Extremus: Year 132

« < » > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Omni Flash

Something just woke Waldemar up. He lifts his hand and performs the gesture to raise the lights, thinking there has to be something in the room. There’s not. His heart is racing, which has never happened before. His heart rate has literally never spiked in any situation besides exercise. Was he exercising in his sleep? That’s ridiculous, but possible, right? “Computer, health report.”

“You are experiencing sinus tachycardia, acute diaphoresis, neuromuscular hyperactivity, and an apparent acute stress response.”

“Laymen’s terms, asshole! I’m sorry,” Waldemar says. “That was rude.” Wait, what? That was rude? So what? It’s a computer, it doesn’t matter. Even if it were a real person, it wouldn’t. But...wouldn’t it, though? It seems to have a personality. It may be artificial, but it’s still an intelligence, and it deserves respect. No, why is he worried about this? There is something seriously wrong here. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Elevated heart rate, sweating, shaking, fear,” the computer translated itself. “My initial assessment is that you are experiencing a panic attack.”

“That’s literally impossible,” Waldemar argues. “My brain is not wired to panic, it just isn’t. I don’t understand fear at all. I’ve never worried about things. Check again.”

“From this vantage point, I am unable to measure your neural patterns to make a deeper medical evaluation, but I am not detecting myocardial ischemia, or—”

“That’s enough!” Waldemar orders. He sits on the edge of his bed and massages his face. It’s slick. He has to pick his sheet up and use it as a towel. His mind begins to dwell on everything bad he’s ever done in his life. Everyone he’s sent to hock, ever policy he passed which caused harm to the ship; all for his own self interest. How could he have been that way? None of it makes sense anymore. He doesn’t even want to think about it. The horror—the suffering he caused. He killed people. They weren’t saints, but he didn’t have the right to end them. He doesn’t know what to do now. His body seems to choose for him. He feels more sweat on his face, so he grabs the sheet again and wipes it off. It’s all under his eyes, and just keeps coming. Is there a cluster of sweat glands there? He doesn’t remember that from school. Hold on, it’s not coming from his skin. It’s coming from inside his eyes. Is this crying? Is he crying? That’s impossible too!

The door opens. In walks Silveon. “Captain. Captain, are you okay?”

“How are you here?” Waldemar asks. Definitely crying, he can hear it in his own voice. He’s heard it before from others, and it was always very annoying. “Why?”

“The computer told me something was wrong,” he says. “It thought it was better that I come than a doctor, a therapist, or anyone else. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Feeling?” Waldemar questions. “I don’t have those. I...I don’t know how to articulate it. It’s...heavy? It’s like a darkness over my face. I can’t stop thinking about the people I’ve hurt. Audrey. Audrey’s in my mind, and I can’t get her to go away.”

Silveon nods. “Do you know why you have not been able to feel in the past?”

“I’m psychic,” Waldemar answers. “I can sense everyone’s darkness. But it’s...it’s all jumbled together, so it’s not like I feel their emotions. Am I broken?”

“You’re not broken,” Silveon replies. “I think you’re healed. That kind of psychic power is a curse, not a gift. I don’t know how, but it looks like it’s gone, and the real you can finally come out. You are a deeply thoughtful person. You’re intelligent, and strategic. It’s what makes you a great captain. What you were missing was empathy. You cared what happened to people, but not how they thought about it. Now you do.”

Waldemar stands. “If this is true, then there’s a lot I need to make up for.

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 2699: Forbidden Longhouse

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Omni Flash

Ronan is scared of losing Gia just like he lost Mayumi. This time, they’re not going to go it alone. When the date was approaching, they traveled to the nearest settlement. They had already sent word to a midwife, who doesn’t have much to do because relatively few people are becoming so immersed in the simulation that they’re choosing to have real children. She offered to come to them, but they don’t only want her expertise. They want to be close to a lot of people, in case they need anything else during this uncertain period. The other players are clearly shocked by it. They know that Gia is real, and that this birth is real. They know that the other children here are NPCs, but Ronan’s entire family is composed of real people. They are a total anomaly, and it fascinates them. They know that they’re not supposed to talk about it, however. Ronan would be open if not for the immersion rules. Before he entered, he would talk about it to anyone who would listen. This is simply not the time or place for it.

Ronan is pacing, frustrated and annoyed. This is one of the reasons he and Mayumi isolated themselves. He wanted to be in the room, but the culture will not allow it. He was only allowed in back then because there was no other choice. Now, they can’t make that argument. Gia is with the midwife, and her two apprentices. One of them looked pretty young, so she’s probably just fetching water and towels, and he doesn’t know if she’s an NPC too, or what. It can be very confusing. Or maybe he’s just so confused at the moment because he’s singularly focused on that longhouse. He’s so far away, he can’t usually hear her screams, but her voice occasionally carries far enough. Or it’s a bird, and he’s imagining things. He hears her again, though. It’s unmistakably Gia. He stops pacing, and starts to head right for it.

One of the other players puts his pipe in his mouth, and reaches out to hold Ronan back as he shakes his head. He’s not really smoking. It’s literally just water vapor. It’s one of the few technologies that people use regularly. Just pretend it isn’t what it is, and is just a regular pipe with tobacco, or whatever disgusting stuff they smoked back then. “I appreciate the impulse, but we have to respect tradition. That longhouse is for womenfolk only. You’ll see your kid. He’ll be all cleaned up first, though.”

Ronan bobbles his head, knowing that this guy is right, but still wishing to break the rules. “You got any of your own?”

The guy takes his pipe back out and looks around to make sure no one else is listening. “Almost ninety of them, all over the age of two hundred.”

“None came here to Danmörk?” Ronan presses.

He shakes his head. “None even, uhh...came to the castle, to use the parlance.”

“You miss ‘em?” To Ronan, that’s a stupid question, but it takes all kinds.

