Extremus: Year 122

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With Pronastus out of the way, Waldemar has been able to sit in his chair, and get some much-needed work done. It’s smooth, comfortable, and unworn. Past captains have sparingly sat on the bridge. He knows why, but he still doesn’t think it’s right. In the scifi shows of old, the bridge was the happenin’ place to be. It was literally the seat of power for the whole ship, and given the nature of the narratives, usually the focal point of the whole universe. The fictional captains were basically gods. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that in the real world. There are no aliens to fight or negotiate with. There are no spacetime anomalies, or colonies to save. There’s not even anything to see out here. Faster-than-light travel does not streak the stars, or show them endless ionized clouds of hyperspace. It’s just a blinding grayish light. If this bridge had a viewport, they would never be able to open it, except before they left, or once they make it to their destination. Waldemar has changed all that. He had ordered viewscreens to be installed before his chair. The stars they’re seeing aren’t really there, but they alleviate the claustrophobia. And that’s not all they do.

When the tentacled alien character appears on screen, Waldemar chuckles at him. “Lieutenant Xaxblarg. Is your boss on the shitter, or did you finally grow the balls to overthrow him?” His voice is a bit melodramatic, but it’s supposed to be.

“You know that Xaxblergins do not have balls. You insult me, human,” the alien spits back.

“Is he named after his race?” Waldemar’s helmsman whispers to the navigator.

“Stay in character, ensign!” Waldemar orders. He clears his throat, and looks back up at the screen. “Xaxblarg, I don’t care who I’m dealing with. I want your blasted blargship off that planet. You have enslaved the Tukpluckians for way too long, and we’re here to free ‘em. If you don’t go to the devil in five Milky Way minutes, I’m gonna blast a hole in your ship so big, you’ll be fartin’ xentriflux plasma for days.”

Xaxblarg chuckles evilly. “You think you’ve won, human captain, but your sensors have been degaussed. If you look outside, I think you’ll find yourself thoroughly surrounded by my strike penetrators.”

“Strike penetrators?” the science officer complains. “Jesus.”

“That’s two days in the brig, ensign!” Waldemar orders.

“In the real world, it is called hock, sir,” the ensign replies.

“That’s a stupid goddamn word that no one ever used until we started building real starships. I refuse to use it. Three days in the brig.”

“You told me to be historically accurate with my character,” the ensign goes on. “The way you wrote me as the radically honest half-trentlamite, I would push back against your errors. You have never called it the brig before—”

“Your sentence in the brig is four days now. Keep talkin’ and I’ll make it five...years.” Waldemar doesn’t like when people argue with him. It’s ridiculous. He’s in charge here. Whatever he says is right, even if it’s wrong. That’s the whole reason to be the boss. If this asshole wanted the job instead, he should have saved the ship from annihilation several years ago, instead of Waldemar.

“Four days is fine sir. Thank you.” He leaves the bridge using the door. That’s another thing Waldemar changed. Ubiquitous teleporters are too easy. Even the shows that had the technology almost always only used them to transport down to a planet, or back up. They didn’t waste energy jumping from one deck to another. Sure, the visual effects would have cost too much, but that’s no reason to overuse them in real life.

Waldemar takes a breath. “Now. Does anyone else have a problem with my script, or are you ready to get on board? Here’s something you need to understand—and perhaps I was unclear about why we’re doing this—the simulations are not just for fun. We all believe that there are no aliens out here, and we all believe that we’re never slowing down or stopping until we make it to the Extremus planet. But we don’t actually know that. What if we do encounter an alien race of slavedrivers, bent on our destruction? What if we fall into a black hole, and end up in another universe? And what if that universe is the opposite of ours, where I’m evil, and Adolf Hitler was good. We’re doing this to be prepared. I made it fun to keep you engaged and entertained. But I can make it boring if you want. Is that what you want? To be all technical and realistic,” he says with airquotes. 

“No, sir,” they grumble.

“Good. Now someone find me a replacement science officer who isn’t gonna backtalk me, and let’s run it again, from the top! I wanna get through this at least once.”

