Transhuman

Eric trudged into the murky R&D lab.

"Carl?" he called.

A faint silhouette pivoted; its eyes flared with inner fire, projecting diffuse cones of light.

"Christ, Carl," he breathed. "Shut those off, will you? They creep everyone out."

Carl's hands articulated in the empty air, as though manipulating an object only he could see. The overhead lights came on.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean-"

"Forget it," snapped Eric. He slid half-way into the lab. "What are you doing here? It’s 3:00am!"

"The latest prototype designs needed polishing," Carl said. “I got roped in.”

"Right, right,” muttered Eric. “Whatever. It’s good I found you."

"Oh?"

"It's about the investor presentation tomorrow. Listen: the president of the Angel Group, Mr. Mustache? We just learned he’s transhuman.”

Carl’s eyes shot upwards. “What generation?”

Eric shrugged. “Don’t care. But we want you at the meeting."

The engineer frowned, accentuating dark circles under his eyes. "I haven’t worked with the marketing team. Wouldn’t Reynolds—"

"Don't play dumb. We get one shot with this group—and I want them to know we’re sympathetic to transhuman rights. You just greet the president and take him out to lunch. No funny stuff.”

Carl hesitated, his eyes twitching in vertical saccades. "And do you, Eric? Support transhumans?"

The executive stiffened. "How could you ask that, Carl? Have you been unwelcome? Discriminated against?"

"No, of course not."

“Good,” declared Eric. “Can we count on you?"

Carl nodded. "Absolutely."

"Great!" Eric breathed. He bolted.

Carl sighed, dimming the lights with a hand wave. His ocular implants painted over the darkness.

Sliding back into the transhuman network, Carl shared the conversation. The video got thousands of hits, and advice poured in.

Then: a transhuman pinged him—it was a local call. Carl froze: it was an Angel Investor.