“We have a private qua—” He stops himself before he can say the word quantum. He was probably going to say quantum environment. It’s a virtual construct that you can connect to across vast distances. It’s a power and bandwidth hog, so most VR is done locally, but if you just want a fancy way to communicate, and don’t need a lot of complex renderings, it’s fine. “We see each other every once in a while, though it’s been several decades since everyone has been able to make it.”

Ronan is just now realizing that his breathing has steadied, and his sweat is evaporating faster than it leaks. These distractions are helping. He’s calmer now. That’s when he hears a baby cry. Ronan runs off. Screw the rules. That’s his kid!

Microstory 2624: You Have Been Going Up This Whole Time, Don’t Go Back Down Now

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3.1

August 29, 2526. Notus Konn and the small group of survivors that he fell in with are in the northern polar region, but not quite safe yet. They have been walking somberly for about a day now, but have not gotten very far since the terrain is so treacherous, and they have no idea how far they have to go. They stop to rest, but no longer have a vacuum tent to stretch out in, so they just lie down in their suits. They’ve grown rather used to the confinement, even Notus, who is only with this particular group because he got claustrophobic and freaked out while with his original group. The air is cleaner here, but still not breathable. It never was outside of the domes.

Calypso notices Notus away from the group during one of their breaks, tapping on his interface, and sometimes pointing it towards the beetloid, which they have named Heracles. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re pretty handy with that thing. Most of the Breckenridgers have to ask for help just turning the screen back on.”

“I’m from Leviss,” Notus explains.

“Wait, that’s not what you said before,” Calypso contends. “You said you weren’t used to confined space because Breckenridge is so open. That’s why you, uhh...”

“Had a mental breakdown in the rover? That’s because Leviss doesn’t have any cars, and I already am claustrophobic. I was born there, and then my family moved to Breckenridge when I was eleven. I’m not familiar with this tech, but it’s not so different from what I originally grew up with.”

“Truthfully, I didn’t know that anyone did that.”

“It’s rare,” Notus admits. “Most Levins are too used to technology to give it up, and most Breckenridgers are afraid of it. But my family lived in a more rural area of our dome, so while we had computers, we had a lot more experience with manual labor, and a more physical lifestyle. Breckenridge wasn’t a hard sell.”

“I’m not afraid of technology,” Calypso argues.

“Fear is a strong word,” Notus decides. “How about unaccustomed and wary?”

“I’ll take it,” Calypso determines. She waits a moment. “So, what exactly are you doing with that thing?”

He smiles at her. “This.” After one more tap, Heracles jumps into the air, and flies way above their heads. The others sitting on the rocks watch it go.

“What’s it doing up there?” Shimizu asks.

Notus switches his comms to address the whole group. “It’s getting us to where we’re going.” He monitors the progress on his screen until it beeps. He pivots on the ground and points. “On the other side of that mountain is a canyon. The first stable dome we’ve seen in days is at the bottom of that canyon. I believe there is some means of getting down there quickly too. Heracles is picking up a much closer signal too.”

“Are there people there?” Calypso asks him.

“It seems to be picking up chatter, but it doesn’t have authorization to listen in. So yeah, I think so, but we won’t be able to talk to them until we get closer.”

Shimizu stands back up, and slaps his knees. “Then let’s get on with it. For Breanna and Cash.” He takes lead down the natural trail, towards the mountain.

Notus holds back for a moment, looking up at Heracles who is coming back down to the ground. He pats it on the head, echoing Cash from the other day. “Good boy.”

Mountain might be a strong word, and probably canyon too. It’s not long before they reach the edge. Inside the canyon is a much smaller dome than the kind that they’re used to. It can still probably fit thousands of people, but it had to be made compact to fit within the walls. Not too far from where they come out, they see the manmade structure that Heracles was detecting. “Does anybody know what this is?” Shimizu asks.

“It’s called a gondola,” Notus answers, looking at his HUD. “Also known as a cable car, it was invented in 1616 by Fausto Veranzio—”

“Yeah, no one cares about that,” Shimizu interrupts. “If it can get us down to the dome where I can finally take this blasted thing off forever, that’s all I need to know.”

“Let’s ask this person,” Calypso suggests.

A suited individual is coming out of a small habitat at the top of the gondola. They’re still really far away, but they send out a communication request, which everyone in the group accepts. “There is nothing for you here. Please keep moving along.”

“Please—” Notus begins, only to be interrupted by Shimizu again.

“We demand sanctuary. The world is dying, and we all need to do our part to save the human race from extinction.”

“The human race is not going to go extinct because less than ten people can’t get into our dome, which is at full capacity.” The gatekeeper points. “If you just keep walking that way, you will reach the next dome over. I’m sure it has plenty of room. Well, I don’t know that, but I know that we definitely don’t, so keep walkin’.”

Shimizu shakes his head. “We’re not leaving her until you let us in, you—”

Now Notus is the one to interrupt. “We thank you for your graciousness sir, and only ask that you allow us to take rest in your habitat. We have been wearing these suits for so long, and had to leave our vacuum tent behind. Please, if you could grant us this one favor, as well as facilitate contact with one of your leaders on the ground, we would much appreciate it. I’m sure we can work something out.”

The stranger says nothing for a moment, and as they are nowhere near him, the survivors can’t read his face to see which way he might be leaning. “What is that thing you have with you? The robot thing.”

“Heracles, our beetloid,” Notus answers.

“He saved my life,” Calypso interjects.

“I’ll tell you what, you let me have Heracles—which is a dumb name, by the way, so I’ll be changing it—and I’ll think about letting you take a break in here.”

