Microstory 1946: Reese’s Debrief

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Special Investigator: Please state your full name for the record.

Reese: Agent Reese Fortitude Parsons, Fugitive Services.

Special Investigator: Please describe your last mission.

Reese: We were sent to investigate a scientific anomaly of some kind that appeared in the Wyoming desert. We were told that an intrusion from another world could have taken place, so we were there to take reconnaissance, and report back.

Special Investigator: Did you ever report back?

Reese: Not until there was something to report.

Special Investigator: Who is we? Who went with you?

Reese: A civilian, Leonard Miazga, and another civilian, Myka Tennison.

Special Investigator: To your knowledge, were others involved in this mission?

Reese: Three of Miss Tennison’s friends secretly followed us. My superior, Special Investigator Eliot sent a shadow team to follow as well. They only made contact after the aliens were discovered. Plus, an unrelated third party showed up on the hunt.

Special Investigator Eliot: We’ll get to the party-crashers, and the aliens. First, I wanna know why you thought it was pertinent to be joined by not one, but two, civilians.

Reese: One of the civilians is former law enforcement, and was fully cleared by this office for temporary active duty.

SI Eliot: Oh, he was, was he? Which means that you were aware of the proper procedures for deputization, and simply ignored them for the second civilian.

Reese: I followed protocol according to my training and experience as a Fugitive Agent.

SI Eliot: You were not working in your capacity as a Fugitive Agent for this mission.

Reese: I believed that I was still a Fugitive Agent to enough of an extent. Everything about the mission parameters suggested that we were searching for fugitives, and even if it didn’t, we found them.

SI Eliot: That’s a stretch, to call them fugitives. They’ve never been here before.

Reese: It’s a stretch that I’m willing to accept if you are.

SI Eliot: I’ll consider it.

OSI Director: *knocks three times on the glass*

SI Eliot: *looking at the one-way mirror* My boss would like me to switch gears. Tell me more about the aliens. Would you have categorized them as hostile?

Reese: No, sir. They were peaceful...uncomfortably so.

SI Eliot: How do you mean?

Reese: Their straightforwardness made it seem as though they were hiding something.

SI Eliot: You believe that they were telling you so many truths in order to cover up a real secret?

Reese: That’s correct.

SI Eliot: Fair assessment. We’ll be sure to work on them from that angle.

Reese: You’ve kept them apart from each other, right? They can escape if they can get to one another. They can’t go anywhere if they’re each alone.

SI Eliot: You don’t have to worry about that anymore. Try to think like a suspect in this situation. It’ll make this easier. We have a lot to talk about today.

Microstory 1925: Apostle’s Virtue

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National Commander Apostle Virtue: Not that I don’t enjoy our in-person visits, Director, but what do you have to say that could not be said over secure video chat?

OSI Director: Is that a new uniform? It looks nice, Commander. There’s an update on the alien situation. Remember how I told you we made contact with the human traveler?

Apostle: I recall, the supposed parole officer?

OSI Director: We let him interview the creature, and I believe that we have an opportunity here. I came in person, because we have a short window to act, and I don’t need chatlag getting in the way of me getting my point across.

Apostle: You let a civilian—an escaped jail detainee—interrogate another detainee, who also happens to be an alien from another world, and the greatest, most dangerous, discovery that this country—this planet—has ever made?

OSI Director: Yes, and I’d do it again, because he actually got through to it. We were right, it does speak. It knows a lot, it’s just stubborn.

Apostle: Well, what did it say?

OSI Director: It knows things about the P.O.’s future, and the P.O. was not surprised or confused about that. I think they experience time differently than we do.

Apostle: What’s this opportunity then?

OSI Director: It asked to be set free. No, it asked him to break it out. There’s more it could tell, but it won’t say anything further while it’s locked up.

Apostle: Reasonable response. I would probably say that too if I were in its position. That doesn’t mean we can release it.

OSI Director: I think we should. We could stage a fake escape. We already implanted the tracker in its arm, so we’ll always know where it is. Plus, we can place a tracker or two on the human, and a listening device. We can stay on them, no problem. My worst investigative team could pull it off.

Apostle: You have bad investigative teams?

OSI Director: Sir—

Apostle: No, Director, you’re having trouble understanding the gravity of the situation here. We are this close to getting military aid from Australia against Russia. I can’t make one misstep here. I can elevate our status on the international stage, but only if I play my cards right. It’s not poker; it’s a strategy card game. Because it’s not just about holding the right cards, but about you playing the right cards at the right time to get ahead. This alien is going to get us out of our hundred year slump, but not if it’s discovered by some village idiot in some rando town while it’s on the run from the government. We have to make the announcement. We have to control the narrative.

OSI Director: We still can. The alien doesn’t know what our world is like. We can control its environment. All we have to do is make the human feel like he’s one of us.

Apostle: This is a big risk. If it looked human enough, I would be more comfortable. Of course, that would make it less dramatic when we reveal its existence to the world...

OSI Director: I have an idea about that.

Apostle: Go ahead, soldier.

OSI Director: Its wings make it stand out the most, right? So let’s get rid of ‘em.

Extremus: Year 40

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All the truths came out after the debacle at Taila March’s broadcast. The passengers knew a little bit about the True Extremists, but there was so much more that Halan, Olindse, and Kaiora chose to keep from the majority. After Nuka Bloch completed their maximum term limit, a new first chair took over, but he didn’t survive the issues that the fake Rita Suárez caused. The December election saw him lose his seat to a man named Jepson Sandor, who quickly pivoted his campaign to a sentiment of governmental transparency. He vowed to combat the opacity that his predecessors supposedly laid between them and the people, as well as the secrecy of the crew. He shot up in popularity overnight, and won by a landslide. Unlike other politicians, he wasn’t talking out his ass either. He began to make real changes to the way the civilian government was run, and then he went after the other side.

For the most part, civilians have no control over the inner workings of running the ship itself, however there are exceptions to this division of power, and it has to do with preventing any one power from overtaking the other. A system of checks and balances would allow a captain to take emergency action if they should find the government becoming unfair or tyrannical. Likewise, the government can do the same, and through a convoluted system of loopholes, First Chair Sandor was able to create an entirely new bridged position. Similar to how the Hock Watcher serves equally both governing bodies, the Ship Superintendent has been given the latitude to make decisions that affect the staffing conditions throughout the whole vessel. He can fire, hire, replace, reassign, or even do away with a position altogether. Again, like the Hock Watcher, the way he was elected-slash-appointed was complicated and drawn out, but once the process began, it could not be stopped. Someone had to get this job, and as much as Kaiora fought it, it was going to happen, so their best bet was to find someone who everyone could trust.

