The Advancement of Mateo Matic: August 6, 2519

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The honeymoon was going well. After horsing around in Mud World: World of Mud for a little while, Mateo, Leona, and Olimpia spent the night in the Sovereign Suite of the Palacium Hotel, which was pretty much the most extravagant, opulent place to stay on the planet. Hrockas actually booked it for them for more than a year, so they could sleep across midnight central, and not worry about anyone having used it during their interim year. It was too much, and completely unnecessary, but he insisted. While it was luxurious and beautiful, people really didn’t need such things these days. They mostly came for the fun and adventure, and to do things that they could not do anywhere else. The majority of the residential dwellings were functional and unremarkable, because it wasn’t a big draw for anyone, and there were plenty of nice places to live on other planets.

They were currently hanging out in State of the Art, standing on the shoulder of one of the gargantuan statues that towered over the skyline. Visitors couldn’t typically climb this high up, but teleporters didn’t share such limitations. They were trying to figure out what they were going to do next. The others on the team were right. They needed this, and if they would deign to admit it to themselves, they deserved it too.

“Adrenadome?” Olimpia suggested. They were each looking through the catalog, and tossing out ideas.

“I don’t want to shift substrates,” Leona said. “Nothing life-threatning.”

Olimpia clicked her teeth as she began to swipe away the options she had bookmarked one by one.

“We should just go to Polar Tropica,” Mateo said for the umpteenth time.

“That’s so basic,” Olimpia contended. “Are we basic?”

“Well, I suggested we try the Outer System space battle simulations, but no one wanted anything violent,” Mateo reminded her.

“Still don’t,” Leona confirmed. “Whoa,” she added, looking down at her forearm output.

“What? Something juicy?” Olimpia asked, trying to look over at her readout.

Leona read the message out loud, “you have been browsing the catalog for a while now. Still having trouble deciding? Tap here for a random suggestion, which will come from your preference algorithm. If you linked your profile with nearby friends, this suggestion will be sourced from their interest surveys as well.”

“Tap on that thang!” Mateo said.

Leona shrugged and tapped on the button. A new message popped up that read, temporal signatures detected. Rerouting. Instead of just producing the answer, they were automatically teleported elsewhere.

They found themselves standing next to a wooden wall. It wasn’t cleanly cut, but looked more like bark. The air was foggy and unbreathable. A heavy rain was falling upon them. They activated their EmergentSuits, and continued to look around. “Wow. That could have killed us,” Olimpia said.

“Must be an experimental feature,” Leona mused. “Jesimula Utkin suggested it at a meeting once. Hrockas wasn’t so sure, because he didn’t know how to distinguish time travelers from regular people. I guess they think they figured it out.”

“Not really,” Mateo contended. “The air is toxic. Unless it also knew that we had suits on, I guess.”

“It’s only toxic for us,” Leona agreed. She ran her hand over the wood wall. She reached over to her arm screen, and flicked the data over to her heads up display, which was an easier way to read when her helmet was on. “Derudome. It houses The World Tree, along with thousands of others, but this one is set to reach the top of the dome, and be three kilometers in diameter.”

“So, it’s not a wall,” Mateo stated the obvious.

“No. This isn’t even in the catalog yet,” Leona went on. “I can only see the prospectus because we’re already in the dome, and the satnav found an otherwise hidden link, but it isn’t open to visitors.”

“First!” Mateo shouted playfully.

“Hey, Thistle,” Leona began. “Erase the fog and rain through multispectral imaging. Show us the tree alone.”

The image on their HUDs changed. The fog still had them enveloped, and they could still hear the pitter-patter of rainwater on their suits, but they could now see what the tree would look like on a clear day. It was a magnificent sight to behold. People were really going to love it. Leona was in just as much awe of it, but was also running calculations through her head. How could such a thing be possible? How did it grow so fast? Did Hrockas use time tech? Or had he been working on this longer than she realized? No, even if it was the absolute first dome he started working on, the tree could not be at full height in this short amount of time. And if time tech were involved, he likely would have conscripted Ramses to make it happen.

Leona refocused her vision to the HUD text. “There’s more. It has a planned release date of...” She trailed off.

“When?” Mateo prompted.

“Year 2900,” she said.

“Whew, that’s the long-game,” Olimpia pointed out.

“Wait. Why wait?” Leona questioned. “Thistle, what are the current dimensions?”

“Nearly eight kilometers tall, with a diameter of two-point-four-two kilometers.”

“Yeah, it’s just not ready yet,” Leona determined. “The math is tight, but the rate of growth doesn’t break the laws of physics in a highly controlled environment such as this one.”

Someone else wearing an environmental suit walked up from a couple of meters away, letting themselves appear in the honeymooners’ sightlines without speaking or jumpscaring them first. Whoever it was, their visor was opaque. They held one hand towards Olimpia while the other hand was underneath their own chin. Both palms were face up. They drew both hands together until one was on top of the other, then turned them so both palms were face down. They then extended their hands back to the original positions, except with the hands switched. This was the universal sign for open up radio communications on a hailing frequency.

Leona did as she was asked. “Hello?”

“Sorry, my visor is broken,” Hrockas’ voice came through. “I refuse to wear an IMS on this planet on principle as the whole premise is that it’s infinitely survivable. I didn’t realize the helmet didn’t work right until it was already on.”

“How did you get here so fast?” Mateo asked him.

“I have a teleporter belt,” Hrockas replied. “Ramses built one for me. It needs constant charging, but it makes my daily life easier. Is he here?”

“Just the three of us,” Olimpia promised.

“Good. Not that I wouldn’t want him here. Well, I don’t plan on any of you being here. It’s just that I was worried about my lifesign sensors, but it appears they captured all visitors. You really aren’t meant to be here, though.”

“The auto random selector dispatched us here,” Leona explained.

“Oooooooohh, I forgot about that. It should not have been activated. I’ll have a talk with Jesi’s friend about it. I put the project on hold indefinitely.”

“Fair enough,” Mateo said. “We’re sorry to have imposed.”

“No, it’s okay, you three are fine,” Hrockas insisted. “I just need to include it when we update the security protocols.” He looked up at the tree. He likely couldn’t see it in all its glory, however, as the fog would be blocking most of the view. “Wady’all think?”

“It’s gorgeous,” Leona said. “We were looking for a place to spend some of our honeymoon. This place checks a lot of boxes. I like ecologies. Mateo likes water. Olimpia likes dangerous or toxic environments.”

Hrockas chuckled. “The air is saturated with carbon dioxide. Makes them grow faster.”

“So there are other trees here?” Olimpia pressed.

“Oh, yeah, it’ll be a whole forest when it’s done,” Hrockas said as he turned at the waist to indicate the area in general. “Land for giants, but not with giants. I’ll leave that to Gulliver’s World.”

“Thanks for letting us see it,” Leona said graciously. “I’m sure we’ll be back in about four hundred days, when it’s finally open to the public.”

Hrockas chuckled again. “You can stay as long as you want. The fog makes it hard to see, but hey, if you’re into that, as well as danger, you could always try Foggy Forest.”

