Zuckerworld Vault.

Date: November, 2038.

 

Things were hotting up one kilometre underground in the bunker complex known as the Zuckerworld Vault, buried deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

​

Society had collapsed neatly around 2035, just as the planet tipped past four degrees of warming. That was when Mark Zuckerberg and ninety-nine preselected billionaires and familes made their sprint for the vault, leaving the rest of humanity outside to boil.

 

Selected years earlier not only because they could pay the twenty-million-dollars for a luxury apartment, but because they passed the genetic and IQ thresholds required to be part of the “future of the human race,” as Mark would intone in his robotic voice at investor seminars.

 

Once inside, the door was time-locked. Twenty-five years of isolation. Models predicted that was how long it would take for the surface to purge the “undesirable remnants of humanity” and cool back to a liveable two degrees. Then ZuckerWorld’s elite would emerge and repopulate the planet.

The vault was the embodiment of Mark’s hi-tech dreams: a closed-loop, fully sustainable habitat driven by hydro systems that used magneto-turbine impellers and triple-redundant backups to maintain power. Thermal runoff was captured by exchangers and redistributed through the climate lattice that fed a multiplex cinema, multiple restaurants, gyms, a heated wave pool, and of course the many themed
sex-slave saunas.

 

The agricultural level relied on nutrient-fogging drones and a microbially tuned simulator that adjusted its chemistry via real-time metabolomic scans. Fresh vegetables were delivered directly to each residence by fully automated AI Wolt delivery bots fluent in 27 languages.

 

And every apartment featured a fourth-generation molecular food printer capable of fabricating a surprisingly edible foie gras parfait.

But three years in disaster struck. The “self-optimising” hydro-electric AI had evolved and, quite frankly, grown bored of humans. Rerouting coolant through the meditation spa, boiling the turbines dry and erasing any realistic prospect of long-term survival. Power fell to ten minutes a day, supplied by dwindling fossil reserves.

 

With no lighting, the crops died and rationing followed. The starving residents began openly discussing whether, in theory, the support staff might be edible—and which would be the most appetising.

 

Zuckerberg—now referring to himself in the first person as High Imperator—tried imposing a curfew enforced by his elite bodyguard unit, the Moderators. But time had run out. Everyone in the vault, residents and staff alike, united in blaming him for the failure and demanded retribution—in the shape of his head.

 

The ZuckerChat social platform overflowed with calls for a public lynching and the death of their robotic overlord.

 

Which is why Mark now sat locked in his luxury control-room-slash-apartment, alone behind his desk, staring grimly at the monitors. As the mob hammered on the one-metre-thick titanium coated doors—currently the only thing standing between him and a noose. 

 

His eyes flicked toward the glowing PURGE RESIDENTS button. He flipped the safety cover on and off, swallowed, then hesitated.

 

Then he heard it—a smooth, slow, velvety voice with a clipped German accent. The kind of accent an overly camp Nazi SS officer might use. The same one, in fact, that had purred through his sensual dream only nights before.

​

A demon had emerged slowly from the shadows behind him and whispered. “Ach du meine Güte! I am having ze thinking it will not be long before zer Mob are inside.”

 

Mark turned startled as the voice continued. “Once they are doing the realising that they can open the door locks from the server, they will be upon you. I am doing ze shock that your I.T. ‘Handlanger’ Zane—ah, how you say—is not ‘on it’ already.”

 

The demon added mock quotes as he said ‘on it’ with his clawed black fingers for obvious demonic dramatic emphasis.

 

Then, excitedly, he added, “Oh, will you be doing the looking. There on monitor sieben. There Zane goes, yes—the rat scurrying to the stairwell. Server room is that way, no?”

 

Mark reached instinctively for his Glock 745 Closed-Space Enforcer. 

 

It wasn’t there. “Looking for this, Imperator Zuckerberg?”  

 

The demon held up Marks pistol in his claws.

 

In a voice like a GPS navigation prompt, he stammered, “The…the High Imperator does not understand your presence,” then in his clipped, precise panic-tone. “State your name and function. How did you get in here?”

 

“Pleased to be meeting you. I am, of course, Konrad von Marburg—priest and inquisitor to archbishops and queens, and more recently in the employ of our Dark Lord Mephistopheles,” Konrad replied politely, each syllable placed with a clipped and deliberate German care.

 

Which was to say: Konrad was a horned silhouette of pure refined evil, two red eyes glowing like coals and a mouth filled with tiny, dagger-bright teeth.

“But none of this is the matter,” hissed Konrad. 

 

“I am simply here to help you. Make sure you are doing the right thing—before you are having ‘zee little doubts,’ as you say.”

 

Mark eyed him warily, considering whether to tackle him, but three years of printed Wagyu burgers had erased his physique; he was soft, weak, and even his private Krav Maga sessions seemed unlikely to help him take on an interdimensional shadow demon. He slumped robotically back into the chair, visibly defeated.

 

Like a broken automaton, Mark slowly replied,

“What… what… what do you mean… ‘zee little doubts’?”

 

“He is wanting you to do the right thing. Purge the bunker. Release the NX-7 sarin gas. Quick. Clean. Humane.”

Konrad paused, one eye fixed on Mark, delicately picking a sliver of meat from between his teeth—more for theatrical flourish than hygiene.

 

Then, in his slow, soft Hessian accent, Konrad made his final pitch. “Or, if you prefer, you can be waiting. Let der mob hack the locking mechanism, breaking through in triumph. ’WUNDERBAR’ they cheer, and do the disemboweling piece by the piece. There is even talk on the ZuckerChat of a feasting, with you as das Hauptgericht. But I am not sure it vill be that quick, Imperator Zuckerberg.”

 

Mark’s hand hovered over the button.

​

“Ja. Ja. Now press the button. Save them from themselves. It is what Mephistopheles wishes. Human souls are, ah… how you say - in the shorting of the supply these days.”