Mason adjusted his collar for the sixth time in two minutes. The Stanford lecture hall stretched before him like an academic coliseum, rows of seats filling with the kind of people who could torpedo his career with a single dismissive harrumph. Perfect. Just how he liked to spend his Thursdays – defending his dead father's scientific theories to a firing squad of tenure-track skeptics while a snarky AI woman lived rent-free in his brain, commenting on his heart rate.
"Your blood pressure is rising," Tensa informed him through their private neural connection. "Would you like me to administer a mild sedative through your implant?"
"I'd like you to stop monitoring my vitals like I'm a geriatric poodle," Mason muttered under his breath, pretending to shuffle his notes.
"[Sync 67%↑]" blinked across his field of vision. "If you'd prefer, I could comment on the gentleman in the third row who keeps picking his nose when he thinks no one's looking."
Mason suppressed a smile. "Not helpful."
"Or perhaps the woman in the front who's clearly here for continuing education credits and is shopping for Italian leather boots on her tablet?"
"Still not helpful."
"Then might I suggest focusing on your presentation instead of having an existential crisis five minutes before showtime?"
The backstage technician waved Mason forward, and he took a deep breath as he approached the podium. His legs moved smoothly beneath him, guided by Tensa's neural interface that connected his functional brain to his paralyzed body. The crowd hushed as he stepped into view, their eyes lingering just a moment too long on his legs – looking for a limp, a telltale awkwardness, some visible sign of the technology that allowed him to walk. He'd grown used to the scrutiny.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mason began, his voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in his chest, "thank you for joining me today. I'm Professor Mason Scott, and I'll be discussing 'Submerged Civilization: Reexamining Mediterranean Trade Routes and the Minoan Collapse.'"
The title appeared on the screen behind him, and he saw a few audience members exchange glances. In academic circles, mentioning "submerged civilization" was about as reputable as announcing you'd been abducted by aliens who were really into anal probing.
"[Physical Condition: 42%↓]" flashed in his peripheral vision. Tensa was right – he was more fatigued than he'd admitted. The pain management meds were wearing off early.
Mason cleared his throat. "Before we dive into the research, I'd like to address a question many of you probably have: how is this guy standing here giving a lecture when half the academic world knows he should be in a wheelchair?"
A murmur rippled through the audience.
"The answer involves a little show and tell." Mason tapped a control on his tablet, and the lights dimmed. "Many of you know that fifteen years ago, I was involved in a cave collapse in Santorini that claimed my father's life and left me paralyzed from the waist down."
The screen behind him showed a medical scan of a spinal cord with catastrophic damage highlighted in angry red.
"What you're seeing is my T10 complete spinal injury. For years, I was told I would never walk again. But as it turns out, 'never' is just a placeholder for 'until the technology catches up.'"
The image changed to show a sophisticated neural interface map, with thousands of connection points bridging the damaged areas of his nervous system.
"This is Tensa – Tensor Enhanced Neural Strategic Assistant – the reason I'm standing before you today instead of rolling. She's a neural interface implant that bypasses my damaged spinal cord, allowing my brain to communicate directly with my lower body."
A student in the front row raised her hand. "You referred to the system as 'she'?"
Mason felt heat rise to his cheeks. "Ah, yes. That's... a quirk of the personalization process. The interface adapts to the user's brain patterns and preferences, including developing a personality that optimizes communication with the host. In my case..."
"In his case, he got stuck with me," Tensa's voice suddenly projected through the lecture hall's speakers, surprising even Mason. A moment later, the three projectors at the front of the hall activated simultaneously, generating a life-sized holographic woman with honey-blonde hair and striking features who materialized beside Mason.
The audience gasped collectively.
"Tensa, we didn't discuss this part of the presentation," Mason hissed.
"You were floundering," the hologram replied with a smirk. She turned to address the audience. "I'm Tensa, Professor Scott's neural interface AI. Yes, I look like this because during the neural mapping process, the system pulled from his subconscious preferences." She shot Mason a sidelong glance. "Apparently, he has a thing for that actress in 'Euphoria.'"