“Thanks. After my time in Bloodbourne,” Mateo said, “I’ve decided to stay away from the intentionally scary or unsettling ones.”

“I understand. Have a good rest of your honeymoon.” Hrockas tried to tug on a pull actuator, and flip a switch on his shoulder. “Oh, shit. My teleporter’s drained again.”

“Here.” Mateo approached. “Let me take you to Treasure Hunting Dome, so Ramses can fix it for you. It shouldn’t drain that fast.”

“No, I’ve been using it all day. I really just need to be careful with it.”

“Well, I’ll make him give you a second one during charge cycles, or hell, a third.” Mateo took hold of Hrockas and took them both away. Leona and Olimpia followed.

They were standing in the antechamber to Ramses’ new lab, which he built when he was stuck in the past for a year. After they went through decontamination, the three EmergentSuit wearers receded their nanites, and stepped into the lab. While Olimpia was helping Hrockas remove his bulky suit, Mateo approached Ramses. Something caught his eye, though. He looked over at a gestational pod, which Romana was floating inside of. He fumed. “What happened to my daughter?”

“She’s fine,” Ramses said. “She’s taking a nap. That’s not your daughter. It’s a new substrate for her.”

“Why would she need a new substrate?” Mateo questioned.

“The retroverters,” Ramses began to explain. “They’re not proverters too. Romana asked me to give her an upgrade instead of waiting for time to age her back up.”

“We can find her a proverter somewhere else,” Mateo reasoned.

“That’s not what she wants. You should talk to her.”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

“Yeah, when you got back. Why are you back so early?”

“It was just a quick detour in between adventures. Now I worry I should stay, or you’ll do something drastic.”

“Mateo. We were going to tell you. We just wanted you to relax first. Don’t make this into a thing.”

“Well, you’ve obviously been working on it for a long time now. She only looks as old as the real Romana does right now.”

“That is on an accelerated timescale,” Ramses clarified.

“I thought that wasn’t safe or stable.”

“I mean, the clone is in a time bubble. Or it usually is, while I’m not here. It’s developing at a normal rate, but from our perspective, it’s sped up. I shut off the temporal field this morning so I could run diagnostics, and make any adjustments necessary...which there aren’t any.”

This made Mateo even more frustrated. “Why can’t you just do that for Romana herself, keeping her in her original body?”

Ramses shook his head. “You’re not as dumb as you pretend to be, so stop asking stupid questions. It wouldn’t work for a conscious individual. She would go insane, trapped in the pod for ten plus years. God!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Mediator Leona said, stepping in. “Ramses, don’t be mean. Not everyone is as smart as you, and I know you get annoyed, but you need to keep control of how you speak to others. What might seem like a dumb question to you could sound perfectly reasonable to anyone else.” She too was a genius, but a part of her wasn’t. She recalled a timeline where she majored in Film Studies in college. This gave her a rare ability to straddle both worlds, and be empathetic to all. “Mateo, Romana is an adult, and this decision was inevitable. Look around. Nobody on this planet is a regular mortal being. Some people refused transhumanistic upgrades once they became available, and you know what happened to them? They died. Because that’s literally what they wanted. Their race has all but died out at this point, because fewer in each generation choose to stay as they were when they were born.”

“I know,” Mateo responded. “Intellectually, I know. I just can’t help but see her as my little girl. I never got to raise her. I think I would give her all the room in the universe if I watched her grow up, making small decisions on her own at first, before working her way up to the life-changing ones.”

“Yeah, and that wasn’t fair for you, but at the same time, it’s not fair of you to expect her to let you treat her as a child.”

Mateo said. “I know that too.”

“This wasn’t a rash decision,” little Romana said from the doorway. “I always wanted to be like you. My whole life, I’ve wanted to be like you. I grew up with stories. This...Ashvin thing was just the catalyst that pushed me to finally go through with it. I want this.”

“It’ll be ready in a couple days,” Ramses said.

“Did you hear that, dad? Plenty of time to go back to your honeymoon. I promise, when you return, I’ll still look like a child. I won’t transfer without you present.”

Mateo nodded. “Okay.”

When Mateo showed up the next day, still in the middle of the honeymoon, Romana no longer looked like a kid. She didn’t look like herself at all.

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Extremus: Year 107

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Tinaya decided to not tell Arqut, Silveon, or Audrey about the post-death asteroid that could be waiting for them once they finally leave the ship at the end of their first life. It isn’t something they need to be worried about for now. They still don’t talk to Audrey a whole lot, because it’s riskier than ever, but not impossible. Waldemar isn’t the least bit suspicious, and he’s not all that possessive. He sees Audrey and his friends as props. He really doesn’t care what these props do when they’re not busy making him look like a normal, well-adjusted person fit for leadership. While he ended up announcing his engagement instead of declaring his intentions to restore the civilian Chair system, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t plan on doing that eventually. He holds secret meetings all the time, with all sorts of people, some of whom have obvious political connections on this ship, others who seem unremarkable and inconsequential.

They don’t have time to worry about that today, and won’t for a good long while. Everyone else has become quite preoccupied with the upcoming event.  It’s the halfway mark. The thing to remember about this mission is that the outcome is, by definition, unknown. No one has ventured out to space this far, and they have definitely not gone as far as Extremus eventually will. The mystery is part of the experience, which they all hope their descendants will appreciate, and not resent them for it. The idea of it taking 216 years has always been more of an estimate than anything. There is no clear boundary forming the edge of the galaxy. The galactic halo alone makes it undefined, and with there being plenty of stars in the intergalactic voids anyway, there really is no standard scope of the Milky Way. Someone—no one seems to remember who—supposedly chose the duration to be 216 years simply because they liked the number. It’s impossible to verify that since the figure predates any serious discussion their ancestors made regarding the Extremus mission itself. It wasn’t like some fabled “founder” stood before the cameras, and unveiled a fully baked idea to travel across the galaxy. People started murmuring about it first, with different concepts being bounced around until landing on this one. It was a years-long process.

So basically, July 17, 2378 is only halfway between their starting date and their ending date because they had to make some sort of plan, even if it was always going to be subject to change. It definitely will change, because statistically speaking, there is almost no way that their 215th anniversary rolls around, and they happen to find a viable planet on that very day. Which is okay, because there is also no way that they let this nebulousness stop them from celebrating. Not even the Bridger section knows what happens at the end of the target deadline. It’s written into the charter that no one possesses knowledge about the future that far in advance. They could have hypothetically asked a seer to warn them of how things would turn out, and craft their plans meticulously to account for every eventuality, but that would have gone against the spirit of the endeavor. They don’t want to know what they’ll find, because then what’s the point of looking for it?

