The Court of the Crimson King

Hector Mares stood in the shadow of the gleaming NASA laboratories, his mind racing with the stimulation of his teenage years. A prodigy in materials science, his life so far had been anything but conventional. Born into a family of artisans who specialized in historical metalwork, Hector’s early fascination with medieval armor had propelled him into the world of cutting-edge armorer innovation. By the time he was 18, he had redefined how alloys interacted with energy fields, an achievement that earned him NASA’s attention.

It was the prometheum trioxide project that changed everything. NASA’s scientists were struggling to make practical use of the rare compound, known for its unparalleled refractive and electromagnetic properties. Hector, though barely not yet twenty, approached the challenge with years of studying armor as an extension of the human form. He thought of prometheum trioxide as a dynamic material—something that could adapt and "blend" into its surroundings.

Within months, Hector’s designs became tangible prototypes. He devised a lattice structure embedded with prometheum trioxide that bent light and electromagnetic waves around the wearer, rendering them virtually invisible. The breakthrough was hailed as revolutionary, though Hector’s family urged him to keep out of the limelight. NASA awarded him a permanent role as their youngest materials engineer.

Hector began experimenting with prometheum trioxide in combination with other materials including molybdenum, creating suits that could withstand extreme environments—from crushing pressures of several atmospheres to time extensive anomalies which pushed the wearer a few seconds into the pst or future. It was during this period that the Pyramid arrived.

The Pyramid appeared in the emptiness of the Nazca plain, its smooth metallic surfaces defying all attempts at classification. The Peruvian government sent materials scientists, archaeologists and even an astronomer re-called from Chile who scrambled to investigate, but it was the Canadian Spacetime Agency (CSA) that took the bolder step. Recognizing the need for specialized equipment to study the Pyramid’s enigmatic properties, they quickly re-formed the spacearm department of the ISS supplying research to NASA and headhunted Hector Mares.

The offer was irresistible. At CSA, Hector would have access to technologies even NASA couldn’t dream of. More importantly, the Pyramid’s mysteries aligned with Hector’s growing fascination with time and dimensional physics.

One of his first assignments at CSA was to design a suit capable of navigating the Pyramid’s unpredictable temporal shifts. The structure seemed to emit waves of chronal distortion, causing time to dilate, contract, or loop unpredictably. Hector, building on his earlier work, engineered what would come to be known as the "Time Suit." Using a combination of prometheum and molybdenum trioxide as well as newly discovered materials with high dielectric properties, the suit not only shielded the wearer from temporal anomalies but also allowed limited control over time flow within a confined field.

As Hector refined the Time Suit, his reputation grew. Yet, his colleagues remained in awe of him. He still often sketched designs based on medieval motifs or referencing ancient texts on craftsmanship. To Hector, the challenges of space-time navigation weren’t so different from designing a suit of armor. To describe him thus is to omit his one weak moment. He shouted angrily at the receptionist of NASA demanding his research papers be sent to the CSA forthwith and she’d called the psychiatrist in charge of astronauts’ health regimens who happened to be on a tour of the building in Houston, Texas.

Hector’s work with electromagnetic masking, inspired by his prometheum lattice, led to advances in stealth technology. He devised plasma coatings that not only made objects invisible to the naked eye but also to ultraviolet and infrared detection systems. His designs proved invaluable in both military applications and wildlife observation, the Great Kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus), Wayampi Glass Frog (Vitreorana oyampiensis), and Blue Lizard (Petracola waka) among them.

Yet, Hector remained restless. The Pyramid’s secrets—and the tantalizing glimpses of glass frogs bemused by his invisibility suit he’d experienced drove him on to other possibilities. In his quiet moments, Hector often thought of returning to the wildlife pastime he craved. To have given up this stress of working for either agency for the quiet life of a recluse, albeit one in the open world of the Nazca desert hiding in his camouflaged equipment, with only the keen smell of his prey to render him accessible. Maybe…then he heard a knock at the door and went to answer it as usual. There stood two men dressed in black suits with white shirts and RFK Junior-type narrow ties. The taller of the two men produced a badge, glinting in the dim light of the hallway, while the other fixed him with a stare that seemed to read ‘Gotcha’. They said little—only his name, and the words “Psychiatrist’s orders.” Before he could ask questions, they escorted him to a waiting car, its irriating-if-driven-hard ICE engine humming. The drive through the city was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the driver’s radio which broadcast a narrator reciting Wordsworth’s  “The Prelude (Book 1)".

“Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows

Like harmony in music; there is a dark

Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

Discordant elements, makes them cling together

In one society.”

The man to his left snorted, changing the channel to King Crimson with the practiced flick of a rock listener, the radio briefly illuminating his face carved from stone, with its LED lights for night sight.

"What are Wordsworth's words worth?" asked Hector, trying to make conversation. The crying of a schizophrenic madman or a persecuted scientist-in-the-making?

“Wordsworth? More like word games,” the policeman in black muttered, curling lazily in the confined space of the passenger seat

The other policeman, hands firmly on the wheel, spared Hector a glance in the rearview mirror, his tone flat but also practical. “Save it for the courtroom, Professor. Or the shrink. They’ll decide what your words are worth.” The car took a corner hard, tires biting into the wet asphalt, the momentum pressing Hector against the door.

The passenger policeman exchanged glances,  which looked like ‘only doing our duty’ before adjusting his tie. “Us? We’re just here to make sure you don’t make any more outbursts tonight.” When they arrived at the police building, he realized too late that explanations weren’t forthcoming. Hours later, it seemed, Hector felt the metallic clink of a cell door and a restless stretch in its cold embrace. He saw a crop of Bobolinks fly inside through the bars and circle round before exiting the same way chained together in flight.  After a night in the cells he appeared standing before the unyielding gaze of a judge in a courtroom that smelled faintly of old wood and authority.