Be not confused about the rank of Ship Superintendent. We are not talking about The Superintendent, who lives in another universe, apparently created all of these individuals as characters, and literally wrote the words you’re reading right now. Hey there. Superintendent Calixte Salmon is just a man who was born on Extremus shortly after it launched, and has always wanted to do something like this. Be not confused about this either. It’s a coincidence that he shares his surname with a subspecies of human who travel through time against their will. Or maybe it’s not so much of a coincidence. There was no one named Salmon when a fairly small group of humans first settled in the universe of Ansutah. Everyone here is descended from them, and the reason there aren’t only a couple hundred names is because over time, people began to choose their own to distance themselves from the original family tree. It made it easier to avoid worrying about committing incest after several generations passed, and it probably wasn’t a problem anymore anyway. It’s possible that someone chose the name on purpose at some point. Such historical records were hard to maintain while the ancestors were trying to hide from the white monsters in caves.

Calixte Salmon has not been given carte blanche to make any changes to the crew that he wants, but neither does he have to get approval for every little thing he does. It is in this gray area where doubt regarding his mandate lives. It’s going to take work for him to convince others that it’s not his job to drain the swamp, or alter the balance of power. He’s not there to change everything, but there is a lot of room for improvement, and finding ways to optimize is exactly what he was appointed to do. The Captain—and the captaincy—are fine, but the rest of the crew needs an overhaul. This is gonna hurt. It’s his first day on the job, and if the looks he’s getting from the crowd as he’s trying to explain his purpose are any indication, he will be met with much resistance. He needs help. It’s unclear whether Captain Leithe is approaching the podium in order to provide him that, or if she’s going to throw him under the bus.

She lowers the microphone, and clears her throat with purpose. “I understand that you’re all upset and concerned. I can’t guarantee that this is going to be easy, but we have been discussing this new dynamic for months. I have not been left out of the loop. If this weren’t the only way to overcome our obstacles, I wouldn’t let it happen. This is the first step towards solving the True Extremist crisis, figuring out whether the faux Rita was part of them, or some other faction, and if it’s the latter, solving that one too. I won’t lie to you. Some people may see their shifts cut short. But what I can promise is that each one of you will enjoy the compensation you always expected at the end of those shifts, whether they ultimately last as long as you expected, or not.” She held up her index finger to add, “with a caveat. He is here to help us, and you are here to help him do that. If any of you resist these changes—to an unreasonable degree at least—you run the risk of not only precipitating the deterioration of our society, but also of losing all of your benefits. I’ll throw you in hock if I have to. If anyone is going to revolt, I will be the one to lead, so as long as I’m okay with the state of things, you automatically know that you’re okay with it too. Pretty easy, knowing that you can relax, and accept reality, isn’t it? So check your attitudes, and follow my orders, as well as the Super’s. Understood?”

The crew lifts their knees and drops their feet back down in a stomp pretty simultaneously, though not perfectly. It’s a formal gesture of respect and attention.

“We’ll work on that, so you don’t embarrass me at our next presentation,” Kaiora says. She steps away from the mic, and nods at her new colleague. “Super.”

“Captain,” he replies. “Thank you.”

She solemnly motions for him to return to the podium.

“Thank you, Captain Leithe,” he repeats for all to hear. “I do understand that you’re all nervous about the upcoming changes, especially since you don’t know what they’re going to be. I want you to know that I haven’t decided anything yet. I’ve not had enough time to conduct a thorough assessment. Still, I may be able to answer some of your questions, so I would like to open up the floor to those. Please raise your hand, and stand once picked by the microdrone, which I control. For all not picked that time, please lower your hands and wait to put them back up until I’m finished providing my answer. Sound fair?”

Dozens of people raise their hands, most of them quite earnestly.

Meanwhile, downstage, Second Lieutenant Lars Callaghan is talking out the side of his mouth to his superior officers. “I know it’s gonna be me.”

“What will be you?” First Lieutenant Corinna Seelen questions.

“I’m gonna get the boot,” he answers.

Kaiora sighs rather loudly. She taps on her watch, and activates a sonic barrier, so they can talk freely without anyone else hearing them. “What are you going on about?”

“It’s the Second Lieutenant curse,” Lars tries to explain. “We always get screwed over.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Corinna presses. “You’re only the second L-T-two this ship has ever seen.”

“Yeah, and look at what happened to the last guy. He’s in hock. I’m next, it’s a pattern.”

“That’s not a pattern,” Kaiora argues. “It’s not even a coincidence yet, because Calixte hasn’t even mentioned you to me. It’s just something that happened, and what happened is not that Ovan Teleres was screwed over. He attacked the crew, so the rank isn’t cursed unless maybe you decide to do something similar. Are you planning something, Callaghan?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then shut the hell up and listen to the Q and A!” She makes a point of showing him her watch as she deactivates the barrier.

They listen quietly for a little bit. Lars nods at the good question about whether Superintendent Salmon is planning on merging crew and passenger responsibilities, or if there would remain a clear distinction. “I just think back to how there was never really supposed to be another lieutenant in the first place, and how Captain Yenant only instituted it in order to try to take Ovan out of power in the first place.”

“You can’t prove that,” Kaiora says legally. “And shh!”

Lars continues to try to take his mind off the future of his rank, but he can’t stand it. After a few minutes, he has to get back to it, “some of the things he says he’s gonna do are things that I’m supposed to be doing.”

Kaiora sighs again, and reactivates the sonic barrier. She also includes a visual time loop, which makes it look to people on the other side like the three of them are still sitting in their respective chairs, and not arguing with each other. She stands up to cover the gap between them, hovering her chest in front of Corinna’s face. “Lars, you are a member of the executive crew. As such, I get last say on what happens to you and your rank. He cannot override any decision of mine when it comes to that.”

“I didn’t know that. Good.”

“No. It’s not good,” she maintains. “Because he doesn’t know you, and probably wouldn’t think to do much with you. But I know you, and I’m pissed at you. You’re annoying, and sometimes you don’t do your job. So I’m thinking about dropping you anyway, just to make this whole process easier. I could probably blame it on him. If you don’t want that to happen, I suggest you keep your mouth shut, keep your head down, and take stock of what value you add to this mission.” She moves her hand through the air to illustrate a vertical spectrum. “Here’s neutral zero, otherwise known as mediocrity. Way up here is going above and beyond people’s expectations of you, especially mine. Down here is dead weight, we gotta throw you out an airlock. At the moment, you’re right here.” She adjusts her hand to slightly above the lowest point on the scale. “I think you know what to do to climb back up, mostly because I’ve told you.”

“Shut up, will do. Right, sir, thank you. Sorry.”

Kaiora sighs one last time, and sits back down. “It’s going to be a little jarring when I take us out of the loop. Time is going to jerk your body to where the audience thinks we were, so they don’t notice we’ve moved.” She raises her arm to look at her watch, but it’s not on the menu that she expected it to be. It looks as though the barrier and loop weren’t put up at all. She slowly lifts her eyes, and looks forward. Calixte has turned, and is leaning against the podium, staring at them. The audience is quiet. “Shit.”

Calixte pushes off, and walks towards them. “I can undo this.”

“Undo what?” Kaiora asks.

“This little interaction,” he clarifies. “I can send all four of our consciousnesses back in time a few moments, so no one else remembers that it happened.”