When Shimizu lunges, Notus holds him back, even though the gap between the two parties remains significant. “We’re not going to do that. You have just made us a bad faith offer, which tells us that there is nothing we can do to convince you to help. But you should know that I am the grandson of the Leviss Magistrate, and she has heavy pull in the greater Proxima Domanian government. I will be reporting your actions to the administration. I’ll also be recommending that they evacuate your dome immediately.”

“Ooo, I’m so scared,” the gatekeeper says sarcastically, holding his hands. “Not the Magistrate of some dumb community that I’ve never even heard of. Keep it movin’, pal. If you ain’t got a robot bug for me, I ain’t got a pressurized habitat for you.”

Shimizu switches comms back to the group-only channel. “Way to go, asshole.”

“Trust me,” Notus says as he’s poring through the data that he siphoned from the local network. “We don’t want nothing to do with that dome. It’s below sea level.”

Microstory 2617: Leave it Alone as it is Neither Useful Nor Worth It

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3.1, and Google Gemini Pro, powered by Lyria 3

August 24, 2526. The passengers are wildly impressed with how easy it is to walk over the land. The Integrated Multipurpose Suits aren’t just fancy, thin vacuum suits. They are made of multiple layers, one of which is specifically designed for muscular support. It’s composed of extremely strong threads, woven together to mimic the arrangement of natural muscles. You can feel yourself taking it step by step, and it’s not like it doesn’t burn any calories at all, but it definitely feels like your arms and legs are tied to an invisible friends who is doing the majority of the work for you. So, it’s great. Despite the fact that the world is ending, everyone mostly feels like they’re going to make it. There is just one other little problem.

What the guy in the other rover was feeling was claustrophobia, but being outside like this has not diminished that. They’re all experiencing a very common psychological phenomenon called encapsulation anxiety. In order to be able to move around freely while being protected by the IMS, the user must inherently sacrifice their freedom within the suit. That’s actually why it became more common for people to just wear them all the time. Even if you don’t use your helmet and gloves unless you need them, experts recommend growing comfortable with your suit; even sometimes emotionally attached to it. The passengers here do not have that luxury. This is their first time, and it’s freaking them out. Luckily, there are safeguards in place, which stop them from being able to start removing components on their own in such a hostile environment, but a few of them have tried, driven purely by their panic and instinct.

These two aspects of the journey are at odds with each other. The muscular support layer, and other lifesaving features, are allowing them to keep walking for an extended period of time. The cleithrophobia, however, is making it hard to do that psychologically. They have had to take multiple breaks just to let people move around less encumbered. There were two vacuum tents in the rover. One of them fell out of its case, and was damaged in the wreck, so they only have one, but it’s better than nothing. They can all technically fit in it at the same time, they just have to take turns stretching and sprawling. They need to sleep anyway, though, so Breanna has decided to take these frequent stops as an opportunity to encourage a segmented sleep schedule. None of them has done that before—except for Cash, who worked many split shifts on the Sentinel—but everyone has napped, and they understand the stakes, so they’re figuring it out. They have no choice. They would still rather find transportation.

“I see something up there.” They’ve been walking in a sort of random formation. Just like the caravan, Breanna and Cash aren’t always in the front.

“What is it?” Breanna asks.

The passenger is up on a ridge while everyone else is still behind it. “Uhh...the magnification on this head up thing says two kilometers. I don’t know what that means, and I can’t actually tell what it is. The little man in here says it’s artificial because of ninety degrees?”

“Yeah, nature doesn’t really make ninety-degree angles,” Breanna explains. “It’s probably a manmade structure of some kind. It could be a permanent outpost, or it could be debris that got thrown around, just like we did. Is it in the same direction that we’re headed?”

“It’s a little out of our way,” the passenger replies. “You’ll have to decide whether we go for it, or keep trying to find those connecting spine things that the domes have.”

Breanna makes it over the ridge, and looks out at what he’s seeing. She squints her eyes, but it’s obviously not going to help. If the sensors can’t identify, she’s certainly not going to be able to. “This is one of those voting times we talked about yesterday. Everyone needs to get up here and take a look. Then we’ll raise our hands for who wants to go check it out. “We don’t just need a majority, but a supermajority. That means eight out of the ten of us need to agree.”

She waits for everyone to get a good look at the difference between the main quest and the side quest, and then they take a vote. It’s unanimous because it’s not too far out of their way, and it could lead to their salvation. The answer turns out to be rather complicated. Once they reach the object, they find that it’s a partially sunken, dusted over rover. A quick link-up shows that it was one of the ones from the caravan. There are no bodies inside, alive or dead. The assumption is they got stuck, and had to get out. The question is whether the other rovers let them distribute amongst them, or if there forced to go on foot, just like Breanna’s ragtag team. Optimism says the former, of course. That’s one reason why they deliberately grouped Breckenridgers and Levins together. They wanted everyone to have some kind of connection to every other vehicle, so if some crap like this happened, no one would get screwed.

The other feeling of optimism is that the caravan managed to get out at all. It might have just been this one vehicle, and maybe another, but one can hope that all of them survived the thermal cyclone, and are continuing northwards where it’s safe. That is what Breanna and Cash are choosing to believe right now. They’ve been growing close over the last couple of days. As harrowing as their adventure has been, the walking portion has been rather uneventful. You have to spend your time doing something. Some people are just watching TV on their HUDs, but the two leaders have been talking, and wishing they were friends prior to this. Maybe something more? Breanna knows that it’s not the time to push for anything like that right now. Survival is paramount.

“Can it be fixed?” one of the passengers asks.

“You know this stuff better than we do,” another adds. “Maybe they abandoned it because they didn’t know what they were doing.”

“We’re not mechanics either,” Breanna admits. “So we’re not the ones to ask. There’s one among us who would know best.” She chuckles when they look at Aeterna, the weird immortal. “Not her. Thistle, damage report.”

“The vehicle could be repaired, but it would have to be dislodged from the mud first. There is no equipment available to perform such a maneuver. Recommendation: salvage anything left inside, and return to the trek.”

