A forgotten computer, an impossible blueprint, and a name that shouldn’t exist. As Mark and Jacob dig deeper, they uncover a mystery that stretches far beyond their understanding.
Mark Janzen wasn’t sure how to explain any of this. There were few ways to casually tell someone, “Hey, I found an untraceable 1960s sci-fi computer that somehow knew my name and started spitting out encrypted documents.” But if there was anyone who might make sense of it, it was Jacob Schlittenhardt.
Jacob was a world architect, a designer of spaces both digital and physical, an individual whose mind could effortlessly blend aesthetics, function, and a touch of the surreal. He also had a tendency to charge headlong into the unknown, a useful trait when confronted with a possibly sentient, possibly haunted piece of vintage hardware.
Mark had arranged to meet him at Groover Labs, the heart of innovation in Planetary City. As Mark hauled the now-notorious computer into the workspace, Jacob took one look at it and let out a low whistle.
“Alright,” Jacob said, setting his coffee down. “What exactly am I looking at?”
Mark exhaled. “I have no idea.”
He recounted the events: the museum, the pandemic boredom, the cryptic welcome message, the folder labeled LOST ON A PLANET, and, most importantly, the documents filled with what appeared to be instructions—though instructions for what, exactly, remained unclear.
Jacob rolled up his sleeves. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.”
Mark gave the machine a solid thump on its side, and it once again powered up. The glow of the 8bit display filled the room, and right in the center of the screen, that folder. "Lost on a planet?" Jacob said, "What does that mean?"
They began combing through the files. Most of the documents were a jumbled mess of programming syntax, technical schematics, and, bizarrely, handwritten notes—some of which contained coffee stains and what looked like doodles of UFOs.
Toiling late into the night and over multiple weekends, they managed to partially decode eleven files. What they found perplexed them.
The files contained detailed blueprints for an advanced remote hiring system—one that accounted for variables no one in their industry had even thought of. The system could match talent across vast distances, predict work culture fit with astonishing accuracy. The blueprint even seemed to account for future trends, such as the mandated hauzar gig requirements for all moister terminal operators.
“This is unreal,” Jacob murmured. “It’s not just advanced—it’s predictive. Like, almost too predictive.”
Mark frowned. “Predictive how?”
Jacob turned the screen toward him. “These hiring recommendations are built on assumptions about job markets and skill demands that don’t even exist yet.”
"“Hold on a second,” Mark said, eyes narrowing as he scrolled down. “Jacob, look at this.”
At the bottom of one of the documents, in crisp, unmistakable text, was a signature:
Maxwell Jules.
The name sat there, unassuming, yet carrying a weight neither of them could explain. It was as if the document had been signed not just with ink, but with intent—like a breadcrumb left in the folds of history, waiting to be discovered.
A quick search of the inter-stellar-net turned up nothing substantial. There was no company, no academic papers, no LinkedIn profile. No proof that Maxwell Jules had ever existed at all. They searched for hours, cycling through dead-end links, conspiracy theories, and an unusual amount of advertisements for anti-gravity hair gel.
Except for one thing. Buried deep in an archived newspaper article from the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair, a passing mention of a 'brilliant but eccentric computer scientist named Maxwell Jules' surfaced. The article was vague, almost dismissive, as if whoever wrote it wasn’t sure Jules was even real.
Jacob squinted at the search results and clicked on a small, grainy image from the same event. A photograph taken at the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair. A group of men in crisp suits stood before a futuristic robot, their faces serious and proud. But there, half obscured in the background, stood a man with a lopsided grin, slicked hair, and a name tag that read M. Jules. Unlike the others, he wasn’t looking at the robotic display—he was staring directly at them, as if he had been expecting someone to find him in the photograph. And on his head was a bizarre contraption that looked something like a pair of aviator goggles.
“That’s him,” Mark said, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that. “That has to be him.”
Jacob leaned back. “So let’s recap. You found a computer that shouldn’t exist, filled with plans that are light-years ahead of anything we have today, written by a man who, for all intents and purposes, also shouldn’t exist.”
Mark nodded slowly. “That about sums it up.”
Jacob drummed his fingers against the desk. “Alright. So what do we do with this?”
Mark had been thinking about that very question since the moment he first saw the machine flicker to life. He didn’t know if this Maxwell guy was a genius or just someone with an exceptionally long game plan. But one thing was certain—this system was meant to be built.
Then they found the final note.
Tucked away in the metadata of the last decoded file was a message, seemingly left just for them.
“You have all that you need for the time being. Build it. Humanity will need Planetary Talent.”
The words sat between them, heavy and undeniable. This wasn’t just some lost piece of history.
It was a mandate.
Mark looked at Jacob. “We build it.”
Jacob nodded. “We build it.”