“That’s an illegal form of temporal manipulation.”

“Not for me.” He shows them his blue retractactable keychain. “They gave me this so I can try out different ways of dismissing a crewmember, in case the first time doesn’t go so great.”

“Then you would just be using it illegally.”

He shrugs. “No one has to know.”

She crosses her arms, and studies his face, hoping to ascertain if he can be trusted, or if this will come back to bite her in the ass. “Fine. Do it.”

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Microstory 1805: Field Work

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Like any young girl with parents who taught her to be independent and powerful, I dreamed of joining law enforcement. No, I know, that’s not a universal dream, but it sure felt like it back then. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else. As I grew up, my passion for the work only grew stronger. I wanted to be out there in the field, making the tough calls, and actually seeing the people I was helping. While I was still in college, my personality began to change. I still wanted to help others, but I no longer seemed interested in field work. Fortunately, I knew that there were plenty of jobs that didn’t require me to do anything like that. I won’t get into specifics about the path I took, but I ended up becoming a Threat Investigator for the government. It was my job to process calls from civilians who were reporting crimes and of course, threats. I occasionally had to go out and speak to people in person, but that only ever happened when the potential threat was nearby. Most of the time, I asked questions, and determined next steps, which generally involved contacting local authorities, or my branch’s local offices. It could be rewarding, but it was also stressful. It would be terrible if I downplayed a threat that turned out to be a really big deal, and it was almost as bad if I sounded the alarm about a threat that ended up being nothing; maybe even a hoax. Citizens from all over the country counted on me to accurately evaluate each situation, and decide the best course of action from the information I was given. I made mistakes, and I lived with regrets, but nothing was bad enough to warrant a disciplinary response...until it was. I made the wrong call, and people got hurt. No one died, but they very well could have. I should have taken it more seriously, even though the caller sounded unconvinced himself, and a background check made it look like he didn’t have much credibility. I wasn’t fired, but I couldn’t let anything like it happen again. Then I received my last call.

It was from a young man who lived in my city, or rather on the outskirts of it at the time. He was a member of a militia who was supposedly planning an attack on the capitol. The more I spoke with him, the more I realized that this guy actually joined the militia with the intention of taking them down from the inside. Apparently, his family was more into the anti-government stuff, and he had been forced to pretend to be like them so he could blend in, and stop his life from being so hard. Now he was in way over his head, and he needed my help to get him out of it. I went out into the field, and investigated the threat myself. Suddenly, I found myself in over my head. It wasn’t against protocol for me to go out there for a visit, but things snowballed so quickly, and I was captured and detained by the aggressors. Well, this proved that the threat was real, but there was nothing that I could do about it, at least not on my own. Fortunately, the self-appointed mole in the organization wasn’t found out himself, so I was able to sneak him a message, which he bravely took back to my superiors. They sent a strike team to raid the place, and I would like to tell you that they successfully prevented the attack, but I honestly don’t know one way or the other. It turned into a bloody mess just as the year was coming to a close. The bad guys realized immediately which among them ratted them out, and we were both executed in an attempt to show the agents that they meant business. Again, I can’t tell you what happened after that, but I can only hope that some good came out of our sacrifice, and they weren’t able to commit any further acts of violence.

Extremus: Year 27

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Hock Watcher may sound like a funny position, but Caldr Giordana is responsible for the rehabilitation department of the entire ship. Here, rehabilitation is being used in its loosest definition. It’s a pretty simple concept. You break a law, you go in hock. If a ruling needs to be made beyond that, you go to trial, and either go free, or stay in hock to serve out a sentence. When you’re done, you go free. There’s no real rehabilitation, and there is no program for reintegration into society. It’s never been needed. Most crimes have been straightforward, committed by people who clearly made a mistake, but which can’t be categorized as menaces. Three of the men presently in hock are different, and more complicated, and Olindse Belo feels that something needs to be done to reform the system. She is not capable of doing this without the approval and aid of others.

The hock is a special department, which acts as an unlikely spot to bridge the gap between passengers and crew. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a civilian or a civil servant, if you commit a crime, you go to the same place as everyone. Hock Watcher is one of the most complicated roles to fill, and equally illustrates that bridge. First, the government nominates the most promising candidates. Then the passengers vote to narrow the pool further. The crew then votes for the winner, but the Captain is free to veto any decision, and restart at least part of the process. If that were to happen, there would be even more deliberation to decide how far back in that process the cycle has to restart. To get where he is today, Caldr had to really want it, and now that he’s here, it would be all but impossible to get rid of him unless he wanted to leave. He wields a lot more power than one might expect.

When Consul Vatal was discovered to be a True Extremist spy—or rather, outed himself to a spy—his job needed to be backfilled. He had his own sort of apprentice, who was prepared enough to take over, but the nature of his departure made that more complicated. For more than two years, the new Consul tried his best to carry out his duties, but everyone who required his services hesitated to reach out to him. The consul is not a lawyer. They are primarily an ethicist who understands the law down to the very last punctuation mark. By being untruthful about where he came from, and where his loyalties lay, Dvronen was quite ironically proving himself to be unethical at the highest order. If he’s the one who trained the apprentice, could that apprentice have good ethics himself? Well, probably, since he went through his own education, and had his own ideals, but we’re dealing with humans here, and humans are complicated. The crew, especially the Captain, found it difficult to trust him with their ethical needs. It essentially made it impossible for him to do his job, and he just couldn’t take the stress. He stepped down, and while quitting the crew is usually a complex process, Captain Leithe made an exception, and simply let him go. Any other member of the crew could have contested this ruling, but no one did, so it went through.

Renga Mas was fresh out of school, and didn’t think she was ready to take the job, but she was pretty much the only option. Others studied law, but they were predominantly on the other two of three tracks. One track focuses on civilian law, and that’s the route most students take. The other concerns itself with destination law. Such students are intended to become teachers, so they can pass their knowledge down to further generations. There are a lot of skills that people living on the ship won’t, or might not, ever use, but which their descendants will find critical. It would be irresponsible of them to let this knowledge disappear before the mission can be realized two centuries from now. If you want to take the third track, which prepares you to possibly become Consul, you have to complete an independent study program, and while Renga isn’t the only one who has done that, she’s the only one with sufficient competency. She likely would have apprenticed for Dvronen’s apprentice, and ultimately secured the job anyway, but the timetable had to be moved up. Today is her first major project.

“Okay, so, uhh...um.” Renga fumbles with the tablet before she realizes it isn’t even hers, so it isn’t signed into her account. That’s why her passcode didn’t work. “All right, I don’t think I need it. Is this being recorded? Are we recording?”

“We are,” First Lieutenant Corinna Seelen replies. Captain Leithe doesn’t need to be part of the decision-making process in this case, so Corinna is in charge. “Go on.”

Renga is responsible for running the meeting itself. “Great. Uh, that’s great.” She clears her throat. “Okay. This is the...hearing?”

“Proposal meeting,” Corinna corrects.

