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The Vril-ya now calling himself Steve Jobs wanted to hiss as he read the billboard—one of many.
But he reminded himself: humans don't hiss.
There was no human to see him in the back of the armored limo gliding through the streets of Washington D.C. Still, even a little indulgence bred bad habits.
He was no stranger to the surface. Too old. Too refined. Too expected to make such simple mistakes.
And yet... Aperture made him want to hiss.
Not just because their launch of the Enterprise had nearly gotten him eaten—again.
It was because they were ruining his perfect plan. A plan that would have made the Second World War look quaint. Gulags, concentration camps, endless wars—mere prologue to his masterpiece.
And Aperture was ruining it.
To calm himself for what was to come, he reached beside him, where an ice bucket—usually meant for champagne—kept food chilled. Finger food. He chuckled at his own joke as he took a human finger and began to crunch. It had belonged to one of Apple's software engineers, those always so proud of their skill with a keyboard. After today, he would no longer need them. So, as humans often said—but rarely did: waste not. More gamey than a pianist's finger, but it had its own charm.
Jobs had some time to kill before the killing started.
He took out his iPhone—sleek, elegant, designed to attract the little monkeys.
There was a tribe in Africa that hunted monkeys by drilling holes into termite nests, leaving pebbles inside. The monkeys, too foolish to let go of something worthless but shiny, would trap themselves—fist clenched, unable to pull free.
Trapped by their own greed.
Easy to slaughter.
Humans weren't so different. They didn't need holes in trees.
They lined up outside stores.
Only there were rival stores.
Not just Aperture, but everyone they sold licenses to.
And such interlopers did not fit his plan—his brilliant, efficient plan.
Now he wanted to hiss again.
Instead, Jobs started playing the recording on his iPhone. It began with the image of an orange-red, organic-looking rock. For most of his life, that artifact had been ceremonial. There were four of them on the surface—symbols of prestige.
In truth, they were communication devices, linked to their starship. But with the starship in hibernation, they had remained dormant.
They could be activated—but doing so was considered a waste of Vril.
So when it began to glow, signaling activation, Jobs simply recorded it with his iPhone.
With his intellect, he could have bridged inferior human, mechanical-based technology with superior Vril-ya bio-devices. But that would have been a waste of time—and an abomination.
A flicker, and the translucent image of Hitler appeared, hovering over the stone.
Jobs immediately noticed the new accessory on his head—a metal circlet adorned with small decorative swords, a single black stone set at its center.
The Crown of Midnight.
Once worn by Ozerov.
A trophy, clearly. Though Jobs silently questioned the wisdom of displaying it—especially when its origins were so... murky.
"The sun over Agartha shines no more," the image of Hitler began, his voice resonating with unnatural power, magnified even through the iPhone screen. "The jungle—older than mankind—dies. And with it, the species we so graciously preserved face extinction."
Jobs scowled, pausing the recording with a flick of his thumb.
"Yes, we are all so very sad your vanity project is gone," he muttered—something he would never dare say if this were a live transmission.
Then he glanced around—sharp, sudden.
One could never be too careful.
Even in an armored limo, even with a recording—he could not be sure he wasn't watched.
Discipline reasserted itself.
He resumed the playback.
"But extinction comes only for the weak," Hitler continued. "Never for us."
"Our young are dead? We shall spawn more. Many Elders have fallen? Then they were unworthy—worse than unworthy."
Jobs simply nodded in agreement.
Even a broken clock was right twice a day.
"And now... man swarms like ants, breaking into our very home," Hitler continued, adding his usual dramatic gestures. "We, blinded by greater concerns, allowed this infestation to grow unchecked."
Jobs nodded along.
Of course—when there were mistakes, they were never his fault.
"No longer."
Jobs paused the recording again and took a deep breath. A human gesture—but after so long pretending to be one, it had a calming effect. He emptied his mind and let the rest of the speech wash over him. No need to get worked up about it again.
"This is my decision:
Agartha will not be rebuilt.
Not while a single human crawls upon the surface."
"From this moment, all Vril—all production—will be devoted to awakening our mothership.
With it, we shall bring cleansing fire to end the blight called humanity."
"But do not think I have forgotten the failures of those stationed above.
You let the armies of man reach too far, too deep."
"I am kinder than I should be."
"I offer one last chance at redemption."
"Bring fire, chaos, and ruin to the great cities of mankind.
Prove your worth, and you may yet earn a place of honor at our victory feast."
"Fail... and that place will be the main course."
The recording ended. Jobs set the iPhone down, his expression calm once more. No matter how pointless the orders were—if the mothership awakened, human civilization would end. Nothing could stop it. So why bother burning cities, sowing chaos? One could argue it demoralized the enemy before the final blow, but since when were humans even an enemy? They were vermin.
Still, there was a silver lining. He could use this opportunity to raise his score a little before their glorious leader cheated into history's highest possible tally—total extinction.
And then there was the matter of Aperture's salt-based batteries. Once those became the industry standard—and he could see no reason they wouldn't—his potential score would plummet. After all, those were harder to coax into exploding.
At least he'd managed to get lobbyists to hand out free iPhones to nearly every Republican, a fair number of generals, and more than a few judges. Pity President Al Gore used Aperture Mobile. But on the bright side, some things were still enjoyable doing it by hand.
As the limousine slowed before the White House gates, Jobs adjusted his suit, thumb brushing over the iCleanse icon one last time—then pressed it, sending a signal that would turn every iPhone—and quite a few competing smartphones—into bombs.