The next attempt went better. The crew performed admirably, and was able to kill everyone in the Xaxblergin fleet efficiently. He wrote the script himself, but they’re still not taking it seriously enough. Maybe he needs to hire some writers. He can still take credit for it. He doesn’t have to admit that he didn’t come up with the new storylines himself. Maybe his wife will have some thoughts on that. “You have the conn, Lieutenant.” He teleports off the bridge. He’s back in his stateroom now where Audrey is waiting for him, as usual. They have gotten into this habit where she cooks for him. The synthwrights didn’t want to engineer and build them a real kitchen, but they fell in line. They always will, or else.

“Welcome home, honey. How was your day?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Waldemar sits down. “What are we having?”

“This is chicken tetrazzini with cheesy white sauce and oven-roasted cherry tomatoes on top. For the drink, I chose a rosemary-infused sparkling lemonade.”

“I don’t like lemons,” Waldemar counters.

“Oh, you’ll like this. Lemonade is very different. The sugar—”

“I don’t like lemon anything,” he volleys, raising his voice, but still not yelling. “Bring me the milk we had last night.”

“We had turkey chili last night. Milk paired well with that, but it will not pair well with this dish,” she argues.

He swipes the cup off the table, letting it spill and break on the floor, but not shatter. “I’ll decide what pairs well with what.”

Audrey calmly stands up, walks around the table, and raps him on the nose. “No! No! We do not throw things, and we don’t knock them over. No!” She strikes him again.

She is the only person on this ship who can do something like that to him. Anyone else would be six feet under the Attic Forest or floating in the black nothing by now. He flares his nostrils, but doesn’t otherwise react. It’s not easy, holding himself back with her. He can’t just do it. He has to concentrate on it. Most things he tries come easy to him, but not social etiquette. That’s why he usually doesn’t worry about it, because it’s too much work, but she’s worth it. That ass alone...

“Okay.” She lifts her hand and taps on her fingers in the right command sequence. A bot emerges from the floor, and begins to clean up the mess.

“I told you, I don’t like those things. Your job is to keep house, when I’m not here, and when I am. If you’re going to outsource that work, what’s the point?”

“Good question,” Audrey replies as she’s returning to the kitchen. She takes the milk out of the fridge, and starts to pour. “What’s the point of playing house at all? You’re a captain for Christ’s sake.” She sets the glass in front of him. “You don’t have time for domesticity.”

“We all have our roles, dear.” He takes a bite of the chicken pasta. “I didn’t want to be captain, it was my destiny. I was born for this.” He takes a drink of the milk. “Blech,” he exclaims, letting the milk shoot out of his mouth, and land on the cleaning bot, confusing it. For a moment, he’s embarrassed. He looks back up at Audrey. “I guess you were right.” He wipes his lips with his sleeve.

“Oh, you animal,” she utters with a sigh. She sits on the edge of the table, and dabs his face with a napkin. They stare into each other’s eyes. Then she leans down and kisses him passionately. He has little need for most personal connections, but having someone to take care of him like this is nice. He won’t give it up, for the job, or anything.

He takes her hand in his, and kisses it too. “I’m sorry I got mad.”

“It’s okay.” She goes back to the kitchen again, and pours another glass of the lemonade. “It’s like you said, it’s my job to keep house. Unlike 99.98 percent of the population, I know how to cook. That’s just about all I spend my time doing. Trust me.”

Waldemar accepts the drink this time, and tries it. She’s right, as always.

He’s still feeling uncomfortable with the emotion he emulated during dinner, so Waldemar leaves the stateroom afterwards, to go on his rounds. The people know by now that when he’s walking at this pace, with this gait, he is not to be disturbed. If he wants to interact with someone, he will initiate contact, not them. And he’s not there to help anyone either. This is his personal time, which he uses to clear his head, or work through problems. He likes to be seen. He wants to be present, and for the citizens to associate him with every corner of this vessel. His focus is on the bridge, but they should not forget that he can go anywhere, and do anything he wants. He can show up any time, so it’s best not to be whispering about him, or planning some misguided coup. He absolutely detests not knowing what people are discussing or thinking, and while he hasn’t had to explain this out loud, people understand that. When he’s around, they go silent. If he wants them to speak, he’ll unambiguously let them know.