“Right, proposal meeting for the question of whether to accept Olindse’s—”

“Admiral Belo,” Corinna corrects her again.

“Admiral Belo’s prisoner reintegration plan. Thanks.” Renga nods sharply, proud of herself for managing to get through that, and forgetting for just one second that it’s literally only the beginning.

Corinna urges her on with her eyes, but no words. She may have to take over.

Renga continues, “Olin—Admiral Belo.” Olindse took Renga under her wing at school. They were studying completely different things, but they became friends, and the latter often mined the former for advice. It’s proven difficult to remember that she should not be so informal with this. “Please, begin your presentation.”

“Thank you,” Olindse says. “I’ve already given you my written proposal, so I won’t go into detail, but I’ll sum it up. I believe that our justice system leaves something to be desired. It’s far too simple. If you’re guilty, you go in hock. Maybe you’re given limited computer privileges, but for the most part, the severity of your crime dictates how long you’re there. Prisoners are not provided resources to help them rehabilitate, or later return to society. When and if they’re released, they’re just thrown back into the general population, where they have to move on on their own. Many will have been changed by the trauma, and their lives will be more difficult than necessary. I believe that this is unfair and unjust.”

Corinna holds up a hand, and closes her eyes, like it’s a performing arts audition, and Olindse’s minute is up. “Currently, the only prisoners in hock are...” She checks her tablet, but only to find the file for the least infamous prisoner. “A spy, a mutineer, a disgraced former officer, and a saboteur.”

“It was a prank,” Olindse argues, “not sabotage.”

“Tell that to the eighteen people who drank the contaminated water, and suffered from heavy diarrhea for the next three to four days.”

“No civilian charges were filed,” Olindse reminds her. “That’s not my point. I’m not here to argue if any of them deserve to be in hock, or not. I’m here to argue that we should be helping them learn from their mistakes. Egregious, or forgivable,” she adds before Corinna can debate the definition of a mistake, or contend that two of them did not simply make a mistake.

“My point,” Corinna goes on, “is that only the...prankster will be getting out of hock outside of a body bag. The other three are enemies of the state, and will have to make their respective cells their homes for the next however many decades are left of their lives.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve respect and compassion,” Olindse says.

“I’m not saying that,” Corinna claims. “Though, I don’t have any personal respect or compassion for two of them in there, and I don’t much care about the fourth. I shouldn’t have to name names.” She doesn’t. Everyone still loves Halan Yenant, and no one likes Dvronen or Ovan. “I’m asking why we should divert time and resources to helping people we know will never be able to reenter society. You even call this the reintegration program.”

“That’s a catchall term, but it doesn’t just address actually placing prisoners back in the general population. There are many ways to reintegrate,” Olindse explains. “Besides, as you saw in my proposal, I also discuss counseling for those who have been given life sentences. And as a side note, Admiral Yenant has not technically received a definite sentence. His potential for parole is always there.”

“Don’t call him that,” Corinna demands. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we legally can’t call him an admiral. Right, Consul?”

“Right,” Renga answers uncomfortably.

“Who do you suppose will provide these counseling services for the prisoners?”

“Nearly every job on this ship has a surplus labor pool. It won’t be hard to find someone to fill this void,” Olindse figures.

Renga realizes she needs to speak up more, since this is supposed to be her show. “I didn’t see this in the proposal—even though I read it...” She eyes the Lieutenant.

“I’m busy, I skimmed it,” Corinna defends.

Renga goes on, “I didn’t see anywhere that dictates whether this new counselor will be a member of the civilian workforce, or the crew.”

Olindse nods and points, having predicted this would come up. “It’s not in there, because I wasn’t sure about that. I hoped we could work together to figure that out. My first thought is to make it a joint effort, like the Hock Watcher, but still appointed, rather than voted upon.”

“That is a tall order,” Corinna says. “We would have to all vote in order to make this new flavor of job even a thing. What say you, Hock Watcher Giordana?”

Caldr had been listening intently and respectfully to all sides of this argument. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind having one or two other people on the team. It can get lonely down there. Also to be honest, I sometimes chat with Mr. Yenant because of it.”

“That’s not illegal,” Renga assures him. They actually did consider fraternizing with the prisoners completely illegal, because it could theoretically lead to a conflict of interest, and even possibly a prison break. They had to decide against such harsh rules, because it was more unethical to restrict who a resident of the ship could be friends with. They made it so hard to become Hock Watcher in the first place in order to lower this risk. Caldr bleeds integrity.

“Okay,” Corinna begins, “let me read the proposal in full. I’ll assign some duties to my Second LT to make the time. We will reconvene in two weeks to discuss this further, and hopefully come to some conclusion. Vice Admiral, create a list of candidates for this counseling job, and determine whether you want anyone else on this expanded hock team. Consul Mas, you can tentatively approve them. Does this sound fair?”

“Yes,” they all agreed.

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Extremus: Year 26

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It was a nice memorial service, but it wasn’t elaborate, or particularly well-attended. Vice Admiral Thatch was liked well enough, but he wasn’t the most popular member of the crew, and many civilians had never heard of him. It was about as one would expect, and he probably would have found it fine. Vice Admiral Belo was the most upset about it, but not because she had any strong feelings about the man. He was the only other admiral besides her, and she was relying on him to help her do her job well. Halan was meant to help with that, but she can’t rightly go asking him for advice while he’s in hock. Even if he does get out one day, it’s extremely unlikely that he’ll get his rank back. At best, he’ll be thrown in with the fringes of society. No, Olindse is going to have to figure things out on her own. She took over Thatch’s office when he died, even though she was assigned her own. He had terrible organizational skills, but she thought she might find some key information somewhere in the mess. It didn’t matter. Captain Kaiora Leithe was doing great on her own, and never asked Olindse for any advice. While the latter was captain for longer so far, there was a reason they chose her as interim, and not as a permanent replacement.

Olindse is currently sitting in her office, doing nothing, and waiting for her lunch date to arrive. He’s unusually late.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Yitro says as he steps in. He sets the food tray on the desk. “The Captain wanted to speak to me.”

“She’s speaking to you?” Olindse questions. “She wants your advice?”

Yitro is aware that it’s a sensitive subject. “Oh, no, no, no. She just wanted to offer me a job.” Since his shift ended, he’s had nothing to do. Unlike a former captain, a former lieutenant is meant to just kind of return to civilian life. They’re free to select a new occupation, if they want, or they can just retire and relax. They generally retain some privileges, like access to the crew mess hall, but it’s unclear if they’re allowed to join the crew in some other capacity.

She looks disgusted. “How’s that now?”

“Yeah, she wants me to command The Perran Thatch.” The Thatch is a new vessel that’s actually a combination of two preexisting ships. When Ovan Teleres tried to take over Extremus, Admiral Thatch heroically transported the bridge to the future, where they coincidentally ran into the time shuttle that Omega and Valencia were using to investigate what they would come to learn was the Feizi problem. Engineers have since integrated them together into a new ship, so it can go off on tangent missions without disrupting the Extremus’ flight path.