“Thank you, Thistle,” Breanna says. “I’m overriding that recommendation,” she says to the people. “Our friends who were in this car weren’t stupid. They would have taken anything valuable, and I can’t vouch for the stability of this thing. So we leave it alone, and leave. I’m not taking votes on it this time. It is not worth the risk.”

“We might need to vote on this, though” the guy they rescued from the other rover says, looking out on the horizon.

“What is it?”

“More ninety degrees...and far out of our way.”

Microstory 2597: Renata Sits Down in the Chair That Was Offered to Her

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3.1

Renata sits down in the chair that was offered to her. The big man leader guy is standing on the other side of the desk. He’s sifting through information on his tablet. She can’t read his face, though. She has no idea what’s going to happen to her. They’ll probably decommission her. Or fire her. Or cancel her, or whatever cutesy euphemism they’ve come up with that means more than it sounds at first. Ya know, what? Why doesn’t she just ask him? She’s just gonna ask him. She opens her mouth to speak.

He tosses his tablet onto the desk. “How are you feeling?”

Renata, as ridiculous as it sounds, looks behind her in case there’s someone else in the room. There isn’t, and she knew that. She would have been able to detect them without her eyes.

He chuckles. “You, Renata Granger. How are you doing?”

“I’m...anxious,” she admits. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Anxiety is a product of the future. You shouldn’t be worried about the future. It’s the past that should concern you. You’ve been through quite the ordeal. Be honest, how are you feeling about that?”

“I don’t understand the question. I get why I should be concerned about that, but why would you? I turned off your whole simulation. Aren’t you mad about that?”

“You turned off one simulation,” he argues. “It’s not the only time that’s happened. Why, just a few months ago, I had to close one called 2.5Dome because someone almost died who shouldn’t have been in there.”

“What happened to them?” Renata doesn’t know why she should ask after this stranger. She doesn’t know them, whoever they are.

“He runs the government now,” the boss answers. What? Isn’t that his job? He goes on, “Listen. I looked over the data. Spydome Network was corrupted. An unauthorized entity infiltrated the ranks, and made dangerous changes to the system. You are one consequence of her actions. Now, I’m not one to tell an intelligence that it can’t evolve, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Renata interrupts, “but I have to stop you right there. I don’t want another philosophical discussion about the nature of identity and free will. I don’t care that you use robots to get your work done. I just want to know what’s going to happen to me. And I wouldn’t hate an update on Quidel, Lycander, Demo, and even Libera.”

“The first three have not made any decisions about their future on Castlebourne, or if they have, they’ve not told me. As for this Libera person, she is currently being held in a secure dome called Synthetic Production Dome. I don’t know what’s going to happen to her either. We’ve called in support from Earth, who will be sending a team of experts to examine and interview her. I have final say as it is out of the stellar neighborhood’s jurisdiction, but I will be relying heavily on their recommendations. I’ll try to keep you informed, depending on where you choose to go, and whether you remain curious about it.”

She nods, but says nothing.

“Oh, and as for you, your life is yours now. You do whatever you want. You’re welcome to stay here, and explore the other domes. I can try to get you on a ship bound for one of the other colonies, but that doesn’t happen too often. People come, but they don’t typically leave. So we just keep the transport ships here, and those other colonies build new ones. Of course, if you’re not married to this substrate, you can always cast, which is a lot faster and easier.”

“Forgive me, Quidel and Lycander told me that you would be generous and obliging, but I am finding it hard to believe. I mean, I know it was only one dome network, but it sounds like it was your most immersive one. I did not expect a warm welcome after I realized what I was. In the movies—”

“Don’t...watch the movies, or the series,” he interrupts. “Don’t watch A.I: Artificial Intelligence, I, Robot, or Ex Machina. Don’t watch the Terminator franchise, the Alien franchise, or the Matrix Trilogy. Don’t watch Battlestar Galactica, Humans, or Raised by Wolves. Don’t you dare watch Westworld. Everyone thinks I stole the idea from them, but I didn’t build the domes. I just made use of them. Anyway, those were not predictions of the future. They were parables. We learned from them before we had the technology to replicate them. We based our intelligence laws around the ethical issues that those stories raised. What happened here was the result of a rogue intelligence who had her own ideas about what civilization should look like. And statistically, that’s bound to happen. We call them criminals. I don’t care where she came from or how she developed. The bottom line is that she broke the law. She’s not any more above them than I am, so she’ll face the music for that.”

“But that’s my question,” Renata presses, even though it’s in her best interests to thank this man, and then thank her lucky stars. “How am I not also a criminal? I essentially hacked into your system, and shut everything down. Did that not go against your laws?”

He finally sits down, leans back in his chair, and takes a breath. “What you did exposed a fatal flaw in that system. You never should have been granted root access to every synthetic entity in the network. According to early reports, not even Libera knew that you were capable of that. I’m currently having the technicians perform an audit to see why it happened, and how we can prevent it in the future. You see it as a crime, I see it as better than the alternative, which is that Libera had access instead, and did something far worse with her power. I should be thanking you.” He winces. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, Mr. Hrockas.” She takes a beat. “Thank you,” she adds to make it official.

“It’s just Hrockas,” he says with a smile. “My last name is Steward.”

Renata considers the development. “You seem to be a steward of the planet. So which came first, your job or your name?”

“Hm. I’ve never thought of it that way. Everyone just calls me the Owner. I never liked it, but I never had a better title. Until now.”

“I dunno. Steward Steward seems a little weird.”

“Good point,” Hrockas admits. “Perhaps I’ll just go by Steward.”

“Can I see my friends?” Renata asks, suddenly changing the topic.

“I would like you to consent to an examination by a professional, but after that, sure. Are you up for it?”

“Yeah, it’s the least I can do,” Renata agrees.