He doesn’t usually pay attention to where he’s going. Again, he has free rein, so he doesn’t have to plan a specific route. He finds himself in the park. Before Tinaya Leithe was even captain, she worked for the Parks Department, and eventually used her power to build the Attic Forest, which takes up the whole upper deck. People love it there, and use it all the time, which is why Waldemar doesn’t go there. He doesn’t care for nature, nor people. The original park is still here. It’s only a fraction of the size, and poorly maintained these days, so regular people have no use for it. He typically only comes here when he wants to be alone, but today, he has more stumbled upon it. Perhaps his subconscious mind is trying to tell him something.

He’s not alone this time. A young girl is sitting by whatever these plants are called. She’s...what is she doing? Is she drawing them? On paper? What a weirdo. He’s intrigued. “It doesn’t have any color.”

The girl doesn’t look up, and doesn’t stop. “Yeah, it’s a sketch. It’s not supposed to have color.”

“What is the point if it’s not going to be accurate?” He catches himself asking that question a lot. He used to ask it even more frequently. Silveon taught him that people notice because he’s questioning things that are obvious to normal people.

“It’s art, it doesn’t need to be accurate.” She’s still not looking at him.

He smiles. She has no idea who he is. It’s a relief, really. Yes, of course he wants people to respect him and do as he says, but there’s something intoxicating about the few who refuse to. That’s why he hooked up with Audrey in the first place, because she doesn’t take his shit. She’s almost as strong as he is, and can work at his level. This girl here, whoever she is. She might be even better.

“I’m not much into art. I’m so busy. With my job.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are, Captain.” Oh. So she does know who he is, if only by his voice. But wait, if that’s true, why is she being so casual and distant? Why is she not looking him in the eyes to gain favor, or down at his feet to show her fear and reverence?

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks.

She sighs, and closes her notepad. “If that’s what you’re into.”

He sits rather close to her. “Can I see?”

“Go ahead. I’m not ashamed.”

There are a ton of other drawings in the sketchbook, some also without color, but some with. Many of her subjects can be found around the ship, but others are nowhere near here. Lots of animals. She likes cows. She’s a cowgirl. “These are really good. uh...oh, what’s your name?”

“Sable.”

“Sable?” he echoes. “You’re Admiral Keen’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“Royalty.”

“Huh?”

“Uh.” Why is it so hot in here, and why is he stumbling over his words? She’s pretty, yeah, but she’s so young. It’s...that doesn’t matter at any rate. He can have any woman he wants. Why worry about this one girl? “I meant your art. In the past, you could have sold it for money, and I think they called that royalties.”

“Cool.” God, she’s such a—what word is he looking for?—renegade. Just an untamable, fierce, defiant badass. She smells nice too, and the curve of her neck is so enticing. Who cares how young she is? He must have her. She reminds him of Audrey, back before the, ya know...sagging and wrinkling.

“Have you ever painted a mural before?” He asks her, leaning in a little. She needs to know that he’s interested without it being obvious to someone watching them from the outside.

“Like on a wall? We don’t have the right kind of walls.”

“Say the word, I’ll make one. You can paint anything you want on it. Do we have paint? I’ll get you some paint. If it’s not the right paint, I’ll get you the right paint.”

“Captain, I really appreciate you trying to engage with your people, but this is really not necessary.”

“I just see your talent, and I think everyone else should too.” He places a hand against her back, noting that she doesn’t flinch at his touch.

For the first time ever, she makes eye contact. “Do you really think so?”

He begins to lower his hand. She doesn’t reject this either. “Unequivocally. Let’s talk about this some more.”

“I would like that.”

He moves under her shirt, definitely not only touching her back anymore.

She smiles. She’s so into him.