“You? They asked you?”

“Olindse,” Yitro began to argue, “you already have a job, and a lifetime rank. Captain Leithe couldn’t have asked you. It doesn’t mean I’m better than you. It’s more that I’m available.”

“I thought Valencia was Captain.”

“Not really, she was just the best of two options. She and Omega will have more than enough work to do without having to worry about the ship itself.”

“So now there are two captains on this ship, and neither one of them is me. I feel...” She couldn’t come up with a word that didn’t make her sound like an asshole.

“Cheated?” Yitro offers.

“That’s so stupid.”

“It’s not. It’s a perfectly legitimate response to your situation. Captain Yenant served in his role during what was basically wartime. We didn’t know it back then, but it’s the best description for it in hindsight. You know, you were there; you were also a wartime leader. Kaiora isn’t like that. We’ve been on this ship so long, everyone knows what they’re supposed to do. There isn’t a lot of conflict.”

“What exactly is your point?” Olindse urged.

“The Captain isn’t asking for your advice, because she doesn’t need any, not because she doesn’t respect your opinion.”

“Great. How does that help my situation? What am I supposed to do?”

“Find a way to make yourself useful, like Thatch did when he took over the lights.”

“That trick won’t work a second time,” she contends. “Now everyone knows how powerful that workstation was, and they’ve reengineered it to get rid of all those secret subroutines.”

“I mean, something like that,” he tries to clarify. “The admiralty has no job description. Unless otherwise specified or vetoed by the current captain, you’re free to make up your own responsibilities. Be proactive. Find a cause, or a void.”

“What, like starting a health program in the rec room?”

“Sure, why not, if that’s your thing?”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“You’re some whose food’s getting cold.”

She had been listlessly playing with her salad, flipping most of the lettuce off of her plate without realizing it. She placed a tomato on her fork, and flicked it, hoping to hit Yitro in the face. He caught it in his mouth, and played it off like it wasn’t totally a happy accident. “I don’t know...” Olindse says unenthusiastically. “When do you ship out?” she asks, changing the subject slightly.

He certainly takes his time answering. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” she questions. “The Captain asked you to command a new mission the day that it begins?”

He waits so long this time that he doesn’t even end up answering.

“You’ve known about this for a long time,” she’s realized.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

She stands up. “Well, I’m glad you finally figured out how to vocalize thoughts with your mouth. I wouldn’t have wanted you to try to captain a ship before you learned toddler-level communication skills.”

“Olindse...” he says with no clue how to form the rest of the sentence.

She begins to walk around her desk.

“Don’t leave.”

“You’re right, this is my office. Thanks for lunch, get the hell out of here.” Without giving him a chance to leave on his own, she shoots him with a teleporter gun, and sends him back to his own stateroom. It’s an abuse of power, and a punishable offense, but they both know he won’t report her. She sits back down and reaches over to eat the rest of his food. It’s the least he can do for her.

 A couple of hours later, Olindse reluctantly but dutifully requests permission to enter the bridge. It’s fuller than usual. The crew of the tangent ship Thatch is preparing to take their leave. They’ll take it into the past, because that’s the only way they’re going to make it all the way to their destination in time. Destination is a bit of a strong word, however. Project Stargate utilizes a highly modular ship. It was gigantic when it was first constructed, but has been slowly losing parts of itself as smaller ships fly off to reach the star systems on its way. By now, they wouldn’t be looking for one ship, but thousands of them, spread out for maximum efficiency. It would be foolish to send two modules to two stars right next to each other. It makes much more sense for one to land amongst a group of several to a couple dozen star systems, and build a new mini-fleet from there. The True Extremists want to stop the vonearthans from spreading beyond the stellar neighborhood, so every one of the modules is a threat to them. They have the numbers that Yitro’s team does not. Nonlinear time may be the only weapon in their arsenal.

“You came,” Yitro points out the obvious. He’s separated himself from the group photos, annoying their photographer, September.

“You’re my only friend. I can’t let our last interaction be the last,” Olindse says.

“I’ll be back,” he assures her.

“You can’t promise that,” she warns.

“Trust me.”

“When you do, will you be, like, thirty years older?” she asks.

“It would be closer to fifty,” he explains. It took them 25 years to get here from Gatewood, which means it would take just as long to get back. They were traveling at maximum speed. “The technology we will be using is unlike anything we ever have before, and it’s classified. As a captain in my own right, I’m afforded some level of discretion even against Leithe’s eyes. I would tell you, but...”

“I get it. I’m proud of you, Yitro—I mean, Captain Moralez.”

“I’ll always be Yitro to you,” he corrects her.

“Could we get back to it?” September requests. “I need one of just the two captains, and then just the Captain of the Thatch alone.”

“How about three captains first?” Yitro says in the form of a question, even though it isn’t. Halan was never referred to as a captain after he was promoted to admiral, and the practice will probably continue to be rare, but technically it’s not like other ranks. A Senior Hospitality Officer who was once a Junior Hospitality Officer isn’t still considered a Junior, but once a captain, always a captain. It’s more like how a mother who becomes a grandmother is still a mother. Olindse Belo is still a captain, and as such, it’s acceptable to address her as such. Again, it won’t likely become common practice, but most won’t bat an eye if someone uses it, unless doing so creates ambiguity.

September bows graciously, and invites them over to the wall. The rest of the crew steps aside.

“You know we won’t be able to show anyone these photos?” Kaiora asks through her smile. It’s fake, but only because she hates photos, not the company.

“One day, this will all be a matter of historical record,” September believes.

“What does one day mean when time travel is involved?” Omega poses.

September reaches down her shirt, and retrieves a metal necklace of some kind. She removes them from her neck, and ceremoniously dangles them between her and Yitro. “If you’re wearing this, nothing you do can be undone unless you want to leave the timeline fluid.” When Yitro reaches out to take the necklace, she pulls it back. “This is one of the most powerful tools in histories. It’s usually used as a weapon. I’m trusting you to use it wisely.”

“Where did you get something like that?” Kaiora asks.

After September lets Yitro take the necklace, she snaps one more photo, this time of only him and Olindse. “Aw, that’s a good one. Hashtag-best friends.”

“Who are you again?” Kaiora presses. She never chose to memorize the entire ship’s manifest, like Halan did in her position.

September ignores her, and addresses Omega. “Number 83, does that mean anything to you?”

“Uhh...no?” Omega questions, confused.

“If you had your own number—one that uniquely defined you—what would it be?” September asks like a primary school teacher.

Omega frowns, and peers back at her with his face turned towards her flank.

September winks at him. “Happy hunting,” she says to the lot. She looks down at the preview screen on her camera, scrolls to a different image, and then disappears. Someone like that shouldn’t have been granted access to a teleporter, and anyway, they didn’t see her use one.

“I think I know who that was,” Valencia reveals without elaborating.

“Have you given any thought to what you might want to do?” Yitro asks Olindse, shaking off the strange conversation with the stranger, and tucking the necklace into his uniform.

