey.”

“Drinama did her job.”

“What's mine?”

“You're now an employee of Intellegella.” Garry removed the probe from Xeno's ear and gave him a firm hand shake. “Welcome aboard, Xeno. I'm your handler.” Garry stepped down from the stage and strolled through the center aisle of the foldout chairs. “Walk with me.”

“Say, what about Trianne?” Xeno hopped down from the stage, and followed Garry out of the conference room. “What happened to her?”

“You were asking about The White Boys?” Garry entered the warren of empty cubicles, drifting through the aisles. “They used to work in the training center.” He entered the main corridor and veered in the opposite direction of the front desk., further into the facility.

“What kind of training?” Xeno walked alongside Garry shoulder to shoulder.

“How to enter the Nth Dimension. Or at least, how to get to the front door with the black box.”

“And?”

“Well, just before we could get the program cooking—”

“Cooking?”

“I meant . . . going . . . We hit a snag with The White Boys, and had to scramble for new talent.”

“So, how do I use my black box to enter The Nth Dimension?”

“You won't be using that toy. You'll be upgrading to the industrial version.”

“Like the one in the showroom info-mercial?”

“Yes, glad you caught that.”

“What's the difference?”

“The industrial black box is more or less . . . lethal.”

“Lethal?”

“Unless you have all the accessories.”

“Accessories?”

“Drinama, for starters. So we're over that hump.”

“And the next hump?”

“We've just perfected the Pre-motor Patch—sticks on your arm and secretes time-release medication into your bloodstream. You won't even know it's there.”

“Why would I need medication to enter The Nth Dimension?”

“To keep your brain cool, when the black box amplifies your pineal gland. Part of what we'll be doing on the field is finding the right dosage and implant tweaks, so we don't fry your brain fluid and blow your mind to pieces. Are you up for that?”

“I don't know. Maybe I should give it some thought.”

“Oh, don't do that. You'll just slow the movie down and make the plot more confusing.”

“Where is the Nth dimension? Is it here, or in outer space?”

“We think it's a membrane of reality that exists between the phenomenal—the world our senses can detect, and the noumenal—the world our senses cannot detect. The world that Kant referred to as things in themselves.”

“What's a thing in itself?”

“Your eye can see other objects, but it can't see itself. Knowledge allows you know facts, but it doesn't allow you to know how it is knowledge. Consciousness allows your senses to detect reality, but it doesn't allow you to detect how it is consciousness. Those are things in themselves.”

“How long is the program?”

“It's one of those ongoing saga things.”

“So, once the industrial black box amplifies my pineal gland, I can enter The Nth Dimension?”

“That's what we're hoping for.”

“But how will you know I'm in the Nth dimension?”

“Your industrial black box will be linked to our SSP satellite, now orbiting the Earth.”

“SSP?”

“Synthetic sensory perception. The satellite transmits Pineographs to our local studio. I can review the footage for coaching opportunities, research, or make a really cool music video.”

“What about my vital signs?”

“I'll be monitoring that side by side in the main studio. When we have a better idea what your pineal gland can do, you can specialize in the paranormal field that best suits your mortality, I mean, aptitude, and then we'll shoot you through Job Placement Services, and away you go.”

“Do you know what happened to Trianne?”

“We'll get to that.”

“What about Zoom? Did he drink one of those implants in the punch bowl?”

“Xeno,” Garry sighed, stopping at the next sealed door, “Zoom wasn't going anywhere. “He would have just dragged you down into the gutter.”

“You know where he is?”

“He's on the other side of this door.” Garry hesitated from waving his hand over the door sensor.

“How is he doing?”

“He was the other subject in the single blind experiment. He drank the punch . . . but he didn't take to Drinama as you did.”