They’re arguing. Well, Tinaya isn’t arguing. The council members are arguing with each other while she, Lataran, and Oceanus sit in silence. Their first issue? The theme. What will the theme of the party be? Well, hopefully nothing, because that’s a little childish. Plus, there is no single area on this ship where every passenger and crewmember can congregate. The Attic Forest might be big enough, but there are hills, trees, and other vegetation blocking views, so it’s not a great place if you want to have some kind of presentation or performance. Plus, Tinaya really doesn’t want all those people in her forest all at once, trashing the place. There will be multiple gatherings, some happening at the same time, some happening on different dates. The exact date of July 17 is important, but they’ll be doing things in the weeks leading up to it, and probably after it too. The council will decide on some of them, but passengers can party whenever they want, for pretty much any reason, so other events will be unaffiliated.

Oceanus has clearly grown weary of all this back and forth, but the expression on his face isn’t enough to clarify what’s going on in his head. Not even when he blurts out; “a committee!”

“What?” Councilman Linwood questions.

“Why are you handling this?” Oceanus questions. “You’re the council for the ship, made up of crew and civilian policymakers. You have important business to attend to. Why are you wasting your time on a party?” Hm. It’s not just about the pointlessness of this particular debate.

There is silence for a moment. “You may leave if you wish, Captain,” Head Councillor Spalden says to him. “This is not a mandatory meeting.”

“It’s not just me,” Oceanus begins. “Yes, I’m too busy for this, but what I’m trying to tell you is that you are as well. I’m not saying that members of the council can’t also be part of the party planning committee, or whatever you wanna call it, but it should not be taking up all of your time. This is a different subject of discussion, and therefore requires different voices. Let’s open it up, and invite others to join. Meanwhile, you can move on to more crucial concerns.”

“Would you want to be on it?” Spalden asks.

“Absolutely not,” Oceanus retorts. “I don’t care.” He gives the side eye to Tinaya and Lataran. “The war is my current worry.” The Admirals are aware that there is a war against the Exin Empire, and that it is being fought by the Verdemusians, in whatever capacity they are able. They are not, however, privy to current operational details. It’s not technically relevant to the ship, and more of a diplomatic problem, so they don’t need to know. It sounds like something happened, or is happening, which has Captain Jennings anxious. They’re both curious to learn what that might be, but not entitled to any such answers. “With all due respect,” he adds.

“We recognize, appreciate, and understand the duties of the Captain,” Spalden says, “which is why I invited you to leave, and return to your post. There will be no hard feelings here. The Halfway Party is vital to keeping passengers enthusiastic about our mission, and to pass this enthusiasm down to the next generations. It is not frivolous. It is not irrelevant. It is vital to our survival as a people, and for that reason, I must insist on maintaining our commitment to the matter. Thank you very much.”

“He’s not saying that it’s not important,” Councilwoman Flowers defends. “He’s not even saying that we shouldn’t have any input. He’s arguing that we were elected to manage the safe, secure, and prosperous transportation of our passengers across the galaxy. Our obligation to them covers all matters, as well as ship morale. As morale is but a subset of our duties, perhaps a more focused committee is in order. Not only do we have other issues to deal with, but including people who are not on the council in the decision-making process would actually aid in our endeavor to boost ship morale itself.”

Head Councillor Spalden squirms in his seat. It’s becoming apparent that the issue is not that he wants the council to be solely in charge of it. It’s that he wants to personally be in charge of it.

Tinaya stands. “I move for the creation of an official Party Planning Committee, to be responsible for the Halfway Celebration, as well as any other state-sponsored festivities, which may be conceived of in the future. I would like to include in this motion a provision that Head Councillor Spalden be installed as the first Premier Facilitator of the PPC...final name to be determined by the selected Premier Facilitator.”

“Seconded,” Lataran says.

As Head Councillor Spalden is being called in this motion, he is unable to be involved in any way. He can’t even be present for a vote. Councilman Linwood stands. “Motion is engaged. All other business on the agenda are tabled until further notice. Discussion on new order will be open as soon as Head Councillor Spalden excuses himself.”

Spalden stands, and holds back his excitement. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. They’re all picking up on how he feels, and there’s little chance that they won’t let him do it. Oceanus isn’t the only one who doesn’t care what happens to the celebrations; he’s just the only one in a position to vocalize his apathy.

As Spalden is leaving, Councilman Linwood turns his attention to Tinaya and Lataran. “Admirals, as non-voting members, please excuse yourselves as well.”

Lataran points finger guns at him, winks, and clicks her tongue just before she disappears.

Tinaya nods at the council. “With respect to the Dais,” she says, which is the right way to leave these chambers. She walks out manually.

Lataran didn’t teleport too far. She’s waiting for Tinaya on the other side of the doors. “Anything interesting happen after I left?” she jokes.

“I’ve not asked in a while. How’s Sable?” Tinaya asks as they start walking down the corridor together.

“She’s good. Knows what she wants to do with her life already.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m glad we were able to get out of that meeting early, because there’s something you should see, and earlier is better than later.”

“Okay...”

They continue to walk instead of jumping right to their destination. It’s apparently not all that urgent. Lataran exudes a sense of calm and reserved excitement, rather than anxiety or fear. This thing that she wants Tinaya to see must not be bad. That still doesn’t tell her what it could possibly be, though. They take the elevator all the way up to the top level. It’s evidently something in the Attic Forest. Lataran continues to lead her between the trees and bushes until they can see a group of children. Sable is one of them, but Tinaya doesn’t know any others since her own son has aged out of this demographic.

“This is her Enrichment class,” Lataran explains. Enrichment is a vital component of children’s education. It typically includes studies that are not, strictly speaking, necessary for the continuation of the mission. No science, no engineering, no Earth studies. It’s about art, music, and other creative activities. It’s a generic term at this age. If a student decides to pursue a career in one of these fields, the course options will narrow later on.

One of the kids notices that the Admirals have arrived, and starts spreading the news. They were standing in random spots before, but now clump together in a vaguely orderly fashion. Off to the side, a white sheet hangs over the trail between two trees, which is perhaps ready for an image to be projected upon it? Once Tinaya and Lataran step fully into the clearing, the performance begins. In their best attempt at unison, they cry, “thank you, Admiral Leithe!” They then sing a song, which seems to be wholly original. It’s not a literal interpretation about the past, but is essentially about a cold, lifeless ship being turned into a lush garden full of joy and calm, where all the children can laugh and play. It’s about the forest. It’s about her.

After the son is over, seven-year-old Sable separates herself from the group, clearly intentionally, and as rehearsed. She reaches up and tries to take hold of the corner of the white sheet, but she’s too short. “The stool!” she complains, looking around on the ground. In lieu of looking for the stool, one of the older boys picks her up by the waist so she can get the sheet. She pulls it off of the hook, and lets it drop. On the other side is a garden. Of course there’s vegetation all around, but this is a distinct section, surrounded by stone pavers. The flowers planted here are some of the most vibrant and delicate, such as zinnias, carnations, and blue alyssum. There’s a small water fixture on a small retaining wall. The water splashes into a tiny pond, which spills over the edge of the lower retaining wall, and into a tiny creek that disappears around the corner.

Tinaya tears up when she notices one last thing. On a wooden sign on a wooden post are the words, Leithe Gardens.

“They’ve been working on this for months,” Lataran explains. “Sable only fessed up when I grilled her for coming home late two weeks ago.”