“Yeah, I believe I have an idea,” Olindse answers.

“What is it?”

“I think I’ll call it...reintegration.”

Yitro smiles like he knows what she means by this. He may indeed.

After some salutes and farewells, the tangent crew enters the Perran Thatch Detachment Ship, and launches into their secret mission.

“What is this about reintegration?” Captain Leithe asks Olindse.

“It’s something that I’ve just come up with today,” Olindse answers. “Let me work on it in private, and then I’ll get back to you before I actually do anything.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Kaiora says, sitting back down in her seat. “Plot a course to Extremus. And...engage,” she orders the bridge crew.

They all look over at her, very confused. “Sir?” one of them asks.

“I’m kidding,” she defends. “Just keep going forward...and try to lighten up.”

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Extremus: Year 23

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Things have been going incredibly well. The crew has fallen into a nice rhythm. Shifts are lasting as long as they should. The Captain garners the respect she deserves, and the Future Captain is learning everything she’ll need to know to take over when the time comes. Even Second Lieutenant Callaghan is doing okay, and has accepted his role as the primary liaison between the crew and passengers. Speaking of the passengers, things are going well for them too. The government was duly elected, and is making reasonable choices for the people. They live in a time of peace. Tensions between the two camps have abated, and the risk of civil unrest has been thwarted. There is still the looming threat from the True Extremists, who have yet to make a move since Vesper tried to kill then-Captain Yenant. At least they’ve not made any noticeable moves. Perhaps they’re slowly replacing every person on this ship with a robot, but so far, all evidence is to the contrary. The Admiral filled Olindse in on all of that, but until they come across some new information, there is really nothing anyone can do about it. That is about to change. The original bridge section has been returned home.

As the Earthans were first beginning to sail away from their homeworld, and visit other planets in person, the Four Pillars of Spaceflight were devised. They were Safety, Compartmentalization, Redundancy, and Modularization, and known as SCR&M for short. This is how Vice Admiral Thatch was able to send the entire thing into the future without disrupting the rest of the ship in the slightest. It was relatively easy for the engineers and their vacuum bots to replace it without so much as stopping for supplies. The new one looks exactly like the old one, except in one major way. They constructed a special platform on the bottom of it, which was designed to allow the old one to return at some point, and reconnect. When teleportation and time travel are in the mix, you can’t assume that something, or someone, that disappeared won’t one day come back to you. The Earthan researchers who came up with SCR&M didn’t include this kind of contingency in their paper on the subject, but the crew of the Extremus knew that it was a fair possibility.

The idea was to have any visitor or returnee come in through the quarantine, but seeing as both Omega and Valencia are temporal engineers, it isn’t that hard for them to break through teleportation restrictions, and jump right onto the new bridge. Security surrounds them with weapons immediately. Captain Belo stands from her seat. She spends more time on the bridge than Halan ever did, and a lot of that is thanks to the Second Lieutenant, who deals with a lot of the issues Halan always had to handle personally. Olindse knows who these three are, and expects to be able to trust them, but she can’t be sure, and that’s not protocol. “You were meant to go straight to quarantine,” she argues.

“We don’t have time for that,” Omega contends.

“This ship is about to hit a brick wall,” Thatch reports, knowing a real explanation is needed quickly. “You are on a collision course towards a planet roughly the size of Mercury.”

“How do you know this?” Olindse questions.

“We’ve seen it,” Valencia explains. “We were there, in the future. We couldn’t save the Extremus in time. There was no way for you to course correct, so we decided to travel back in time, and warn you now.”

“Are you sure you are not subject to fate?” Olindse presses.

“Pretty sure.”

“You don’t have much choice,” Omega argues. “You’re headed for a darklurker, which has been deliberately shielded from the void telescopes, and all other sensors. It’s massive, and extremely dense, like a planetary neutron star. We barely made it out of its gravity well. It interferes with our teleportation drive and time drive. If you don’t alter course now, we’re all done for. We have already made the calculations for you.” He tries to hand her his handheld device. “All you have to do is input them.”

She looks at the device like she just saw him come out of the bathroom, and knows he didn’t wash his hands. “That is not procedure. Major course correction requires a shipwide vote.”

“We don’t have time for that!” Omega raises his voice just a little too much to be respectful. “Where is the real Captain?”

“I am the real Captain,” Olindse fights back. “You will have your opportunity to speak with Admiral Yenant, but we are following procedure. We shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

“He’s being dramatic,” Valencia says, trying to calm the room. “You have time for the vote. All it means is we have to change the specific calculations to account for the time difference. But do understand that we cannot just wait and see if anything changes. Someone put that rogue planet there, and they did it on purpose, because they know our route. All of those meteoroids we kept hitting, those were just the foreguard; a...side effect of the massive gravitational disturbance that Theia-Two is producing.”

“Theia-Two?” Olindse questions.

“Historical reference, it’s just a placeholder. You can call it whatever you want, because no matter what word you use, you’ll have to spell it D-E-A-T-H.”

Captain Belo takes a regal deep breath. “Take them to quarantine. Callaghan, please covertly find out if any of the passengers noticed their return. I’ll alert the Admiral. The rest of you...?”

Everyone freezes in place, nervous.

“Not a word. Everyone in this room just signed a new NDA. You may not remember, but trust me, it happened, and trust what will happen to you if you break it.”

Two weeks later, the executive crew has convened for an official briefing in what was designated as the crew courtroom, but it’s never been needed. It’s kind of the best setup they have, especially if they want to remain covert. Omega and Valencia are leading the presentation. Before them are the two captains, the First Lieutenant, Admiral Yenant, Dr. Holmes, Temporal Engineer August Voll, Future Temporal Engineer Kumara Bhasin, and Head of Security Armelle Lyons, along with Passenger First Chair Nuka Bloch, and Second Chair Poppy Ogawa. Second Lt. Callaghan is busy running the ship while the rest of them are busy with all this. He has a small case of FOMO, but he’s mostly excited to pretend to be completely in charge, at least for the next few hours. Vice Admiral Thatch is sitting on Omega and Valencia’s side of the room, but he’s not really part of the presentation, because he mostly served as an auxiliary crew member on the bridge ship while the smart team investigated the gravity problem.

Most of the crew have already heard nearly everything about what the team went through, but they have to go over it again in an official capacity, especially for the Chairs, who had heard very little. Now that everyone has some perspective, they just sit there, unsure how to proceed. Halan knows what to say, but he feels like he needs to stay quiet. The pause is taking too long, though. “Thank you, Valencia and Omega Strong. That is quite a tale. We will do everything we can to get you back to your son, should you so wish. Until then, we still need you.”

“Thank you, Cap—Admiral,” Omega has to correct himself. In the rest of the galaxy, admiral is a more respectable rank than captain, but on Extremus, it just means they have less power, so Omega feels guilty for the mistake. It’s the way things are, and it’s the way they should be, so each next captain can have uncomplicated control over the ship, but everyone here got real used to considering Halan their leader. The transitions should get easier as time goes on, but for now—for most—it’s surreal...even after three nonconsecutive years without him. Dwelling on all of this, Omega has forgotten what else he was going to say, or even if he had anything more at all.