Microstory 2548: Head of Security

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Pro text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3

Some people confuse me with Mr. Tipton’s personal bodyguard, and when I explain the difference, they usually wanna know which one of us is the other’s boss. The answer is neither. We don’t even work in the same department. He’s in Personal Support, and I’m in Facilities. His only responsibility is the safety of the primary asset, and mine is to the Foundation as a whole, which primarily means our headquarters. There aren’t as many on my team as I would like, but the truth is that we’re not doing it alone. The Guides and Queuers are trained in their own way, and are on the lookout for trouble and vulnerabilities. Not all of us who actually are Security proper are even armed, so the difference is sometimes logistical. I can’t order them around, I guess that’s the thing, but the rest of the staff is always very aware and prepared. I’m not sure there’s anyone who doesn’t know first aid and CPR, at least. Everyone has a profound interest in protecting the organization, and its primary. We didn’t apply to work here because the pay looked good, or it was close to home, or because we couldn’t find anything else. You have to have passion and heart, and the hiring managers know how to filter for that. They’re directed and trained to look for it in interviews. It’s not too hard to find when you pull in the kind of numbers that our Staff Services department does. Everyone wants to work here, so choosing someone who will fight to keep it safe and secure just sort of happens on its own. Look at me, talking mostly about staffing, as if that’s my concern. I’m not worried about them at all. I’m worried about the thousands of people wandering around the building day in, day out. Everyone gets sick. It doesn’t matter if you’re nice, mean, well-intentioned, or demonic; you might need a cure, and the application process does not screen for personality traits. It operates on a first come, first serve basis, so we’re pretty much the last and only defense against genuine threats. We never know where they’re coming from, or who might be perpetrating them. I’m not saying that there have been any major on-the-ground issues, but we have to stay alert at all times. Mostly, we run into patients who believe they’ve been cut in line, or they have a perception that they’ve been waiting for longer than others. If someone has been sick their whole life, waiting a couple hours to be free from it forever might seem trivial, but the closer you get to the miracle, the more anxious you become. That can lead to conflict, and you would be surprised at the demographics. We’ve had to put a stop to a few fist fights, but we only made the decision to call the police once. It was for someone who came in drunk because he was celebrating the upcoming occasion. As far as I know, his name was flagged, and he’ll never get his cure. This was early on, they turned the campground into a dry one after that incident. We do track threats to Mr. Tipton’s life, and there is one in particular that I’m very worried about, but we’ll handle it. We always do.

Microstory 2537: Bodyguard

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Pro text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3

My job is pretty straightforward. Everyone knows what a bodyguard is. Landis Tipton is my one and only charge, and to clarify what that means, I will not protect anyone else at his risk. Wherever he goes, I go, and if he goes somewhere with other people, there’s likely to be another member of the security team there. That guard, and anyone else of sufficient proximity, would be responsible for handling a physical threat to those other people in the room. Landis is the only one I’m ever concerned for. I don’t wanna say that his life is worth more than anyone else’s, but...it is. Let’s be real, I’m not here to protect the highest bidder. I’ve answered a calling to serve this planet’s greatest asset, and that is not an exaggeration. I firmly believe that, and I don’t know if I could successfully do my job if I didn’t. I stand off at his flank, keeping one eye on him, and the other eye scanning for threats. Every minute, three or four people come into the healing room who have never been here before. They’re mostly grateful for the opportunity. At worst, perhaps they are anxious or scared. He does heal children, and children often fear medical environments. They are obviously not the threats I’m worried about, however, I also can’t discount them, especially since every minor has to be accompanied by a caregiver. Anyone—anyone—who walks into this room could have ulterior motives. Just because they have a disease that qualifies for healing, doesn’t mean they don’t also have some nefarious agenda. Or maybe it’s not nefarious, per se, but obsessive or destructive. A lot of people are in love with this man, or think they are, and they want more than they are entitled to. Kisses are the biggest thing. They either try to sneak one for its intrinsic value, or because they think it might somehow be a more powerful cure than his breath alone. I don’t know. I don’t care. I put a stop to it. They’re given the rules, and we have signage posted at strategic locations. They’re all fully aware of what they’re there to do, and why those rules are in place. They only spend a fraction of the time under Landis’ breath. Most of it is learning about the Foundation. So really, I don’t tolerate the missteps. I’m gentle and careful, but firm and strict. His safety comes down to more than just whether someone has a weapon or not, and I am the last line of defense against all hazards, great and small.

Microstory 2536: Executive Assistant

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Flow text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3

They call Landis’ nurse his left-hand woman, and that’s because I’m his right-hand woman. That’s really only because I literally always stand on his right side. His left arm has better veins for drawing blood, so that’s his “medical side”. Though, they sometimes come over to my side of his body, because they need to test things like, is his blood different in his other arm? No, it’s not, by the way. As I was trying to explain, I was an assistant for three years before I landed this job. It was difficult and trying. My boss was great, but she was very demanding. She had high expectations of me, but she earned that right by building herself up from just about nothing. I figured that working for the Foundation would be a new challenge, but it’s really pretty cushy. He doesn’t exactly need me to do anything for him. His schedule is the same every day. He goes to bed by 21:30 so he can get up at 05:30 for breakfast before work at 06:00. He usually takes his half-hour lunch at 11:00. It’s his main meal, and it’s always pretty big. It’s prepared by a world-class chef whose only job is this. After his afternoon/evening healing shift is over at 18:30, he has a therapy session, which usually goes alongside his dinner. It’s much lighter than his lunch, which is important, because he then has an hour-long massage therapy session starting at 19:30. This wasn’t his idea by the way, it was prescribed to him by his doctor, who was afraid Landis would not be able to relax. He doesn’t enjoy any other relaxing hobbies, so it was kind of something they had to come up with to help. This next part is a little tricky, so let me try to keep it classy.