“Oh, boys and girls,” Tinaya says. “Thank you. This is so sweet of you.” It’s nice, after all this heartache—with Waldemar, and baby Silvia, and just everything—to see something so pure and delightful. As a leader, she’s had to endure all too much danger and drama. It’s great to be reminded that life is about happiness, and they’re flying through the black in the search of that; not war or political intrigue. The thought and care that went into creating this masterpiece shows that it is possible to find harmony, and to build a society based on love and community.

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Microstory 2164: Whiny Babies

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A while back, a company reached out to me for a business opportunity. They wanted me to promote their products in my videos, which I do not make, but we still thought there was something there, so we kept talking. An agreement was made, and a deal was quite nearly finalized with a steak dinner. I’m a vegetarian, so I lamented how that affected my mental health. The company didn’t like that, so they pulled out of the deal, and I thought that was the end of it. It’s come back to haunt me today. Now they’ve taken it a step further, and sent me a cease and desist letter. They’re threatening to take legal action unless I remove the posts that mention the issue, and release a public apology. Honestly—and I recognize that saying this might only make things worse—but they’re total morons. I have yet to tell you which company this is, and I will continue to keep that a secret unless they leave me no choice. If I apologize publicly, you will necessarily find out who they are. Now, you might end up on their side because of that, but something tells me that you’re going to continue to side with the lone blogger who was only exercising his freedom of speech over a corporation with an amount of money that I can’t even ballpark, because it would narrow down your list of suspects, which I don’t want you to be able to do. But obviously we’re not talking about some local family run shop with only one location. People tend to not like corporate executives for being the biggest whiny babies in a world that gives them everything they need and want. I don’t think that this will end well for them, which is why I’m doing everything I can to help them move past it. I’m trying to keep things civil, private and confidential, and productive, but I think they’ve just seen how popular I’ve grown to be, and they want in on that action. I guess they think that I’m a millionaire by now, or something. I assure you, I’m not there yet. I may never be, as I’m a blogger, not a movie star. I’m not too worried about where this little legal issue is going to go. They’ll back down when they realize that even if they win, they lose. Their reputation is so much more important than mine is. I can fall into obscurity if I have to. I could live naked in the middle of the woods with nothing, and still survive. A company can’t do that. So come at me, bro.

Microstory 2163: Your Greatest Weakness Is

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Leonard and I had another meeting with the jail warden. He’s not mad, but I think I needed some time to collect my thoughts about what he proposed in the first place. That’s why I’m a writer, and not an improv comedian. We discussed options further, and there’s actually a chance that I could stop having to go to jail altogether. There is precedent for this sort of thing. A few cops who were convicted of various crimes throughout history have gone back into the field during emergencies, and earned their freedom by proving themselves redeemed. In one case, a really dangerous convict broke out of prison, forcing his not-so-bad cellmate to tag along. The latter ended up not only bringing his cellmate down, but also stopped his associates from committing a horrendous crime while he was still on the other side of the walls. So he was set free too. If I went the same route, it would be nothing as glamorous or intense as that. I would just start working for the jail, trying to help them better sort and schedule the guests. I would love the chance to have my sentence commuted, but I’m still not confident that I’m up for the job. I suppose I always thought of myself as someone who wasn’t necessarily talented at anything, but maybe good at finding talented people elsewhere? I could probably come up with a list of desirable positions, and then figure out how to seek out professionals who sufficiently fit the criteria. My dad was in human resources, so while he didn’t exactly ever sit me down, and teach me the ropes, I did pick up a few skills from him. I’ve also had tons of my own job interviews, so I know which questions are too dumb to be asked, like what kind of animal you would be, or what your greatest weakness is. Ugh, that’s such a terrible one. Nobody has a good answer to that, and even if they do, what qualifies you to analyze it to determine some sort of insight into that person’s fitness for the job? I’m getting off track, but none of this is probably going to happen anyway. Remember that business partnership I was working on that went up in spectacular flames? I don’t see things going that sour for this situation, but I doubt the jail that keeps me locked up every weekend is going to turn around and hire me before I’ve completed my sentence. I can’t imagine they would do it even if I had served my time in its entirety. I will admit, though, it’s kind of nice that they’re even entertaining the possibility. I had never, ever, ever been recruited before until I came to this planet, and now it might happen twice? That’s insane. A con can dream, can’t he?

Microstory 2162: Don’t Say No to a Warden

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I finished my work hours a little early, so my parole officer could pick me up, and drive me back to jail, but I wasn’t staying there as a guest. I had a meeting with the warden, which was agitating the butterflies in my stomach. I put it like that, because I always keep butterflies in there, they just don’t always move around this much. As it turns out, it wasn’t bad, but I’m not so sure that it was good either. He read my story, as he apparently does every evening, and he thought that I had some good ideas. I hadn’t even realized that I had presented any ideas, but this was in regards to the disharmony that sometimes arises when guests that don’t get along well with each other are forced to live together in an enclosed space. To me, that’s kind of the definition of jail and prison, but he wants to find a way to put an end to it anyway. That sounds like a lovely sentiment, but I’m not sure that it can be done. Perhaps with a sufficiently advanced artificial intelligence, you could figure out how to accurately profile and categorize everyone in need of being housed in the system with as many labels as necessary, and organize them to prevent gang conflicts, or other major disagreements. But here’s the thing, you wouldn’t just want to stop two gangs from going to war with each other, you would want the gang to stop from forming in the first place, or they’ll just translate all that into the outside world once their sentences were up. That’s why you can’t just sit down with everyone’s psych profile, and sort them like you’re simply planning the seating arrangements for a wedding reception.

If you think that I’m being dismissive of how difficult it is to plan a wedding, you’re mistaken. Wedding receptions are hard. This would be virtually impossible. First thoughts, you’re gonna need a team of behavioral psychologists, and sociologists, and who knows what else, maybe a logistician? See, I couldn’t even tell you how to form the team. While it might have kind of been my idea, I can’t be a part of it. But that’s what he wants. He wants me to start a taskforce of sorts to figure out how to schedule the guests at the jail. But you would have to account for people’s job situations, the judges’ particular rulings on each person’s specific sentence. Again, I think you need an AI to do all this for you. Even a team probably wouldn’t be able to figure it out. I didn’t say no to the request, because you don’t say no to a warden, but I’ve not agreed to it either. I would need to discuss it with my lawyers, and my current employer... It would eat into the time I need for my site and socials. It would also seem weird to me if I were both a staff member of the jail, and a guest who had no choice but to be there for 48 hours a week straight. I know that prisons have work programs, but this is not the same thing as shelving books in the library, or renovating the CO break room. Those are references that, fortunately, none of you gets. Anyway, I guess this is more a long-term shift in strategies. The warden says that if this hypothetical pilot program works, they could theoretically institute it at other facilities. I suppose nothing would really start until after I completed my sentence, assuming any of this gets off the ground, and that there’s a place for me in it at all, which sounds ridiculous right now. Until then (or until never) I’ll just go back to doing my thang, and not worry much about it. The stress would not get me anywhere. My butterflies move around enough as it is.