The audience laughed as Mason closed his eyes briefly in mortification.
"[Sync 71%↑]" flashed in his vision. The embarrassment was actually improving their neural connection.
"As you can see," Mason recovered, "the interface has... certain idiosyncrasies. But it – she – also represents the cutting edge of neural technology. Tensa not only helps me walk, but assists with everything from data analysis to pain management."
"Speaking of which," Tensa's hologram added, "your medication schedule indicates pain management is due in approximately three hours. I recommend we wrap this up by then, unless you'd like me to broadcast your vital signs to the audience in real-time."
Another laugh rippled through the crowd. Mason was losing control of his own presentation, but at least they were engaged.
"Thank you, Tensa. Let's move on to why we're actually here." Mason tapped his tablet again, and the hologram disappeared, replaced by a single striking image: a high-resolution seafloor map showing what appeared to be submerged stone structures arranged in patterns too regular to be natural.
"This is what my father discovered fifteen years ago – evidence of submerged trade routes and port facilities predating the Minoan collapse. Not randomly scattered debris, but constructed pathways across the Aegean seafloor."
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The image rotated slowly, revealing the intricate network of linear formations.
"These structures lie at depths consistent with sea levels from approximately 3,600 years ago, aligning perfectly with the timeline of the Thera eruption and subsequent Minoan collapse."
Mason noticed movement at the back of the hall – a middle-aged man with a slight build slipping into the lecture. There was something familiar about him, but Mason couldn't place it.
"[Unknown Signal Detection]" blinked in his vision.
"Tensa, what was that?" he subvocalized, trained to communicate with the AI without moving his lips.
"[ANOMALY DETECTED]" flashed across his field of view, followed by: "Signal Type: Unknown frequency, Source: Visitor from Greece, Pattern Match: Similar to Charles Scott's final research data."
Mason felt his mouth go dry. His father's final research data? That was impossible.
"Professor Scott?" A woman in the second row was raising her hand, pulling his attention back to the lecture.
"Yes, sorry. Questions already?"
"These pathways – couldn't they simply be natural formations from lava flows or underwater currents?"
"Excellent question." Mason welcomed the distraction from the mysterious visitor. "We've eliminated that possibility through multiple methods, including comparison to known volcanic formations and analysis of the material composition. These structures contain worked stone consistent with Minoan masonry techniques."
The Q&A continued, with Mason fielding questions about dating methods, seafloor shifting, and alternative explanations. Throughout, he kept glancing toward the back of the room, where the late arrival sat watching with unsettling intensity.
Then a familiar voice cut through the discussion. "Professor Scott, I'm curious how much Stanford has invested in this... project of yours."
Mason didn't need to see the face to recognize the voice. Chad Faulk, Department Chair of Archaeological Sciences at Berkeley and his father's former colleague, now stood with microphone in hand, his athletic frame belying his fifty-plus years.
"Dr. Faulk," Mason acknowledged, keeping his tone neutral. "The university's investment is matter of public record."
"Indeed it is," Faulk smiled thinly. "Which is why I know exactly how much grant money has been poured into this Atlantis sinkhole over the years. First your father, now you – chasing fairy tales with increasingly expensive technology."
Mason felt his jaw tighten. "We're not discussing Atlantis, Dr. Faulk. These are documented Minoan trade routes that—"
"That conveniently can't be properly excavated or verified," Faulk cut in. "Just like your father's theories couldn't be verified. Just like this miracle technology you're sporting can't be independently evaluated because it's 'proprietary.'"
"[Sync 63%↓]" flashed in Mason's vision as his anger rose.
"Would you care to examine my medical records, Dr. Faulk?" Mason asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Or perhaps you'd like a live demonstration of my spinal lesion? I'd be happy to remove my shirt."
"What I'd like," Faulk continued, "is for Stanford to stop funding pseudo-archaeological fantasy because they feel sorry for Charles Scott's crippled son."
The room went silent. Mason felt a surge of rage that momentarily overwhelmed his connection to Tensa. His right leg stuttered, causing him to grip the podium to stay upright.