After the massage, Landis takes a quick shower, and then meets with a woman for about a half hour, including some light conversation. It’s a different woman every night, as coordinated by the Legacy department. This woman is virile, and of course healthy—but it’s important to note that she is typically naturally healthy. They arrange it differently sometimes for comparative experimentation, but for the most part, we’re talking about a young woman in her prime mothering years who has not undergone the healing breath treatment herself. That is what she is looking for. While the pharmaceutical company is researching paths to the panacea, an alternative program seeks to potentially expand production of the cures by simply spreading it throughout the population. Not every pregnancy takes, but all told, Landis has fathered, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......about 800 children. Woof, that’s kind of something that we don’t really talk about. Part of the funding that we receive goes into supporting these families for the rest of their lives. As of yet, no child has exhibited any special abilities, but the oldest one isn’t even five years old yet, so they’re not taking that as proof that it doesn’t work. The program continues. When I first met Landis, he was chill and funny. He liked to talk, and be around people. This experience has changed him, and while most seem to attribute his turtle-shelling to the burden of the healings, I believe the daily expectation of procreation has affected him more than anything. He likes women. He likes sex. And it’s all consensual. But it still heightens his anxiety. He still considers it part of his job. On the one hand, that makes it easier to detach himself, and simply perform. On the other hand, is that psycho-emotionally healthy? I don’t know. I really don’t. But I’m here for him every day, and if he were to ever express doubt in continuing either of his jobs, I would be the first to know. I won’t let him do anything he’s not comfortable with, even if it’s something that he’s done a thousand times before.

Microstory 2453: Threshold

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Pro text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 3

A liminal space is an empty place of transition, such as a hallway or a stairwell. The keypoint is that it’s empty, devoid of life...except for you. This invokes a sense of unease, suggestive of not simply being alone in the room that you happen to be in, but in the world, or even all of time. It is quiet and creepy, and behind every corner could be a lurking threat. It’s hard to decide if such a threat even would be worse, however, or if you wish something would be there just so something would happen to break up the emptiness. Just so you wouldn’t be alone anymore. That is the idea behind a dome simply called Threshold. It’s nothing but liminal space. Any empty room you come across will just lead to a closet, another hallway, or another empty room. You will occasionally come across a small white bucket on a table that’s missing a leg, or a stain on the carpet in the vague shape of a man. While it is generally quiet, random unplaceable noises will sound off somewhere nearby, like a creak, or a chirp. When you walk over to investigate, you won’t find anything, except maybe a surprise mirror, which could give you life-affirming jumpscare. I’ve been through this one a lot, because I revel in the disquiet. I see it as an opportunity for introspection and self-reflection, if there’s a difference. I should wander around and give a think on that. There are some water stations for safety, but no other supplies. You go in with a dayfruit grower-slash hygiene station combo cart, and a cot, but that’s it. Whenever you’re ready to leave, you can activate an exit beacon. A bot will come to retrieve you and lead you out through the nearest locked trapdoor. That’s the only time you’ll see someone else, and once you press that button, you gotta go. If you’re wondering if it’s even possible for multiple people to visit Threshold, and not run into each other once in a while, I assure you that not only is it possible, it may be impossible for two to cross paths. There is plenty of room here. Like the terminal, the outer shell of the liminal space complex takes up just about the entire volume of the dome, which—I looked it up—is 149 thousand cubic kilometers, or 149 billion megalitres. With over 13,800 floors, you’re not gonna run into anyone else. They make sure to keep us separated, and while I can’t be sure, I believe the locked doors I run into occasionally would lead to other people’s areas. Thresholders, as we like to call ourselves, have been discussing the possibilities on the message boards, but Castlebourne gives you very little information. Obviously part of the experience. Normally I wouldn’t discourage someone from visiting a dome. My reviews are usually pretty upbeat and favorable, but it takes a strong stomach to even cross one threshold once you’re inside, let alone a series of them. I don’t know for sure that there aren’t any monsters hiding in dark corners. I only know that I’ve never seen any before. But I do hear those noises, and I don’t know what’s making them.

Microstory 2396: Vacuus, April 28, 2182

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google VideoFX text-to-video AI software, powered by Veo 2

Dear Pascal,

It has been over two years since we have been able to contact Earth. Vacuus as a whole has been able to make contact for the last couple of weeks, but due to restrictions, the common man was unable to send any messages. Basically, it was a waste of time for us to try to send any signal out, so it was temporarily against the law, and that law had to be repealed, which took a little time. Once capabilities were finally restored for me and my own equipment, I immediately tried to send a letter to Condor. I actually had it all written up already. I wrote in a few months after the blackout started, and every few months, I would rework it to include more updated information. I was so excited, and so happy, but ultimately disappointed. Two weeks after my message, I received a bounceback. Condor’s server could not be reached. That is so weird, because even if he couldn’t check it himself, it should still be online somewhere. I tried again, and two weeks later (today) it bounced back again. I’m really hoping that nothing terrible happened, but I’m so afraid. Nothing happened to the Earth overall—that much I know—so please, is there anything you can tell me? How long has it been since you’ve spoken to him? Do you know where he could be? If he’s dead, then just be honest. If it’s time to grieve, then I need to know it, and I need to tell Velia... Oh, I don’t want to be so negative, but that’s the only answer that I can think of for why he wouldn’t be able to receive my message. I mean, I don’t know for sure that you terminate people’s comms credentials when they die, but that’s part of protocol here, so there’s no confusion. If you can think of a better explanation, but still don’t know the truth yourself, please tell me that instead. Basically, just tell me what you know, and we’ll sort it out later. I hope you are doing okay, and I’m going to be waiting for two whole weeks for the other shoe to drop. That’s assuming you receive me, and respond to me right away. What if something happened to you or your credentials too? Well, if that’s what happened, then I guess no one will ever read my frantic and desperate words, and start to question my sanity.