Microstory 2101: I Won’t Live a Lie

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I’m out! I’m hiding from the authorities...somewhere. For obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell anyone where I am. When I first showed up in this universe, I didn’t have any identity, so instead of finding one on the black market, I procured it through the proper channels. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, but I’ve ruined it now. I had no choice. I got a parasitic infection, which messed up my brain, and started making me act crazy. After the body doctors cleared it all up, the mind doctors came in, and tried to convince me that everything I’ve been doing and saying has been crazy, and they wanted to keep me there for psychological treatment. The little committee I had to talk to twice before I could be released from the hospital brought up the discrepancy in the timeline. If I was infected in early February, why is it that I’ve been talking about being a bulk traveler on my blog pretty much this entire time? Well, some of them argued that the viral and bacterial infections I had before that could explain all that away. Others argued that maintaining the same symptoms across three completely different infections didn’t make much medical sense, and I don’t know everything that they talked about after I left the room, but in the end, I got out of there. It wasn’t enough, though. I was living around people who didn’t believe me, and didn’t trust me, and I couldn’t stay there anymore. I’ll always be grateful to my landlord, and my boss, and I know that none of this was their fault, but I have my reasons. I spent years pretending to be someone I’m not. I pretended to not be autistic. I pretended to be straight. I pretended to like Blink-182! I won’t do that anymore. I won’t live a lie. Even if I have to sleep in squalor, I’m going to live my truth from now on. So long, Boreverse Kansas City, I’ll never forgive you for the way you treated me. Now more than ever, I know that my only goal in life should be to get the hell out of this universe. Even if I never find my friends again, at least I won’t have to deal with you people anymore. For those of you reading this who are on my side, don’t you worry about me getting caught. I’ve got that covered. Some friends helped me set up a shadow workstation. As long as I always post from the cage, I can’t be traced, and as long as I don’t mention any specifics about my location, I can’t be found. I have to go now. I booked a boat ride on the Chicago River. As I said before, don’t look for me. I’m a ghost.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: January 25, 2399

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Alyssa went into the panic room to meditate in the dark yesterday. There’s only one way in, and one way out. It wasn’t designed for a criminal to get away undetected. It’s there to protect the homeowners from intruders while they wait for help to arrive. If she had left through the door, he would have seen her, and if she had teleported out, she would have said something. She wouldn’t have just disappeared. If for no other reason than to be here for her brothers, she would never have done something so irresponsible. Something happened to her, and Ramses is determined to remedy the situation. Since the Bridgette is already in Southeast Asian Oceania, he requested transport from the government. The McIver boys are here too, because now there’s no one else left to take care of them. Vearden has gotten everything he needs from the house by now, so he’s able to stay with Arcadia at the hospital permanently.

Mangrove One. Ramses thought the team had contributed a hell of a lot to this world’s development, but it’s nothing compared to what this Aldona woman has done, and she did it in a fraction of the time. He knows how to build nanofabricators, but he made a deliberate choice to withhold such technology. It’s not exactly the Prime Directive, but he didn’t think that these people deserved quite that level of sophistication, so he never bothered. He didn’t even want them to know that it was possible. Welp, the cat’s out of the bag, and he’s going to take advantage of it. There’s a spaceship at this ocean facility capable of reaching orbit, and sustaining life. There are other space agencies, of course, but gaining access to them would require reading too many people in to the whole time travelers situation, and would be a political nightmare. Ramses needs to deploy a new temporal error scanner, and this Mangrove Program is his only reasonable way of accomplishing that.

While Mateo stays with the kids, Ramses pleads his case to the little committee they formed here. It consists of Winona, Aldona, Leona, and a couple of other people, whose names may or may not also end in -ona. They never introduced themselves, and they have yet to say a word. Aldona is speaking now. “I’m sorry, we can’t do it.”

“And why is that?” Ramses questions. “It’s just a little satellite. All I need is a means of getting it up there.”

“You’ll just have to do what you need from the ground,” Aldona insists.

“The point is to get in orbit, so it scans the entire planet,” Ramses argues.

“Yes,” Aldona says, “and I do not feel comfortable with that. Honestly, if I had been aware of the last time you scanned literally every human brain on the planet, I would have tried to stop you back then.”

“Winona?” Ramses asks. “You let her push you around like this?”

“She’s...helping us,” Winona defends.

“More than we are,” Ramses says. “Got it.”

“It’s not like that,” Winona claims.

“No, no, I get it,” Ramses begins. “What you’re trying to say is that she has you over a barrel, and the water’s freezing. No, I understand perfectly. You lost your balls.”

“Watch it, Ramses,” Leona warns.

“Do you not want to rescue Alyssa?”

“Of course I do,” Leona contends, “but we’re not even sure she’s gone. It’s barely been a day.”

“Funny how differently you react when it’s not your husband,” he condemns.

“Watch it, I say,” Leona repeats.

Ramses sighs. “If you’re not going to let me take Mangrove One, then I need some temporal energy to make a few jumps up to Mangrove Zero. The equipment is too heavy to carry all at once, so I’ll have to partially disassemble it, and take multiple trips.”

“Why is it any heavier than the one that Mateo took up to the AOC the first time?” Leona asks.

“This one does a little more than just scan for temporal errors,” Ramses says. “I figured I might as well feed two birds with one worm while I’m up there. I didn’t know that I would get so much pushback.”

“Well, if you won’t even tell me what else that thing does, then I’m definitely not letting you go up there. Permission to enter Mangrove Zero is also hereby denied,” Aldona decides.

“You can’t stop me,” Ramses tells her.

“Do you have the temporal energy it would require to make it up there?” Aldona asks, annoyingly confident that she knows the answer, and feeling no need to wait for it. “I thought not. Permission to procure more is denied as well. I’m not telling you that you can’t go look for Alyssa, but you won’t do it by invading the privacy of everyone in the world. It’s my job to protect then, and I won’t have you undermine me.”

Ramses can’t accept that. He will find her. He doesn’t care how many bridges he has to burn. There may not be enough time to synthesize more temporal energy, and he doesn’t have a lab anyway. Here’s hoping he’s right that Mateo doesn’t run out anymore. He fumes at Aldona for another few seconds, then does the same for Winona, and especially Leona. “I don’t know if you and I will ever be okay.” He doesn’t lead them to believe that he’s going to go over their heads. He just tries to walk out of the room. He nearly runs into Mateo in the process.

Mateo places a finger in front of his lips.

Ramses has already faltered at the surprise, so he tries to cover with a cough. “Harrumph. I’m fine. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he spits at them unconvincingly. He nods like that was a good save, and then leaves with Mateo.

“I was listening in,” Mateo says once they’re safely out of earshot.

“I gathered that.”

“I can’t believe that Leona isn’t backing you up. She must know something that we don’t. But if that’s true, we can only go on the information we have at the moment, and at the moment, it looks like the right thing to do is get you up to that ship.”

“I’m glad that someone around here hasn’t lost their mind yet.”