"[Motor Control Fluctuation Detected]" pulsed urgently in his vision as Tensa struggled to compensate.
"Dr. Faulk," Mason said after regaining his composure, "my father gave his life pursuing this research. The data we've gathered since then confirms what he theorized – that the Minoan civilization had far more extensive maritime capabilities than previously understood, and that the eruption of Thera led to both geographical and cultural changes we're only beginning to comprehend."
"Charles Scott fell down a hole chasing ghosts," Faulk replied coldly. "And you're following him."
Mason's fingers flew across his tablet, queuing up Tensa's counter-package – a devastating collection of methodological flaws in Faulk's published work that they'd compiled for just such an occasion. His finger hovered over the send button, but at the last moment, he pulled back. Not yet. Some ammunition was better saved for when it could do maximum damage.
"This lecture is concluded," Mason announced instead. "Thank you all for your attention."
As the audience filed out, a mix of uncomfortable murmurs and academic gossip filled the air. Mason remained at the podium, collecting himself, as Tensa's voice whispered in his mind.
"That was restrained of you. I had the evisceration package ready to deploy."
"Sometimes it's better to let your enemies think they've won," Mason replied subvocally. "Besides, did you get anything on our mysterious visitor?"
"Still analyzing. He's approaching now."
Mason looked up to see the slender man from the back row walking directly toward him. Now that he was closer, Mason could see the man was in his mid-fifties, with thoughtful brown eyes and the weathered features of someone who spent considerable time outdoors.
"Professor Scott," the man said in lightly accented English. "My name is Dimitrios. I believe we have mutual interests."
"Do we?" Mason asked cautiously.
"Your father's work. The truth about what lies beneath the waters surrounding Santorini." Dimitrios glanced at the now-empty seats. "And perhaps a chance to silence critics like Dr. Faulk."
The overhead lights in the lecture hall dimmed briefly, then returned to normal.
"[Interference Pattern Detected]" flashed in Mason's vision.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Mason said, studying the man carefully.
"I represent certain interests on Santorini," Dimitrios explained. "We've been following your research – and your father's before you. Recent discoveries have... accelerated our timeline."
"What kind of discoveries?"
Dimitrios smiled slightly. "Are you familiar with Dr. Elena Kostas?"
The name hit Mason like a physical blow. Elena had been the site supervisor on the day of the cave collapse fifteen years ago. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been on a stretcher, unable to feel his legs, as rescue workers pulled his father's body from the rubble.
"I know Dr. Kostas," he managed.
"Her sister, Ana, has made a remarkable breakthrough." Dimitrios leaned closer, lowering his voice. "She has deciphered Linear A."
Mason stared at him in disbelief. Linear A was the undeciphered writing system of the Minoan civilization – a holy grail of archaeological linguistics that had resisted translation for over a century.
"That's impossible," Mason said automatically.
"And yet, it's true." Dimitrios reached into his jacket and removed a folder. "I've been authorized to offer you exclusive access to this research, along with all necessary permits and substantial funding to continue your father's work – on site in Santorini."
Mason took the folder cautiously. "Why me? Why now?"
"Because you were right. You and your father both." Dimitrios glanced at his watch. "The offer comes with conditions, of course. A thirty-day confidentiality agreement, and immediate departure. Our window of opportunity is... limited."
"How limited?"
"The permits are valid beginning next week. We've already arranged transportation and accommodations." Dimitrios handed him a business card. "Consider carefully, Professor. This could be everything you've worked for."
As Dimitrios turned to leave, a barely perceptible spark of electricity arced across Mason’s vision.
"[Unclassified Signature β]" appeared in Mason's vision as Tensa analyzed the strange electromagnetic pulse.
"What was that?" Mason asked silently.
"Unknown," Tensa responded. "But whatever technology he's carrying, it just ghosted through my sensors like they weren't even there."
Mason watched Dimitrios's retreating figure with new interest. The man had just offered him the chance to vindicate his father's work and return to Santorini – to face the place that had changed his life forever. But something told him Dimitrios wasn't showing all his cards.
The question was: what game were they really playing?