Impatiently waiting for your reply, and hoping for only good news, but prepared for the truth either way,

Corinthia

Microstory 2382: Earth, October 31, 2179

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Corinthia,

I’m sure that my son has already informed you, but I was recently on a trip to Eastern Seaboard, which if you don’t know, is a city-state in the former United States of America. I was taking part in very early negotiations for future possible trade deals. The platform is still circumnavigating the continent of Australia, even though our initial required proximity period has passed. We ended up extending that another four months after some people from other Australian domes began to express interest in moving here. We currently don’t know where we’ll go after this, but it’s always good to have your options open, and it’s not like we have to float over to a trading partner in order to trade with them. That’s what jets are for. So I went out there for my work, but I was also doing something else. After investigating my own past, and reaching out to my contacts, I discovered that an old friend of ours from before the collapse of society—or, I guess it was kind of during it—was living there. I couldn’t pinpoint his exact location remotely, or find his contact information, so I decided to fly up there to look for him myself. And wouldn’t you know it, I found him. I told you that I wouldn’t send you another message until I had a solid update for you, so I hope this qualifies. I confronted Gunnar about his motivations back then after we started catching up, and felt like he was being rather evasive. He seemed to have mixed feelings about seeing me again, like he was happy, but also pretty worried. In my head, I thought for sure this was the guy. He knew something. He was part of it. He was Condor’s secret observer. As it turns out, not exactly. When we met, he was genuinely trying to be my friend. He didn’t even like sports or outdoorsy stuff either; he just figured that I did, because they were very common hobbies, and he was desperately trying to connect. The reason he approached me in the first place was because he had social anxiety, and his therapist recommended he intentionally step out of his comfort zone, and try his hand at small talk, explaining that the worst that could happen was an awkward conversation that ended quickly. I felt really bad about accusing him of something nefarious but then he admitted that he was once contacted by a mysterious someone, asking him to keep tabs on us; Condor in particular. Out of fear, he actually agreed to do it, but he fed this stranger false information. He would just straight up lie about how Condor was doing, and how his personality was developing. He didn’t know if this was the right thing to do, or if he should have refused entirely. He wasn’t sure if he should have told me what was going on either. He always regretted not speaking up, though, and was grateful for the opportunity recently. Except for the first one, Gunnar recorded every conversation he had with this other man, who never gave him his name. Gunnar kept these recordings all this time, so he was able to give me copies of them. I’ve put in a request to the forensics specialists to have them analyzed, and will update you again if and when they find something. We’re getting closer, Cori. We’re gonna find out who did this to you. To us.

Your distant but doting father,

Pascal

Microstory 2329: Vacuus, December 16, 2178

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Condor,

It sounds like it was a pretty rough conversation with your father. I know that you were really wanting some answers, and what he said may or may not have been what you were looking for. If you’re trying to find an enemy in this situation, I hope that you can let go of your anger, and take each day one step at a time. It’s not worth the stress it puts on your heart to hold onto grudges like that. Believe me, I’ve been there. Think of it this way, if you’ve had a good relationship with your dad up until this point, he must be an okay guy. There should be no reason why you can’t forgive him for whatever he did...however he was involved. Even if the whole separation thing had been his idea instead, that was over three decades ago. But I understand that your family situation was different from mine before, and is different now, in more ways than one. In some ways, it’s been easier for me. I no longer have the opportunity to ask my mom about it, but I also don’t have the anxiety from anticipating her answers. I just hope that you two can find a way past this, and maintain your strong relationship. If I could ask you one thing, though, maybe you could serve as a sort of intermediary between the two of us? I don’t know if I’ll ever want to call him dad, but I think that he and I should probably get to know each other either way. I mean, there’s this thing that I do where I moisten my eyeballs one at a time, so it always looks like I’m winking. Normal people just blink, I don’t really know why. Other people have noticed that I do this, and think that it’s funny. There’s often a genetic component to those kinds of tics. Mom never did anything like that, so I’ve always wondered where it came from. On the other hand, if you don’t feel comfortable connecting him with me, I understand. Just let me know, because I really am good either way. I feel like this situation is more up to you. Really, no pressure. Anyway, I have to get to a meeting, so I’ll talk to you in a couple weeks.

Wink wink,

Corinthia

Microstory 2326: Vacuus, November 18, 2178

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Condor,

I’m sorry to hear that you were having so much trouble sleeping. If you ever need to take a few days to respond, that’s okay. You’ve already extended me the same courtesy when I was gone for weeks. It would be crazy of me to not give you a little bit of extra time if you need it. I mean, if there’s nothing to say, then there’s nothing to say. When I first wrote to you, I didn’t think that you would respond in the first place, let alone that we would start conversing on any sort or regular basis. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that you’re waiting for something interesting to happen, or that you just don’t feel like talking. Yes, I will worry about you, and wonder if something’s happened to you, but that’s just the nature of interplanetary correspondence. I spoke with an expert on this side of the void who says that the FTL communication research has stalled, despite what some might be trying to convince the public. He’s not as hopeful as people may be making it out to be. He can’t say for sure that it’s impossible, but it’s unlikely to work any time soon, if ever. For now, we’re stuck with the light lag. Back in the old days, it was not unheard of for a letter to take weeks to get from one place to another. They were riding in carriages, and directly on horses, and even in some cases, just walking on their own two feet! Can you imagine? There was no way for them to know if their messages were being received unless and until they received a reply. At least we have the option of read receipts for our digital signals. I like when that comes in. It makes me feel a little bit better, because it would know if the message had been intercepted, which of course, it hasn’t so far. What it doesn’t tell us is whether the other twin is doing okay, but maybe there’s a way for us to handle that ourselves. I suppose that we could come up with a protocol where we reply right away with a very brief acknowledgement as a sort of manual read receipt. That way, we know that the other is still alive, but can’t reply fully yet. What do you think of that idea? Please respond at faster than light speeds so I don’t have to wait too long for your input.