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Microstory 2551: Cafeteria Cook

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I’ve always been in the culinary arts, and yes, I’m allowed to call it that, even though I don’t own a world-class fine dining establishment. As soon as I turned fourteen, I started working at a diner. I actually applied two weeks prior to that when I was still too young, and my future boss worked the delay into the scheduling. I started at the bottom, just washing dishes, but I worked my way up, and eventually practically ran the place. Unfortunately, the town we lived in was shrinking at the same time. There wasn’t room for two restaurants, so ours got shut down. I probably could have moved over to the other, but it’s not like the shrinking was going to stop there. I could see the writing on the wall. My younger brother, he was going into premed about two and a half hours away from home. (He eventually entered medical school at the same institution). Our mother didn’t like him being that far away on his own, and the timing worked out anyway, so I went out there with him. He didn’t need taken care of, mind you, but we all need a support system. It saved us all money. Whenever he needed help studying, or just to talk out his problems, I was only ten minutes away. I took a job at the university hospital where he would eventually work, and I did that for many years, working my way up the seniority ladder yet again. I don’t have an interesting story about how I landed this position here. I hear people talk about how they knew someone who knew someone, or they had some special family member who was healed. It was about as basic as it gets for me. I applied, they interviewed me, they offered me the job, and I took it. I’m not saying that this is just like any other job, but I’ve been in the medical field—tangentially, at least—for decades at this point. I watched healing heroes every day. I fed them their food so they could have the energy to get back out there and perform miracles. They didn’t have superpowers, but they did the best they could. It’s a rewarding experience, and I’m quite proud of my job, but I’ve always been able to say that. Even at the diner, we weren’t saving lives, but we were the only place in a hundred miles with pancakes that made you see God. That’s pretty magical too.

Microstory 2538: Personal Chef

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I’ve been cooking my whole life. My grandmother raised me, along with my two siblings. They were older, but they were tasked with other responsibilities to maintain the household. I had a knack for the culinary arts, so that’s what she fostered in me. I cooked all the meals for everyone, and I loved it. My grandmother was very practical, though, so she didn’t let me focus all of my attention on my passion. She made me study all of my subjects in school, and after I graduated, she refused to let me go straight to the culinary institute. She knew that I wouldn’t get much out of a four-year degree, but she didn’t want me to have to rely on only one thing. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in me, but a cooking school wasn’t going to teach me all of the skills that she thought every adult should have. Spending two years at my community college was a great experience, which I believe turned me into a more well-rounded person. I’m still a chef, and that’s really all I care about, but I also remember reading the books, exploring evolutionary ecology, and learning to speak French. That was a pretty big one. I adore French cuisine, so it made sense to add that to my personal inventory of skills. Once I was done there, I went on to the Antova School for the Culinary Arts, where I graduated at the top of my class. It too was a two-year program, so when I entered the workforce, I wasn’t behind my peers. People often ask if—or even when—I’m going to open my own restaurant, but the truth is that I have no interest in that. There’s too much businessy stuff going on with that. I didn’t study any of that stuff, and I don’t want to return to school to do so. And I don’t wanna do it anyway. It gets in the way of the cooking. Sure, I can slap my name on a building, and call it mine while someone else actually handles the business side of things, but that’s just vanity. I’m perfectly content in the kitchen, working with my hands, and making something that people will enjoy. I never thought I would ever be cooking for a man like Landis Tipton, but who knew such a man would ever exist? It’s not the most exciting role, cooking for only one person who is not a picky eater in the least, but I’m a part of something bigger, and that’s good enough for me. If this job ever ends, I could always start tutoring elementary school students in French.

