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Jubal Seeker sat cross-legged on his only chair. It was an ascetic, straight backed wooden torture device; bereft of padding or even a hint of comfort. Even though he was over 70 years old, Jubal didn't mind the pain in his back - his mind was focused elsewhere. A remarkably eclectic pile of wires, cannibalized computer parts, tools, delivery food containers, soldering guns, microprocessor boards, and empty fluid bottles lay scattered around him like leaves ripped from a tree in a hurricane. A carefully crafted tin-foil hat sat perched on the top of his bald head, his liver spots reflected in the hat's shiny surface.
Crammed into every space not covered with food or electronics were books; the old-fashioned paper kind you couldn't find anywhere anymore. Jubal remembered the purging- when the men had come door to door, collecting everyone's books for mandatory recycling. He remembered the trucks, monstrous things painted black with flames lapping up from the bed and the men in black masks pouring out of the vehicles like roaches. He remembered the screams of those foolish enough to resist. But they didn't get his books- he was too smart for them; even if he couldn't quite remember what he'd done to keep his precious tomes safe.
Jubal paid the messy state of his apartment no mind- he was barely aware it was there. His gaze was almost always locked on the far end of his small living space, where the congested and chaotic mish-mash of the room ended abruptly at a thick white line painted on the floor. Beyond this line was a small area, maybe five feet square, that Jubal thought of as his temple.
The temple floor was painted flat black- as were the walls and ceiling. In the center of this space, carefully measured to be equidistant from every wall, was a box, painted with the same black paint as the walls. A product of odd and hazy dreams, the box was two feet square, with a silver antennae poking out of the top. A single wire came out of the bottom and snaked over to the wall where it sat unplugged next to the electrical outlet.
Jubal had taken long weeks in illegally hooking up the plug to the neighbor's electrical supply. He did this in the hope the authorities would be delayed in their search for him when he finally plugged the box in.
According to his calculations, a slew of complicated equations written in the margins of the pages of his books; a few minutes was all he was going to need. Whether he succeeded or failed, he expected the retribution from the men in black masks to be swift and brutal. THEY didn't look too kindly on unauthorized science experiments and Jubal knew it. Finding himself nervous and agitated in a way he didn't know he was still capable of, Jubal walked to his room's one small window and peeked out. The world outside whizzed and rushed, flowed and bumped with the raging temperament of humanity and the mere sight of it nearly caused him to have a panic attack.
Cars whizzed by his tenth story window and individual commuters floated by in their jetpacks.