“Until then,” Halan goes on, “we have to deal with this brick wall problem. We always knew that rogue worlds could be in our path, because they’re so hard for the void telescopes to detect. So what steps did we take for our original flight path that were designed to insulate us from accidental collisions?”

“Hold on,” First Chair Bloch jumps in. “We’ve yet to see any proof that this isn’t an accident.”

Omega rolls his eyes, but doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth before his wife stops him with a hand on his arm. She knows him well enough to know when he’s about to find himself on the wrong end of an HR report. “We found the rogue planet 683 light years from our present location after studying the gravitational disturbance the Extremus has been fighting through for two decades. Space debris is unpredictable, chaotic, but it is relatively uniformly distributed, congregating only when a significant source of gravity attracts them...like a solar system?” She takes out her hologram pen, and begins to draw a visual aid in the air. “They don’t form lines like people at the post office. Here’s the planet. All of this is the debris. You see how they kind of form a trail? It stretches thousands of light years across, and we’re flying right through it. There is nothing in the universe like that. Quite frankly, sir, I don’t see how anyone could look at this image, and see anything but an unnatural attack by a shadowy enemy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Second Chair Ogawa points out. “This meeting was not called to discuss how we’re going to deal with the True Extremist problem at large. We’re only here to vote on releasing a referendum for the general public to vote on a course correction to protect ourselves from an impending collision. It’s irrelevant how the planet got there. It’s there, and we have to do something about it.”

The first chair is probably going to be their one holdout. That’s okay, it doesn’t need to be unanimous; just a majority. “I’ve not heard how much this is going to add to our flight time.”

Admiral Thatch literally slaps his face with his palm. “This is a 216-year mission. We’re not going to a specific planet. We always talk about there being nine captains, but we’ve always known there would probably be ten—or now eleven.” He indicates the interim captain, who changed the math. “The last one is going to be responsible for the search for our descendants’ new home. There are a few ways they might do this, but my point is that the course correction doesn’t add any time to the journey, because we don’t know what we’re looking for. We’re merely assuming that there will be a hospitable world out there, somewhere. It might take this ship a little extra time to find it, but the course correction has nothing to do with that.”

“Very well,” Chair Bloch concedes. “I’m ready for a vote when you are.”

“Thank you for your permission,” Omega says with snark. He can’t just leave well enough alone.

Before Captain Belo can call for the vote, a person flies out of a violent portal, and slides across the room, stopping quickly when the justice bench gets in her way. Dr. Holmes, more spry than one might think for her age, hops over the railing, and kneels down to tend to her unexpected patient. Everyone else crowds around to see what’s going on. The doctor carefully rolls the young woman to her back to straighten her spine. Upon seeing her face, they look up at the Present!August Voll, who is not particularly surprised at seeing her alternate self. Time travel is illegal on the ship except for vital purposes, such as needing supplies from a star system that’s going to be too far away within minutes, or in case of emergency. If anyone’s going to use the technology for the latter, it should be the temporal engineer, who understands the dangers and consequences.

Alt!August opens her eyes.

“She’s hurt,” Dr. Holmes says, “but probably just needs pain meds.”

“First,” Alt!August manages to say, “I have to warn you. Don’t bother voting on the referendum. A course correction is not going to work.”

Valencia kneels beside her, and takes her hand in both of her own affectionately. “Why not? What happens?”

“This isn’t protocol,” Captain Belo argues. You don’t just ask a time traveler what happens in the future. The conversation on the bridge when Omega, Valencia, and Thatch returned was a bit of a gray area.

“Shut the hell up...Captain.” Good save.

Alt!August closes her eyes for a few seconds, like she’s about to fall unconscious, but she pushes through it. “They just move the planet. They have all the time in the universe. We’re doomed.” Now she really does passout.

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Extremus: Year 22

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Olindse Belo and Yitro Moralez were two of the middle of the roadest candidates on the captain’s track. They weren’t great, but they weren’t bad, which made them perfect to serve as Interim Captain and Interim Lieutenant until the first shift ended in four years. Neither of them expected to be chosen for a permanent position on the executive crew, which means it will be easier to expect them to step aside once former Captain Yenant’s real replacement begins the second shift. They understood the situation when they accepted their new positions. They aren’t radicals or tyrants. They’re not particularly popular, nor divisive. They’re fine. They’re just fine, and they should continue to be this way until it’s over. The problem is they’re only good as peacetime leaders. If they find themselves having to make the hard decisions, they may struggle with it. Halan has to take his admiral duties quite seriously, so things don’t fall apart when the True Extremists make their move. And that is coming, there is no way it’s not.

There was a larger reason why Halan and Mercer were asked to abdicate that both of them should have seen coming. As Halan’s parents, and the other elders, were coming up with the plan to form this mission, they decided upon a rule. This would be a generation ship. It was very important to them, and it’s unclear why, but it excluded a lot of hopefuls. People who never wanted to die ended up not being able to come, because they wouldn’t be allowed to undergo longevity treatments. Omega was an exception that they did not foresee, and everyone was very aware that it was the fault of no one on this vessel, so they didn’t complain. Valencia definitely broke the rules when she joined him as a transhumanist, but as a temporal engineer, she enjoyed a level of respect and adoration that would make any captain envious. People just sort of let it go, and when both of them disappeared for a secret mission, they stopped bringing it up.

Old Man broke the rules as well, and turned both Halan and Mercer into transhumanists without them even knowing it. It was their staterooms. He secretly modified their rooms to absorb their consciousnesses in realtime, even when they weren’t in those rooms. Had either of them been in a relationship, and invited their partner to spend a significant enough time in their stateroom, the same would have happened to that hypothetical person. When the two of them were murdered by Ovan, their minds were automatically uploaded to the ship’s computers, preserving them until Dr. Holmes could clone their bodies, and download their minds into them. She claims to have not known this was happening, and only received an alert about their survival a few weeks after they were declared dead. She should have been punished for having gone through with it, but political conversations not even Halan was privy to saved her job. Perhaps she has something on the Consul that has insulated her.

So none of this is Halan or Mercer’s fault, but it doesn’t change the fact that their survival threatens one of the first rules of the Extremus mission. It’s not that the people don’t trust them. It’s more that the executive crew, the legal department, and the civilian government, don’t want people to trust them. If the passengers start getting the idea that maybe it’s okay to break the rule, and become transhumanists, it will cause whatever problems they think could result from the transition. The two of them couldn’t be allowed to remain in power, whether the government and crew thought they were still fit for duty, or not. Belo and Moralez would have to do...for now.