Microstory 2425: Industrial Farm Dome

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A bunch of domes are dedicated to farming. Some of them are designed for necessary food production, but others are just for the sake of it. Industrial farming describes the kind of farming that they did during and after the industrial revolution. They used machines to farm giant fields for massive numbers of people, and even used electricity, but they didn’t have computers. There was absolutely no hint of automation. Lots of farm hands still had to do all the work, and that’s how it goes here. Nothing gets done if there’s no one here to do it. If that means the crops die, then so be it. There’s actually plenty of waste, because the rest of the current population of the planet doesn’t really want to eat this stuff. Everything they could ever want is provided for them. They got their lab grown meat, meal bars, food printers, and dayfruit. They don’t really care how hard I worked out here in the hot sun, and the Castlebourne leadership isn’t incentivizing them to choose us over those other things. I think they really should have worked this out differently. Screw that other stuff. If you have the real thing—and people are willing to labor FOR FREE—why would you choose anything else? Those should be a last resort. If they want this planet to be self-sufficient, then we have what you’re looking for. I don’t blame the other visitors for doing this wrong. There is so little awareness about what we can do for them. I guess what you really need is cooks. Some domes have culinary components, or so I hear, but I can’t find a dome that’s dedicated to the culinary arts. If they did that, we could work closely with them to make the supply chain a real thing. See? I got ideas, and I’m just a dumb regular human. I came here on a ship with one of these new reframe engines. I can’t even upload or transfer my consciousness to a new body. This is the real me. These other people don’t always even need to eat, so they have no appreciation for any of this. Some changes need to be made around here, because I don’t want to go back to the stellar neighborhood. I shouldn’t have to. I should be able to find what I’m entitled to on this planet. People just need to do the right thing.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: July 16, 2498

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Olimpia had been working here for a few weeks now, and everything was going great. He had an assistant before her, but he was nothing special. She quickly learned to anticipate Mateo’s needs, and they had developed a nice rapport with each other. Being the Fleet Commander for the entire Central Midwest region meant that he had to do a lot of traveling. It wasn’t all over the country, of course, but it was a regular thing. He had just spent most of the last week in Cedar Rapids, which was horrible enough, but going it alone was just too much. Typically, the office assistant stayed in the office, so they could respond to driver issues from their desk, and take in any walk-ins. But with SRW headphones and a cell phone capable of accepting forwarded calls, she really could do her job from just about anywhere. Ramses always stayed next to his precious servers, so he could answer the door if anyone were to show up. Mateo really needed Olimpia there with him when he was on the road. “Are you interested in that?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s not a monarchy,” he reminded her. “I didn’t hire you for travel, and that’s not in the job description. It would therefore come with a new job description, and a modest wage increase. You can say no, though.”

“I have no ties,” Olimpia replied with a shake of her head. “Before I found you, I was applying to jobs in most of the lower 48 states. I like to move around, and stay busy. Honestly—and I probably shouldn’t tell you this—I get bored with a job after a few years, and tend to start looking elsewhere. If I’m traveling, I’m sure it won’t get so tedious.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Mateo said. “I know I just got back, but I have to fly up to Minneapolis tomorrow, and I could really use your help.”

“I didn’t think Minnesota was in our region,” Olimpia said.

“It’s not, I’m meeting with my equivalent for the Northern Midwest. The guy from the Northern Mountain region will be there too. I’m not a hundred percent sure what it’s about. I think they want to have some kind of convention, or something. This has been on the books for a couple months.”

“Well, I’m in, I’ll change the plane tickets.”

“Great! And hey, why don’t you come for dinner tonight, meet the family? My daughter is cooking something. She’s gotten really good lately. It will be vegetarian though, so if you have a problem...”

“No, I can be there, that sounds great. I really appreciate it, sir.”

“You can just call me Mateo. We’re not formal here.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ramses said, appearing at the entrance to Mateo’s cubicle. He stretched, and pretended to take a drink from a flask.

“Don’t worry, it’s empty,” Mateo explained to Olimpia. “We got those as gifts at a company retreat last year. Ridiculous, if you ask me, but I like how they etched in the RideSauce logo.”

“Oh, yeah.” Olimpia was being polite, but she didn’t care.

“Well, I’ll see you at 17:30 for dinner? I’ll be sure to get you home early enough to pack for the trip. We’ll be gone for three days.”

“I’m already packed,” she said. “I haven’t unpacked since I came to Kansas City.”

“We’ll be traveling a lot,” Mateo reminded her, “but you should still try to dig in and put down some roots.”

“I’ll get right on that. Why don’t we ride to your house together?”

“Okay.”