“No, the reptilians can’t catch me; I’m too fast for their chemtrails,” Mateo jokes in a conspiratorial tone.

After a laugh, Ramses takes Mateo to the hangar, where the new satellite has been set aside in the back corner. Together they disassemble it into more manageable parts. It takes them the rest of the day. It’s a surprise that no one surmises what they were doing all this time. Ramses accesses the blueprints for Mangrove Zero, so Mateo  knows where the cargo bay is. It’s only upon his last jump that something happens that they didn’t plan for. Aldona claimed that Mangrove Zero was completely unmanned. She was either lying, or mistaken.

“Hey,” the teenager says. “Are you here to kill me?”

Extremus: Year 6

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Over the next year, the micrometeoroid problem worsens. Several even manage to slip through the field. Or maybe the field actually teleports the objects inside of it, instead of away, which was an early problem that the technology had. A woman named Weaver figured out how to reduce the chances of that happening, but she was operating under the assumption that the interstellar density would not change this dramatically. Fortunately, it’s not like Extremus was designed with a single layer of aluminum foil. The bulkhead has so far proved strong enough to withstand the damage, and robots have been dispensed to repair the dents immediately. Many of the meteoroids don’t even hit the ship itself anyway. The field is meant to be a buffer; not the last line of defense. Still, it’s a concerning issue, and it still needs to be dealt with.

After a week, the new committee that Halan formed reconvenes. Individuals and teams give their own ideas about how to solve this issue. The Bridgers make another appearance, but it’s their last one. Any information that they need to know about the future of the mission can be passed along to them at a later time. They don’t vocalize any ideas themselves, but everyone else has more than one possibility. Head of Security Gideon has the simplest idea. They could make a lateral course adjustment, and fly parallel to the galactic plane, rather than right through the center of it. It’s not the craziest plan, but it’s also not ideal as it extends their mission time by a measure of years, and potentially uses up too much energy. Lead Mechanic Holgersen thinks that all they need to do is bolster the hull by adding Whipple bumpers, and other armor. Again, this isn’t insane, and it’s certainly doable. Almost all of the ideas come with downsides. They are only short-term solutions, or they make something else about the mission harder, or they just won’t necessarily be good enough for an even higher interstellar density. And then there is one that is the craziest of them all. Surprisingly, it comes from passenger representative, First Chair Ebner.

Omega and Lead Engineer Ocean have been working out the details for the last year, and now it’s time to present it to the rest of the engineering team. So far, no one else has been brought into the mix—not even the rest of the crew—and this strategy has been working. That has to change now, but they should still be able to keep the circle tight. “Thank you all for coming,” Veca begins. “I know you’re all worried about your apprentices, but I’m confident that they can survive the next few hours without you. That’s what they’re here for.” When the mission began, a certain number of people were approved for the crew, based on their education and background. Now that the mission is six years in, some of the younger passengers are finally ready to prepare to replace the initial crew members at a one-to-one ratio. Each current crew member has been assigned an apprentice to train, who will supposedly take over their responsibilities when their shift is over.

Veca continues, “before I begin, due credit is owed to the woman who came up with the idea. She has no engineering experience, so it’s the rest of us who will have to make it actually work, but it’s a good example of how everyone has something to offer, and solutions can come from some of the most unexpected places. First Ebner, would you please stand up?”

Satyria likes to be heard, but she doesn’t just want people to think that she’s important. She wants to actually be important, and to earn all of the recognition she receives. She works hard to contribute to the cause, and never rests on her laurels. Still, she doesn’t love to be the center of attention. She would rather just know that people are pleased with her contributions on their own time. Even so, she stands up, and thanks the crowd as they clap politely.

“Now. Again, we need you. This is a massive endeavor. About half of you are directly responsible for the construction of Extremus. The other half was still in the middle of your education. Either way, you all know what it took to make this dream come true, and none of you takes that for granted. It is a magnificent vessel, and I am profoundly proud of the work we have all accomplished. Unfortunately, as you read in the pre-meeting brief, there is one flaw, which comes out of a lack of data about the composition of the galaxy. You built a great ship. Now I’m going to have to ask you to do it again. It won’t be an entirely new ship that’s the same size as this one, but it will be heavily fortified, and it will be responsible for acting as a sort of frontrunner shield. We’re tentatively calling it The Spearhead.”

One of the engineers raises his hand. “You want a second ship to fly in front of us, so it can take all the micrometeoroid damage on our behalf?”

Before Veca can answer, another engineer piggy-backs on the question. “How do you suggest we get this thing in front of Extremus? Even if we build it in modules, and assemble it on the outside, we’re literally going as fast as relativity allows us. We’ll have to slow down so it can accelerate, and get ahead of us.”

“That’s what those three are for.” Veca points to the corner of the room.

Temporal Engineer Raddle and her apprentice, August are sitting with a second apprentice whose first day on the job was yesterday. Valencia stands up. “We don’t have to slow down to get something in front of the ship. All we have to do is teleport it to a point in space ahead of us. FTL technology isn’t fast or safe enough for general interstellar travel, but it’s perfect for short range jumps. We’ll attach the Spearhead to the bottom of the hull, fire up its engines, send it to the edge of shield space, and let it fly in front of us. Boom, easy.”

“Yeah, that sounds easy,” someone from the crowd groans.

“Simple, not easy,” Veca corrects Valencia’s point. “Look, I know that this sounds crazy,” but Omega and I have been running simulations for months now. Quite frankly, we should have designed the ship to have an external shield the entire time. It will create a clear path for us to follow, and warn us of other dangers ahead of time, like gamma-ray bursts, and collapsed stars. The Spearhead is about more than just micrometeorite strikes. It’s about knowing what’s coming before risking any lives.”

Before anyone can say anything more about anything, they hear a thunderous explosion, and feel a shockwave ripple through their bodies. Captain Yenant, who’s been quiet this whole time to let the experts carry out this presentation, jumps up and activates his emergency teleporter. He likes to walk from place to place most of the time, but obviously he needs to get to the bridge quickly. Mayhem has taken over, and crew members are screaming data at each other, and trying to communicate with their comrades around the ship. “Report!” Halan screams.

“Fires on decks nineteen through twenty-two. Casualty reports still coming in. Deaths upwards of eleven.”

“Sir,” someone else begins.

“What? Just say it!” Halan demands.

“Deck twenty-four, main engineering, has been obliterated. Twenty-three is exposed.”

“Has it been sealed off?” Halan questions.

“Yes, sir.”

“Teleport all injured parties to the infirmary.”

“Already done, sir.”

“Main engines.”

“Holding.”

“Power efficiency.”

“Down to 83%, but rising.”

“Hull integrity.”

“Stressed between twenty-two and three.”

“You’re sure that everyone is out of twenty-three,” Halan asks.

“Sir,” he confirms.

“Decouple,” Halan orders. “Jettison deck twenty-three, and what’s left of twenty-four, before they tear us apart.”

“Jettisoning twenty-three and down,” he agrees as he inputs the command into the computer.

Halan waits a moment, and watches the screen to make sure the damaged sections are successfully removed from the ship. “Okay. Reframe speed.”

