Chapter One — The Blistering Boat

The sun roared above the massive ship and the rest of the famously all-knowing Pacific Ocean. It really was a lovely time for the journey, the way the sun was hitting, and how the cool wind helped taper down the heat of a few hours earlier. A gust swept along the deck and through the many windows of the super-yacht, gently rustling tablecloths and swaying chandeliers. An outside observer might have found the scene in an impressionist painting by Claude Monet.

A total of forty-eight visitors and thirty-two staff lingered about the ship, which the visitors had boarded the day prior. They were all very interested in their destination, and in each other. They swapped accounts of the arduous application process, schmoozed, and otherwise lounged about with their cocktails. They mingled free from the strain of the smartphones they weren’t allowed to bring.

The vessel itself was in pristine condition. About two-hundred feet in length, two-thirds the size of a football field, it supported ample room for activity. Elegant silver drapes shone in the windows, and the decks were a glazed white wood paneling. There were brilliantly furnished tables and couches and staffed open bars. The delicate design touches throughout communicated an opulence oft shielded by the few.

The sheer number of forms they had to sign before boarding was unappetizing for most, let alone the imposing restrictions contained within, forfeiting even the right to take pictures or bring any mementos home from their visit. Along every step of the way, the hosts’ insistence on compliance was obvious, but those onboard had found the chance for the opportunity worth it, even while releasing a good deal of liberties.

The visitors were getting along rather nicely, even among the vast differences between them. Some were old and some young, rich and not very, some well-accomplished and others, seemingly ordinary. More than a few were international, from the likes of Japan, India, Ethiopia, Brazil, and more. Those who weren’t comfortable with English used seamless high-tech translation earbuds to communicate. With such crystal clear translation, even the Americans proved tolerant.

They all had plenty of talking to do. Among those who applied to visit Regis every year, most weren’t accepted even after a lifetime of trying. A few aboard looked like they’d waited damn near that.

The secretive island for which they were bound owned the rights to the specific waterway. It controlled the rights to the skies too, and to the space and satellites above even that. When the yacht was docked in Eugene, Oregon, it hid within a hollow bluff. Although they hadn’t been certain of it, the visitors had all been driven to the bluff in autonomous cars, hidden behind tinted screens separating the drivers cabin from passengers. The AI had made such realistic and decent conversation that most visitors couldn’t tell.

Due to the island’s notorious, daresay indecent exclusivity, the sorts of niceties which follow prestige were more or less expected. The fancy drinks, the food, the service: all top-notch and in-keeping with the experience, even down to the looks of those supplying the bottle service and laying out the deck chairs. The yacht made the island’s cultural and financial clout apparent, and with regards to the accommodations, most visitors proved willing to partake. They experienced the journey fully and vibrantly, with little to no reflection on the tolls it might take on the rest of their lives.

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