The courtroom buzzed with an energy that seemed out of place for the sterile, time-scrambled age in which they lived. A slow-moving, but persistent, hum of artificial intelligence drones ensured the proceedings moved efficiently, as the court had long since abandoned human jurors. Instead, the panel was made up of digital avatars of citizens who were chosen from among the most average components of society, which allowed for unfettered judgment. Hector, now 20, stood in the center of the chamber, his back straight despite the weight of the magnetic cuffs still affixed to his wrists. His head was held high, though his face was partially hidden by a mask the guards had insisted he use.

At the defense table sat Carlos Biltong—an older man now, but still every bit as imposing as he had been decades ago. His voice, deep and gravelly, cut through the sterile room with an authority that made the avatars pause. The lawyer, once a living legend for defending clients who found themselves on the wrong side of the law, had been brought in specifically for this case. The world hadn’t seen him in years—he had disappeared into the shadows, some speculating he had been forced into retirement by the system. But when the case of Hector Mares came to light, when NASA began to publicly claim his inventions as their own, Carlos Biltong had come out of hiding.

"Your Honor," Biltong began, addressing the avatars that served as jury members. His eyes, sharp despite his age, locked onto the head avatar. "I will not dispute that Mr. Mares was under contract with NASA. He was an employee, yes, and like any employee, his time and efforts were governed by the terms of his contract. But I ask you this: is the genius of a man the property of an organization? Is his mind—his unbound, revolutionary intellect—something that can be bought and sold like any physical object?"

The avatars blinked, processing his words. Hector’s face, normally stoic, betrayed a flicker of something—hope, maybe.

Biltong leaned forward, his gravelly voice becoming more insistent. "It is not Mr. Mares that NASA is suing today. It is not his designs for the time suits, nor is it his spacetime research. It is his very freedom—his right to decide what to do with his own life. And let me remind the court, those rights are not, and have never been, the property of NASA."

Across from them, the NASA lawyers shuffled papers, their faces cold and resolute. One of them, a sharp-eyed man named Pablo Tonel, stood and began his counterargument with mechanical precision. "Mr. Mares may claim that his talents were not cultivated exclusively by the resources and infrastructure of the rat’s nest at NASA, yet despite working in that unit which gave him untrammeled freedom to experiment he was part of an organization that invested in him. In fact, as per his contract, every innovation, every design, belongs to the agency. The time suits, the prototype technology, all of it—was NASA's property, and by escaping, he has breached his agreement."

There was a pause as the avatars processed this.

Biltong shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a slight smile. "Mr. Tonel," he said, "if NASA's claim were true, then every great mind in human history would be nothing but a cog in a machine. Should we say that Da Vinci's inventions belonged to the Medici family, or that Einstein's theory of relativity belonged to the German government? Are you suggesting that every intellectual property, every moment of genius, can be possessed like this? You want to take his mind—his thoughts, his aspirations—and own them. States cannot or should not be able to break people this way, or bend them to their will."

The defense attorney’s voice grew louder, his words a powerful crescendo, "You cannot own a man’s soul. You cannot claim his humanity. And you certainly cannot assert that a man’s future belongs to an organization just because they gave him a chance to innovate within the confines of their rat’s ne..er..laboratories."

Pablo Tonel was quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond to Biltong’s passionate rhetoric. Hector, standing in the witness box, felt the weight of his lawyer’s words and found strength in them. He straightened, his deep-set eyes locking onto Tonel’s as he spoke for the first time.

"I did not create the suits for NASA. I made them to advance time travel, to break free from the temporal procession we call standard time," Hector’s voice rang clear across the chamber. "I may have worked for NASA, but my work was my own. You cannot control time, and you cannot control me."

The avatars buzzed in response, their algorithms trying to process the profound implications of his words. After a moment, the head avatar spoke, its synthetic voice calm but authoritative.

"Mr. Mares, it is clear that you possess remarkable intellect, and your contributions have been invaluable to the development of temporal technology. However, this court must consider the terms of your contract with NASA, and the investments they have made in your work."

Biltong stood up once more, his J. Crew suit buttoned, his tie knot immaculate. "Let us consider those investments, Your Honor.” The judge , a Mr. King, was dressed in a crimson robe from head to foot. “What is a contract worth when it shackles the very mind that could alter the future?" He turned to Hector with a knowing look. "Mr. Mares did not escape to steal from NASA. He escaped to save his mind, his freedom. If NASA has a claim, then it is a claim over innovation—but not over the man himself. And that, Your Honor, cannot be the price we pay for progress."

The court fell silent, the avatars motionless as they deliberated. For a moment, Hector felt the burden of all the years of his rebellion and escape, the isolation in the city of Nazca where he had spent years perfecting his time suit as a digital nomad, the years spent sharing his home with red rats. But now, in this moment, he realized something: his future could not be defined by anyone else—not by NASA, not by the Canadian Spacetime Agency, and certainly not by those who sought to profit off of his creativity.

After a long, tense pause, the head avatar spoke again. "We will deliberate on the matter.”

“This court is adjourned," pronounced the regal-looking judge, his stainless crimson robe folding as he banged his gavel into its container with many impressions beforehand.

That night, as Hector sat alone in the holding cell, waiting for the verdict, his mind drifted back to the deserts of Nazca. The court had been but one battle in a much larger war. But he knew he had already won. The future had been disclosed to him in his cell (another delusion he would some day rationalise but which for now was as real to him as his broad shoulders which carried so much stress.

And now, it was time to move forward.