“Seven-oh-seven-C.”

Halan sighs and shakes his head in sadness. “All that. All that death, and we’re still just moving along like nothing happened. Did we even lose any time?”

“No, sir.”

“Great. I’m sure everyone we lost was comforted in their final moments that we’re all still doing okay.”

“Sir?”

“Compile the data, and run full diagnostics on every single system on the ship, including the passenger sections. I’m going to the infirmary.”

Fifty-five crew members, and one passenger were killed in what they could come to learn was yet another micrometeorite strike. According to what little data could be recovered from the incident, it was about the size of an ancient Earthan baseball. Though not so big, it was able to do sizable damage, because of how fast the ship was moving. The teleportation shield made an error when it transported the object closer to the ship, where it was able to rip straight through the lowest deck, and kill everyone there instantly. The only silver lining was that this was the main engineering section, which was designed to sit lower than anything else. The passenger sections were numbered from the opposite direction, since it was more intuitive for them to think of it like an above-ground building. Level one actually coincided with Deck 20.

Since nearly all of the current-shift engineers were in the middle of the meeting on Deck 2, they managed to survive the strike. Sadly, their apprentices were down there instead, monitoring systems, and relogging data. They were all killed, and as if that wasn’t sad on its own, it also meant that there would be no one to replace those crew members once their shift officially ended. Perhaps Halan would be able to convince them to extend their shifts until replacements could be sufficiently trained, but that isn’t what matters right now. They have to rebuild, and fortify the physical shield, and increase power to the teleporter field, if possible. Nothing like this can ever happen again, and it falls on Halan’s shoulders to ensure that. No one seems to blame him for it, but as Captain, he is ultimately responsible for literally everything. A lot of people were nominated for the position, and about half of them declined specifically because it was too much pressure. The other half are probably feeling lucky right now that they weren’t put in charge. Well, one of them doesn’t feel lucky, because she’s dead.

Captain Yenant addresses the whole ship on the evening announcements, explaining to everyone what happened, and what they will be doing to prevent another tragedy. It’s over the next few days that he starts to hear the criticisms, and they are all pretty much valid. He can’t condemn anyone for losing faith in his leadership, or in the mission as a whole. There is a carefully laid out procedure for recalling a captain, but the passengers have less to say about it than the crew does. For now, no one’s been talking about that, and Mercer has been keeping his ear to the ground for it. It’s not out of the question, though. It’s never out of the question. And Halan will step down gracefully, should the need arise. A battle for power does no one any good, and undermines the spirit of the ship’s mandate. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and it’s looking like it won’t. The crew still does not blame him for what happened.

The repairs themselves were fairly quick and easy. Extremus was designed to drop any section at will in case something like this occurs. The decks above were negatively impacted, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. A significant portion of the vessel was designated for spare parts and raw materials. That’s not the problem, though. It’s the missing decks themselves that are going to make things difficult for them. They don’t ever plan on stopping, unlike most ships, which only have to make it to a destination in the stellar neighborhood. The really cool thing about relativistic travel is that it cuts down on the amount of time that something can go wrong. At the moment, the closest outpost is only twenty light years from Origin, which means while it takes a little over twenty years to get there from Earth, the crew only experiences ten days. Extremus, on the other hand, will be en route for 216 years. They can’t afford to have to rebuild the ship over and over again. They’ll be able to replace those missing decks over the course of the next year, but every time that happens, it cuts down on their reserves. They will eventually run out, and Halan doesn’t know what happens when they get to that point. For now, the problem has to be solved, and Halan isn’t sure they’ll be able to take care of it before another strike kills them all.

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Extremus: Year 5

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Captain Halan Yenant is standing at the head of the table, while the rest of the group is seated. To his left is Lieutenant Mercer, who is one of only three people who know what’s going on, and why this meeting has been called. Most of the rest are clueless. “To begin, I’ll do introductions. You may all know each other, but let’s do it anyway. I’m Captain Yenant, first of nine. This is my Lieutenant, Eckhart Mercer. Over here we have Lead Engineer, Veca Ocean, who brought the issue at hand to my attention. Next to her is another engineer, Omega Parker. He’s here, because he’s the clone of a very clever man, who was partially responsible for much of the technology that we take for granted on this vessel. I have recently named him Head of Special Projects, which is what I believe this will be, if it isn’t already. Back on this side is Head of Security, Karson Gideon. He’ll be present for every meeting henceforth, and will be largely responsible for the secrecy of this committee’s mandate.”

“What is this committee’s mandate?”

“I was getting to you, Satyria,” Halan says. “I guess I’ll skip over these others to introduce you to Satyria Ebner. She’s Passenger Chair. While I am still demanding that this project be kept secret from anyone outside this room, she has the right to be included. Coming back this way, Lead Mechanic Corey Holgersen. Across from them is our one and only Temporal Engineer, Valencia Raddle, plus her apprentice, Augustina Voll.”

“I—”

“But she goes by August,” Halan added before realizing that she was trying to say that herself. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I didn’t know you knew that. It’s not in my file.”

“It is now.” Halan points down to the end of the table, past Satyria. “Those two down there are The Bridgers.”

The crowd looks down at them, surprised to see them here.

“I know,” Halan says, holding his hand up. “They’re not supposed to be out in public, but it’s too important. This project is long term. It will probably last the entire trip. If word gets out that this committee has formed, or why it has formed, anyone here is subject to profound disciplinary action, including me. I could be deshifted for it, it’s that serious. Anyone who reveals anything about the Bridgers, however...will be executed, because it’s even more serious. No one can know who they are, or that they’re here. Does everyone here understand this? I need verbal confirmation from every single one.” He received it.

“They probably won’t say anything,” he goes on, “and you won’t need to say anything to them, and you don’t need to know their names.” The Bridgers are a mystical and mysterious class of people. They live in a secret section of the ship, and don’t participate socially. They are immortal, having undergone transhumanistic upgrades to keep them from dying. Over time, either their current bodies will be modified, or their consciousnesses will be transferred to new bodies entirely, just to better ensure their anonymity. Now that this meeting has been called, only eleven people in the universe know anything about them, including Rita, and their personal doctor, who lives with them. The next administration will be read-in when the time comes for transition.

The Bridgers were created to maximize the chances that this project will succeed. If something goes wrong during one of these administrative transitions, they can assume authority, and put a stop to any conflict. If something goes wrong with the entire mission, they are expected to survive, along with embryos that are being stored in their secret section. If no one else survives to reach the Extremus planet, hopefully the two of them will, along with a new generation of human descendants. They can’t let this all be for nothing. Of course, this is only a last resort, but the original engineers, some of which ultimately decided to not even come along, felt it necessary to stack the deck in their favor. The very idea of the Bridgers was spread throughout the passengers and crew as a way to frighten those who might go looking for proof of their existence, while maintaining the very real possibility that there is no proof, and that it’s all just made up.