Even after sixteen months, it’s still weird, being on this side of the desk, but Halan has accepted it, and there is no going back now. As the Consul agreed, he’s been much more involved as the Admiral than he let Thatch be. Captain Belo has been incredibly gracious and grateful for it. Her main character flaw is that she lacks self-confidence, and constantly questions her own decisions. The crew and passengers need to see someone who believes that what she says to do is the right call, even if she’s in the wrong. Surprisingly, from a sociological standpoint, people would much rather see a leader who apologizes for their mistakes than one who doesn’t make any, but always plays it safe. On a psychological level, they’re disappointed, but people don’t giveth or taketh away their support based on their personal opinions. They tend to stick with the crowd, and the crowd says take risks.

She’s been doing well, listening to the Admiral’s advice. She relies on it a bit too much, though, and that should probably stop. “I’m glad it’s Friday. I really need to talk. My Second Lieutenant has been so infuriating. He just can’t accept that he’s not in the running for captain anymore. He still thinks he has a chance. I mean, he’s not interim, like me and Yitro, so his job is safe. Not that I feel like I should keep my job. I’m fine with stepping down when it’s time. But he just keeps holding that over my head. So he’s mad that he’ll never be captain, but he basically thinks that he outranks me, because my shift is shorter. It’s like, yeah, it’s shorter, buddy, but it’s still higher. You report to me. I mean, right?” She’s a pretty fast talker too, which some might consider a character flaw, but Halan just sees it as a cute quirk.

“We have to talk.”

“Oh, no,” Olindse says. “Last time you said that, we changed from our daily meetings to these weekly meetings. What, now you only want to hold them once a month? There aren’t enough hours in the day for us to discuss everything that happened from the last month.”

“No,” Halan answers simply.

“Oh, good.”

“We need to stop having regular meetings altogether.”

“What? No. What? No. You can’t abandon me, Not now, I need you. I would have voted for you to stay as captain, if we voted for crew members. I think we can all agree that you’re still pretty much in charge, and I’m just carrying out your orders. I can’t do this without you. I have no clue what I’m doing. I don’t know why my parents put me on the captain’s track. They shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid, it’s stupid. This is stupid.”

“Captain...”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “I said we need to stop regular meetings; not meetings, full stop.”

“But you said regular meetings altogether. I heard you. You said—”

“I know what I said, Captain.”

“You don’t have to call me Captain. Just call me Olindse. I keep telling you that. Friends call each other by their first names. We’re friends, right? You said we were friends. I remember that too. You said—”

“Olindse.”

“Right, motor mouth.” She zips her lips shut, and throws away the key.

“I misspoke. I want you to come to me when you’re having problems, but I want you to use better judgment for what qualifies as a problem that you can’t solve on your own. We shouldn’t need to talk every week. I trust that you can handle most issues without assistance now. Last year, Consul Vatal—”

“Consul Vatal.” She spits it out of her mouth like it’s poison. A lot of people were not happy at the announcement that Halan and Mercer were relieved of their positions. The transition would not have been smooth had they selected an interim captain that didn’t agree with the majority on this matter. Both the crew and passengers follow her because she’s genuine and real. When Halan gives her a look, her eyes widen in horror. She starts scanning the floor.

“Don’t look for the key, that’s only a metaphor. Just listen.”

She nods respectfully.

Halan returns to what he was saying, “when Consul Vatal told me he made a short list for backfill, I was concerned. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know if I could trust his judgment. Before I even looked at the list, I figured he probably pooled from the civilian population. I thought he would try to merge the government and crew. The law does not specify who is eligible for the job. Hell, he could have appointed himself. Every single person on that list was studying to become captain, or join the crew in some capacity. I was impressed, but I was most impressed by the order. You and Lieutenant Moralez were literally at the top of it. It’s one of the few things that he and I have actually agreed on over the last few years. You..belong here. You deserve this, and we all believe in you. All you need to do is believe in yourself. Neither I nor he would have allowed you to sit in that seat if we didn’t think you could fill it. When you rely too much on my advice, it’s a bit of a paradox. By not relying on yourself, you’re questioning my decision to appoint you, but if you question that, why are you listening to me at all?”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“Olindse, I’m here for you, but not every day; not even every week. You never told anyone that you requested these periodic meetings, correct?”

“Yitro knows. Everyone else thinks they were your idea. I call it my apprenticeship.”

“Good. I’m glad that has held up. So what you’ll do now is tell them that you put a stop to it. You made the decision to stop coming to me weekly, and I accepted it. This is important, because it would be rather odd if you were still an apprentice while you had your own apprentice.”

“What do you mean?”

Admiral Yenant presses a button on his teleporter. He retained full teleportation rights when he was promoted, but he technically should have lost his summoning abilities. Only the captain should be capable of transporting someone to their location against that person’s will. The Consul partially let him keep it because he didn’t give it much thought, but also because, in the nineteen years he was captain, Halan never used it once, so he probably wouldn’t abuse it now. Besides, Kaiora knew this was coming. “I’m not sure if you two have met. Captain Olindse Belo, allow me to introduce you to Future Captain, Kaiora Leithe, Third of Ten.” She was supposed to be Second of Nine, but everything changed when Halan became a clone. The whole interim thing has thrown off the math, and this is the change that Halan insisted upon. It was an unpopular choice, but Olindse should feel that she really is an actual captain, and not simply the closest thing they have. It’s about respect. There will now be ten captains, unless something else like this should happen, at which point, it will fall to that day’s leadership to make their own choice.

“Captain,” Olindse says.

“Captain,” Kaiora echoes.

“I didn’t realize the choice had been made.”

“Ehhhhhh,” Halan begins awkwardly, “people don’t really know how we choose captains. There’s been a lot of confusion about it, but in the end, I get to just decide whoever I want. Again, I don’t have to source from the captain’s track. I did, but it was all up to me. Consul Vatal and I—”

“Consul Vatal,” Kaiora says with disgust, mirroring Olindse’s attitude from earlier, even though she wasn’t here for that.

“I think I’m gonna like you,” Olindse says.

“Consul Vatal and I,” Halan repeats himself, “weren’t sure whether the decision should be up to the Interim Captain, or me. We had a long discussion about it, and determined that I was still more qualified.”

“That’s true,” Olindse admits, “but just so you know, I would have made the same decision.”

“I figured.”

“Future Captain Leithe will be shadowing you for the next three years, and that is her official rank. The crew will be expected to show her just as much respect as they will come transition day in 2294.”

“Understood,” Olindse says. “Happy to have you.”

“I appreciate your support,” Kaiora replies.

“Great. Now come in close, the two of you.”

The three of them huddle together, and then Halan teleports them to the mess hall, which has been once again restored to its rightful place as a respite for the crew from the passengers. No one was left to argue against it. Right now, the room is full of key crew members, including Eckhart Mercer, who transitioned to the Bridger section last year; Consul Vatal; Dr. Holmes; and Second Lieutenant Lars Callaghan. He really is annoying. Even now, while everyone is smiling, and congratulating Captain Leithe on her appointment, he’s bitter and scowling. Fortunately, unlike Ovan, Halan doesn’t get the sense that he’s a threat to the safety of this mission. And he does his job well enough, which is what’s really important. After the clapping and hugs are over, the party gets underway, and it goes all night.

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