The T-4200 (Part 1 of 2) By J. R. Johnson Carleton T. Lowengren, low-level civil servant, single twenty-something and refugee from the war-torn Outer Rim, woke to the remnants of a gaming binge and a killer headache courtesy of his interface. The implant had been trying to wake him for some time. He rolled off the couch. Another day, another commute from his nondescript apartment to the center of the Galaxy, trying to do the one thing his mother said he never would: make a difference. The walk-in wardrobe straightened his collar as he registered the time. Carl sprinted past the pre-programmed bowl of cereal to the garage door. “Leo? Where are you, boy?” Carl’s ride was usually parked in the garage on a mat of sweet-grass and clover. It was nowhere to be seen. And it’s not like he could overlook a car-sized dimension-hopping tortoise.