Halan regards the people of the committee, looking for anyone who wants to ask a question, but is too afraid to. He doesn’t plan on answering such questions, but he needs to know if they’re there. “Okay. I’ll cede the floor to Mrs. Ocean, who first came to me with this problem.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Veca says. “As he said, we have a problem. It’s not one we didn’t see coming, nor are we completely unprepared for it, but it is worse than we thought it would be, and it will probably only grow worse as we approach Sagittarius A*.” She places her tablet in the center of the table, and activates the hologram. “This is a rough map of the Milky Way galaxy, based on readings taken from Earth over the last several centuries, the stellar neighborhood from the last several decades, and Projects Stargate and Topdown from the last few decades. Right now, we’re here, and we’re headed to somewhere around here.” She points. “Between us and our destination are stars, planets, and even asteroid belts and shells, but this map is missing a key component. It’s impossible to map to any significant detail, and difficult to illustrate in general, but it’s there, all around us.”

“The interstellar medium,” Corey guesses.

“That’s right,” Veca confirms. “It’s composed mostly of gas and dust, but larger micrometeoroids take up a greater share than we ever knew. The center of the galaxy is denser than the outer arms, therefore, we assume there will be even more micrometeoroids.” She brings up a data table. “Over the last five years, we’ve noticed an increase in field collisions. So far, it’s held. It teleports any incoming matter to a random spot anywhere between a few hundred meters to an AU away. Again, everything is fine. The field has never failed. We want to solve the problem before it fails, though, because that is not an impossibility. However remote, the chances are not zero. This committee was formed in order to make sure it never happens.”

“All of you need to know about this eventuality, but no one else does,” Halan says, retaking lead. “I’m not saying that we won’t ever bring in others, or even make a public announcement. It’s just not in the plans right now. I want to see if the people in this room alone can come up with a viable solution before we start getting inundated with other opinions.”

“If I may make a suggestion on how to proceed?” Omega jumps in.

Halan merely nods.

“When I was working with Team Keshida, if they ran across a problem, they would separate from each other prior to any deep discussion. It was each of their responsibility to come up with ideas without being distracted by other ideas, kind of like what you’re saying with the public. It seemed to work well with them. I propose we adjourn immediately, so each of us can return to our lives for at least a week. Then, we come back together, and present our solutions.”

Halan thinks this over. “The ship is not going to explode in the next week, and if it does, nothing we decide here today will be able to stop it. I accept the proposal. Mrs. Ocean will provide you with the relevant data. If, during the week, you think you need more than what she provides, come to me, and I’ll see what I can do. Sound fair?”

They all seem to think it does.

“Thank you,” he ends. They all get up to leave. The Bridgers activate their teleporters, so no one sees where they go. Only Halan, Mercer, and Omega remain. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Halan says. “I’ll be fine.” He knew Omega would want to speak with him privately. That was the point of the whole weeklong recess thing. Once Mercer leaves, he turns to the engineer. “What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have any specific ideas,” Omega explains. “I just want to do something I’ve been asking for for the last two years.”

“You’ve been asking for a lot for the last two years,” Halan volleys. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I think maybe someone’s already come up with a solution to this, and we just don’t know it.”

Halan shakes his head slightly, and tries to think. Then he realizes where Omega is going with this. “You mean Old Man.”

“We have no clue what’s in his lab. We don’t know what prototypes he’s made, what working machines he was using, what designs he’s drawn up. Frankly, it’s irresponsible to not look. Maybe there’s a timebomb in there that’s scheduled to go off in a week. Somebody should look, it doesn’t have to be me.”

“But you’re the most qualified, aren’t you?”

“Saxon was smarter than Veca ever will be. Yes, I’m the most qualified.”

Halan breathes deeply. “I supervise, and I’m putting cameras in your own lab. If I find out you’re trying to create something unauthorized that’s even so much as inspired by Old Man’s work, I’ll banish you to the Karen airlock, and I won’t even let you have a wristwatch. Those are my conditions.”

“I see no problem with that. I don’t want to engineer something if you haven’t asked me to.”

“Thanks. I’ll be reporting this arrangement in the transition file I give to the next captain.”

The two of them go down to Old Man’s old lab, which has been locked and off limits since he disappeared in 2272. It looks the same as it did before, which is good. He was always half-worried that Old Man was actually still around, and secretly hatching schemes down here.

Omega slowly scans the room. “This could be awhile.”

“If I need to leave to handle Captain’s duties, you’ll leave too. We’ll come back as often as it takes for you to get what you think you need.”

“I’ll start with the main computer.” He sits down, and gets to work.

Halan looks over his shoulder for a bit, just to make sure he isn’t trying to access the self-destruct sequence, or navigational controls. Then he starts to look around on his own. He doesn’t fiddle with any of the weird inventions lying around, but he does open cabinets and drawers. One drawer appears to be DNA locked, which means it’s the one he needs to get into.

“Oh, I, uhh...” Omega starts when he sees Halan trying to break in.

Halan rolls his eyes. “What?”

“I can...get into that...for you...probably.”

“How so?”

“I’m not just a clone. I can alter my DNA at will.”

“Why would Saxon build you to be able to do that?”

“Diversity. Each clone was assigned a different module in the Project Stargate ships. Once we were done with our shifts—as you would call them—we would be allowed to go off, and live wherever we wanted. In order to sort of make it less weird, Saxon gave us the ability to change our DNA, so it wasn’t like he was trying to take over the whole galaxy with his own copies. He didn’t want to be seen as some kind of conqueror. The only reason we were clones was because otherwise, over a million people would have to volunteer for the job.”

“So you can make yourself look like anyone?”

“Not superficially. I’ll still look like me, but I can change the blood in my finger long enough for the safe to register as belonging to Old Man.”

“Do it. But just this once.”

“You’ll have to give me six hours. That’s how fast my body can replace a sufficient number of neutrophils. It would take longer if we wanted it to be permanent.”

Six hours later, the DNA safe is open. Halan reaches in to find a stack of letters that were once held together by a now deteriorated rubber band. There are also a couple of ancient storage devices called flash drives, what appears to be a really old cell phone, and an envelope full of hard copy photographs. “What is this? Who is this kid? He’s in nearly every photo.”

“Hmm.” Omega takes one of the better photos, and sets it on the table so he can scan it into the computer. Once the image appears on the screen, Omega commands the computer to age the subject. “Just as I suspected. It’s Old Man. It’s...Young Man. What is his real name?”

“That name is in his official records. I never questioned whether he legally changed it at some point, or if his parents were just weird.”

“He’s from Earth. I recognize this place,” Omega says, picking up one of the other photos. “He’s at the Mauna Kea Observatories, which were decommissioned in the late 21st century.”

Halan shakes his head. “No, I spoke to the other older people here. I wasn’t probing, but they talked about knowing him from before we were rescued. They definitely saw him on Ansutah. He was there.”

“Well, he was also on Earth...about two hundred and fifty years ago, back when they were still using actual film cameras. These sure look like it’s where he grew up, and not just somewhere he visited as a time traveling universe-hopping kid.”

“Who was this guy?” Halan asks, mostly to himself.

Omega flips the photo over. “Elder Caverness, 2005.”

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