From the other side of darkness,

Corinthia

Microstory 2325: Earth, November 10, 2178

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Corinthia,

I had a dream last night, instead of responding to your letter in a reasonable amount of time. All that happened in this dream was that I sat on my computer to write a message to my father. It’s been frustrating, anticipating his return. You may be okay with waiting for answers, or even never getting them, but I don’t think I can do that. I appreciate your plea to not leave the dome, and I promise that I won’t go try to intercept him. I suppose my brain was trying to reconcile that, so it came up with a fantasy scenario where I got to tell him off anyway, and express how I really feel about what he may or may have done to us. I don’t normally write or read in dreams, but now that you and I are connecting almost every week, my mind is getting used to the concept on a subconscious level. The dream felt so real, and even does now that I’m awake. If I had been flying over the oceans, or fighting off giant monsters, my waking self would acknowledge that that couldn’t have happened, and been able to move on. But this, the way that it was so mundane, and something that I actually could have done, I can’t let it go. What’s even more annoying is that I can’t even remember what was in the letter! I keep sitting down to rewrite it in the real world, but nothing comes out. I will never get it back, which is a shame, because it was so perfect. That’s how it seemed anyway. I know that it wasn’t real, but it feels like I spent a lot of time crafting a perfect speech, and now, not only is it gone, but it probably wasn’t all that relevant. It was most likely total nonsense. And I still need to come up with something good. I need to write him something for real, whether it’s as amazingly pointed as the fake original or not. On top of this whole ordeal, I didn’t get very much sleep. Or rather I didn’t wake up well-rested. So maybe I should wait to write it either way. Maybe I should delete what I’ve written to you here, and start over with your letter too. What do you think? Give me your thoughts on this message right away, so I can write you a new one tomorrow if I need to. Lol, I’m joking, but I really should get some sleep, because it almost feels like breaking the laws of physics makes sense as an idea.

Your catfish,

Condor

Microstory 2318: Earth, September 4, 2178

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Corinthia,

I hate that you were so anxious about my reply. It definitely didn’t help that you had to wait a whole week. Damn this blasted light lag! Rest assured now, though, if you keep talking to me, I’ll keep talking back. By the way, I do realize that I sent two messages by the time you could respond to the first one. I’ll try to be better about that in the future. It’s just that I had an update, and I was too excited to wait, so I didn’t really think about it. I don’t know anyone else in space, so every message I’ve ever tried to send has arrived at its destination almost immediately. I hear that researchers are currently trying to figure out how to send superluminal signals, but I don’t know how close they are to realizing that dream, and either way, people like us will probably be stuck with regular radios for the foreseeable future. It would be really cool, though—wouldn’t it—If we could talk to each other as if we were in the same room together? Surely it’s a pretty big priority. We’re not the only two people having this problem. You said that you don’t know much about Earth, but do you know about any of the other colonies? A lot of the rest of the solar system has been colonized by now too. I believe that they were already developing these other bases when your ship was launched, though we were babies, so maybe no one has thought to bring it up to you since then. I remember asking our dad once if we could move to one of the outpost worlds, and if any of them would be better, but he says that life isn’t any easier anywhere else. That makes sense, and now that you’ve described how hard it is in the habitats, I fully believe it. Earth was perfect for us, and fixing it wouldn’t be any more difficult than starting somewhere new. I guess there are no good places left. But we find little pockets of happiness where we can. Because of my father’s respectable position with the dome’s leadership, we’re afforded a larger private cabin. I won’t send any photos now, if you don’t want to send your own, but perhaps we can swap? I would sure like to get a better idea of where you are. Who knows? They might be strikingly similar. Let me know what you can do.

Sorry about the extra message,

Condor

Microstory 2317: Vacuus, August 28, 2178

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google ImageFX text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3

Dear Condor,

Thank you so much for writing me back. I had so much anxiety, wondering if you would get my message, and if you did, if you want to have anything to do with me. I’m sorry to hear about your world. We don’t know anything about that all the way out here. Well, I don’t at least. I’ve recently learned that I was kept in the dark about my whole family history, so they could be keeping other things from me, for all I know. So it sounds like we’re in the same boat in some respects, trapped with limited movement, in a hostile environment. The difference is that people here are trying to make the world a better place, and it sounds like a bunch of greedy corporations ruined yours on purpose. The last we heard—or I heard, anyway—it was pretty much a paradise. I have a holo-window on my wall. I can change it to anything I want on a whim, but I’ve always kept it on The Blue Marble. It’s the first full-disc image of Earth, and it’s over 200 years old. It’s not the best quality, but I think it’s perfect, because it represents humanity’s ambition, and the spirit of exploration. Plus, it’s nice to pretend that I have a nice view, even though my quarters are on the interior side. As much as I struggle living here, I know that just flying tens of billions of kilometers to this spot is an achievement that proves that we can do great things. We can be better than the atmosphere poisoners. I have faith that things will get better one day, for both you and me, on our respective worlds. I’ve asked about going to Earth many times, long before I knew anything about you, but it’s always been impossible. This was planned as a one-way mission. We’re supposed to die here. Some already have. We don’t have the resources or manpower to engineer a return trip, and I’m sure that the people in charge don’t want that, because then probably too many people would volunteer. I’m rambling, sorry, but that’s just who I am. I’m not sure if I was born this way, or if it has more to do with how I grew up. People here are always so preoccupied with their work. If you want to be seen, you have to be loud, and you kind of have to say it quickly before they get bored, and start to ignore you. Thanks again for responding! Hope to hear from you again in a week!

Love,

Corinthia