NOVEL NEXT Chapter 133: Rejection
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Karen: A good run is healing.
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Friday, November 29th, 2090, about 8:00 pm MST, Montana City, Gordon's Suite
"Sir Adonis Wrecks," crowed Karen.
Gordon took the high five squarely, which was a mistake—she was REALLY excited. Rubbing his stinging palm, he watched her run down the hallway to congratulate Claire.
Worth it.
There was a chime, followed by the Admin_AI's smooth tones: "Messenger drone for Karen."
"Let it in," Gordon directed.
"'You've got mail'," he said to himself. It arrived moments later.
The drone hovered like a buzzing wasp—sleek, metallic, and emblazoned with the UPS logo. It extended a certified mail envelope and a blinking tablet with a stylus. "Karen Moore," it requested in a friendly midwestern voice.
"Karen?"
Nope, no Karen.
"I'll take it for her," promised Gordon. It offered him a signature pad, which he scrawled with his usual group of tight loops. It didn't really resemble his name, but habits are habits.
Hmm. From her university.
It wasn't his, so it went on his desk while he made himself a post-stream snack. His fridge revealed brie, ham, and a dense mustard.
This was probably not standard fare, but he ate it quickly.
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Karen grabbed the envelope off the desk and tore it open.
It was titled "Notice of Termination from Doctoral Program" in a bold font.
Dear Ms. Moore, it began:
We regret to inform you that, following a comprehensive review of your academic record and recent non-academic pursuits—including your prior involvement in a public collaboration with Yuri the Necromancer—the Graduate Academic Standards Committee of the University of Montana has reached the decision to discontinue your enrollment in the doctoral program, effective immediately.
This decision was not made lightly. While we acknowledge that the live-streamed event in question occurred off-campus and did not involve any illegal activity, concerns were raised at the time regarding the public nature of the content and its reception. As you are aware, you received a formal warning in response. Since then, no further incidents have been documented; however, recent inquiries from key university stakeholders have prompted renewed scrutiny of that broadcast and its potential impact on the institution's public profile.
As a doctoral student affiliated with the Youth of Today Innovations program, your conduct—both academic and extracurricular—is held to a high standard. The Committee was compelled to weigh the cumulative implications of your public presence, especially as they relate to the expectations of our community partners, sponsors, and the broader academic environment.
Stolen story; please report.
We recognize that this decision may be disappointing, and we emphasize that it was reached only after extensive deliberation. We remain available to assist in the transition process and to provide documentation or transcripts to support your continued academic career elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Dr. Meredith Allen
Dean of Graduate Studies
University of Montana
Karen read it quickly, then more slowly with a puzzled frown on her face, rapidly deepening into something entirely more feral.
"MOTHER OF. . . SHIT!"
"Karen?"
"They dropped me! Slimy, COWARDLY bastards," she raged.
"WHAT?" exclaimed Claire, grabbing for the discarded document.
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"SHE IS MY FRIEND," shrieked Claire in what Gordon would have sworn was a volume and audible level of emotion she was physically incapable of producing. "HOW COULD YOU?! I TRUSTED YOU!"
He didn't hear what came from the other side. It didn't really matter. Hiram would never admit to having sent his attack dogs—actually. He might, if he got into the mood for bragging. A thought for later.
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Karen stood off to the side, her eyes glassy with fury, fingers curled into fists, her breathing gone shallow and animal—like someone gearing up for a sprint, or a fight.
She had been rifling through the closet a minute earlier—Harry wasn't sure what for. She didn't seem satisfied with whatever she found. Now she stood clad only in her streaming gear, which might as well have been yoga pants and a belly shirt. Not even shoes. The cold of Montana winter came slithering in around the doorframe as she yanked it open and sat down on the threshold to lace up her running shoes.
Harry watched this in silence.
Then, gently: "Are you sure this is a good idea? Out there?"
Karen's head snapped up.
"Oh, I'm sorry—does it look like I'm trying to be the drama?" she said, her voice tight, trembling. "Because I've been working my whole fucking life to get to this point. And now I am just so mad I don't want to haul off and hit the wrong person."
The silence that followed was thick and dangerous.
Even Karen seemed to be processing what she'd just said. A flicker of regret passed over her features.
And then she was gone. Out into the winter.
Harry didn't curse. But he considered it.
He made a call.
Fifteen minutes passed. A drone landed lightly on the porch.
Harry returned bearing two cold-cut sandwiches.
Claire got off the phone with her father, her face a mask of thunder. The conversation hadn't been about him—not directly—but the tension radiating off her made it clear she was ready to kill.
"I heard that," she said. "You didn't deserve it. That wasn't about you."
"Yes, yes—I'm not worried about that," Harry said, already bundling Claire's coat off the back of the chair and passing her the scooter keys.
"One of us needs to follow her."
He glanced at Claire, a silent question in his eyes.
"Yeah," she said softly. "I'll go."
"Tag me in if you need backup," he said, trying for levity.
She nodded tightly and took the items. As she did, Harry pressed the foil-wrapped sandwiches into her other hand. They were cold now, the Montana air having stolen all their heat—but they'd be better than nothing.
"Just in case," he said. Running in this weather with hypoglycemia seemed like a bad idea to him.
She took them without a word and set off into the wind.
The evening air cut across her cheeks—dry and sharp. Traffic lights blinked amber on the corner; a tram whispered by, nearly silent. Claire pulled up the GPS on her company portable and started the scooter. It gave a polite hum beneath her, low and steady.
She pulled out, bringing up the GPS on her company portable.
Claire tracked the little blinking dot on the map. Gordon was the one who had talked Karen into being on the same network so she wouldn't have to keep asking someone else to sign into the VR pod for her. Now, Claire could see her location in real-time.
Harry's scooter was like Harry: reliable, if a bit slow. But she liked the adjustable handlebars. They made her feel grounded. In control.
Claire zoomed in.
Then frowned.
It didn't make any sense.
The dot wasn't following the neat grid of city streets. It was cutting a jagged, erratic line—through lots, over fences, slicing across residential backyards and crossing corporate boundaries and minor roads.
Reckless.
Her eyes teared up, frigid in the Montana air.
A jagged, ugly line.
She wasn't just going A to B anymore.
Claire's breath caught.
The easy comfort-mission feeling vanished in a heartbeat. Cold dread bloomed in her gut like spilled ink.
She pulled the scooter to the side of the road, knuckles white on the handlebars, the wind tugging strands of hair loose from her braid.
She hit the call button.
"Harry," she said, her voice clipped and sharp, clamping down on the flood of emotion. "Something's wrong."