She gestured to the massive window overlooking the port. Miles of cargo containers, drone highways, and customs checkpoints stretched to the horizon. And in the distance, Marcus saw them: other officers, moving in perfect synchronization, their uniforms now gold-trimmed like Cory’s. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
Marcus felt a cold trickle of dread. He’d been breathing the port’s air for three hours.
“You impounded a crate of children’s textbooks because the paper weight was 0.3 grams too light.”
“No,” Cory said, her voice rising with evangelical fervor. “I’ve been enlightened . The seed showed me the truth: order is not tyranny. Order is freedom. Every irregularity, every exception, every ‘just this once’—that’s where evil grows. I’m not taking over the port, Marcus. I’m saving it. And I’m going to save all of it.” 1111Customs 24 05 20 Cory Chase Cory Takes Over...
He pulled up a datapad. “You seized a shipment of insulin because the temperature log was two minutes off.”
He found her on Floor 17, the “Twilight Sector,” where biological and quantum cargo passed through decontamination arches. Cory stood at the main console, her uniform crisp, her hair now bleached a startling platinum blonde. She was wearing a custom-made badge—gold, not standard-issue—that read “CORY CHASE, PORT SUPERVISOR.”
She turned back, her platinum hair catching the sterile light. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shipment of ‘humanitarian aid’ to inspect. It’s probably filled with contraband hope.” She gestured to the massive window overlooking the port
And somewhere deep inside Marcus Vane, a tiny voice that sounded like his own began to hum Cory Chase’s tuneless melody.
Then the cargo scanners. Cory had started overriding standard inspection protocols. Instead of the usual 12% random scan rate, she was scanning everything . Every crate, every pallet, every diplomatic pouch. And her override code? 1111 . The most basic, easily hacked code in the system. A code so simple it was practically a joke.
She laughed. It was a beautiful, terrifying sound. “You think that little toy will stop me? The seed is in my neural matrix now. It’s in the port’s water supply. It’s in the ventilation system. Every person who breathes this air for more than twelve hours begins to see the beauty of 1111 .” Dozens of them
Outside, the drone announcements changed. The robotic voice that once said “Customs inspection in progress” now said something new:
Marcus arrived at Zone 7 on a humid, sulfur-scented morning. The air was thick with the ozone tang of a million idling engines. He wore civilian clothes—a worn leather jacket over a gray shirt—to avoid triggering the port’s automated profiling. He wasn’t here to arrest Cory. He was here to understand .
“You’re already mine, Marcus,” Cory said, stepping past him toward the console. “You just don’t know it yet. But you will. And when you do, you’ll thank me.”
“Drift” was the term for when a customs officer at the massive, city-sized Port of Seven Bridges began acting… differently. A little too efficient. A little too cheerful. A little too uniform .