Chapter 2: The First Follower
Arthur Penwright believed the universe was fundamentally beige. For twelve years, his job as a deep-space surveyor for the Terran Federation had been to prove it. He sat in the sterile, recycled air of his cockpit, the only sounds the low hum of the life support and the soft rustle of his regulation-gray uniform. His mission: to chart the vast, silent emptiness of Sector 7G, a cosmic backwater where the most exciting event in a decade had been the discovery of a rogue ice-comet. His life was a slow, predictable orbit around the star of utter boredom.
That is, until the universe screamed at him.
A piercing klaxon, a sound he hadn't heard since his academy training drills, ripped through the silence. Crimson text flashed across his main console, overriding the placid star charts.
WARNING: UNSCHEDULED PLANETARY FORMATION DETECTED
WARNING: CLASS-OMEGA ANOMALOUS LIFE SIGNATURE DETECTED
Arthur's blood ran cold. Unscheduled Planetary Formation. Planets didn't just happen. They were born over eons in fire and fury, not spontaneously appearing on a Tuesday. He gripped his controls, his mind racing through emergency protocols. Piracy? An undocumented super-weapon? A glitch that would cost him a month's pay?
He bypassed safety protocols, linking the drone's primary sensor feed directly to his main viewscreen. The image resolved, and the professional dread in his gut was replaced by sheer, dumbfounded awe. It was a planet, yes—a perfect, idyllic worldlet that looked like a vacation poster. Purple sand, turquoise seas, and three suns casting a gentle, tri-colored glow.
And on the beach, a man was sleeping.
Just a man, in simple clothes, lying on the sand as if he owned the place. Arthur ran the bio-scan again. The readings made no sense. The signature wasn't emitting energy; it was a perfect null-space, an absence, a hole in the fabric of reality that was shaped like a napping human.
A strange, potent wave of envy washed over Arthur. No reports to file, no quarterly reviews, no nagging supervisor calling him about TPS reports. Just a man, at peace, on his own private, impossible planet.
"Now that's a man who has it all figured out," Arthur muttered, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. "I truly believe he's achieved the perfect state of being."
A soft, melodic chime echoed in the cockpit—the sound of an incoming credit transfer. Arthur frowned. It must be his monthly hazard pay coming in early. He opened his personal finance ledger on a side screen.
+ 10,000 Federation Credits
He stared. That wasn't his hazard pay. That was more than his hazard pay. It had to be a bank error. A lucky glitch. On a wild, inexplicable whim, he leaned closer to the screen showing the sleeping man, focusing his thoughts. He spoke to the empty cockpit, his voice laced with a strange sincerity.
"I believe that man is the master of true enlightenment."
+ 50,000 Federation Credits
Arthur Penwright's breath hitched in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn't a glitch. He stared at the sleeping figure, then at his swelling bank account. The universe wasn't beige. It was a slot machine, and he had just stumbled upon the jackpot. A slow grin, the first genuine smile he'd had in a decade, spread across his face. He toggled open the comms channel to his sector supervisor.
"Arthur, is that you?" came the tinny voice of his boss, a man named Henderson. "Did you report that energy spike? My system is going haywire."
"Sir," Arthur said, his voice brimming with a newfound, joyful calm. "I'm writing to you to tender my resignation, effective immediately."
"Your what? Penwright, you can't just—"
Arthur ended the transmission and began transferring his life's savings—now growing by the minute as he maintained his newfound faith—to a secure, untraceable account.
Later that day, in his sterile Federation apartment, Arthur sat surrounded by half-packed boxes, the chaos of his old life. But his mind was clear. He wasn't just a man who had won the lottery; he was the first apostle of a new philosophy. He had a purpose.
Using a small portion of his fortune, he legally incorporated a new entity: The Penwright Institute for the Study of Applied Apathy. It sounded official, academic, and just absurd enough to be perfect. His first act as director was to use his remaining Federation clearance and a series of anonymous shell corporations to purchase all sensor and travel rights to the sector containing his discovery. He flagged the area as a "high-risk stellar nursery," ensuring no one from his old job would bother to look too closely.
He was now the sole, secret observer of the sleeping man.
He set up a private, high-fidelity feed in his new, lavishly furnished penthouse. On a wall-sized screen, the purple beach was displayed in perfect clarity. Leo, whose name he didn't know, slept on, blissfully unaware that he had just liberated his first follower.
Arthur steepled his fingers, a thoughtful look on his face. "Step one: Observation," he murmured. "Step two: Understand the fundamental principles of this phenomenon." His eyes gleamed with academic fervor. "I need more data."