That evening, after work, Mateo called a RideSauce Hot. He usually went with a Mild, because he didn’t want to feel like an elitist, but he wanted to impress Olimpia. Plus, Boyd liked to hang out in this area around the end of the work day specifically in hopes of answering a request from the boss. It was unclear what he was after, because he wasn’t really on track for a promotion. Maybe he was just a bit of a kiss-ass, and couldn’t help himself. He didn’t qualify for the request today, though, not with that jalopy he was driving. A bluish-purple Aevum Magnitude showed up instead. The driver stepped out, and came around to let them in the back like a real chauffeur. That was part of what you were paying for when you selected Hot.

“Thanks,” Mateo began before remembering that he didn’t notice the name on the app.

“Dave, sir,” the driver replied. He was dressed in the full get-up, all black with a sleek driving cap.

“Dave,” Mateo echoed. He slipped him a 20-dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir.” Dave shut the door behind him, and went around to get back in the car. He received another 20-buck tip at the end of the ride.

Mateo laughed when his daughter answered the door. She was wearing 2450s housewife attire; a pink shirtwaist dress with darker pink flowers and a pleated skirt. Her hair was done up however you would think for that time period, though he didn’t know what to call it. She had deep red lipstick, and smiled in that fake, dying-on-the-inside, sort of way. “Welcome to our home? May I take your coat?”

“Why, that would be swell, ya see? Thanks, sweetheart, you’re a doll.”

“That’s the 2440s, dad,” Romana complained. She shook it off. “Hi, you must be Olimpia. I’m Romana.”

They shook hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Olimpia. I mean—you just said that.” She was embarrassed.

Romana smiled kindly. “I really will take your coats. Come on in.”

They sipped tea and talked for about a half hour in the kitchen while Romana was finished preparing the food. Leona helped, but Romana was running the show. It was typically Mateo’s job to stay out of the way when they were in their teacher-student mode. He felt uncomfortable this time since he was expected to be in here while entertaining their guest. Fortunately, they had a rather large kitchen. This was the kind of thing you got when you lived in Mission Hills. Olimpia seemed a little uncomfortable too as she was looking up at the architecture, probably because she wasn’t used to all this fancy stuff that rich people had. Or he could have been completely misinterpreting everything. Maybe she just didn’t like him. Or she was starving, and this was taking too long. Or she was craving meat, and was just trying to get through this. That was enough of letting his neuroses take over. He could have been misinterpreting her facial expressions entirely. It was time to eat.

Dinner was lovely, Romana really was getting a lot better. It was probably time that she stepped out from under her mother’s wing, and started seriously thinking about culinary school. She was acting a little weird while they were eating, like she was keeping a secret. Maybe she was about to reveal to them that she knew exactly where she wanted to study, and Olimpia’s presence was overshadowing the announcement. “Lechuga, is there something you wanna tell us?”

“What? No.” she answered.

“Wait, why Lechuga?” Olimpia had to ask.

Mateo smirked. “Romana, romaine, lettuce, lechuga.”

“Oh.” Olimpia giggled.

“There’s something on your mind. You can tell us,” Leona encouraged her daughter. “You know we don’t tell lies in this house.”

Romana sighed, but it was more like a coo. “Okay. Well, you know that I wanted to go to culinary school.”

They nodded, even Olimpia, who just wanted to fit it.

“Well, Boyd said there’s a great one in Hawaii.”

“Boyd, who the hell is Boyd?” Mateo questioned.

“Boyd Maestri, your...driver.”

Mateo feigns ignorance. “Uh, I don’t have a driver named Boyd Maestri who is between 15 and 18 years old. I think you’re confused.” Mateo was never under the impression that his daughter wouldn’t eventually grow up and become sexually active, but there were still rules. The half your age plus seven rule may not have had any scientific basis, but it seemed sound to him. Boyd was way too old for her, and Mateo wouldn’t have it.

“Relax, dad, we’re not doing anything. We just talk sometimes.”

“Why would he be talking to you?” Mateo pressed.

“Calm down, Matt,” Leona urged.

“No. I’m going to be however I need to be,” Mateo insisted. “I get it, Romana. I want you to understand that you did nothing wrong. But he did. I don’t know what you two talk about in your secret little phone calls. It could be politics, or the weather, or cooking. It doesn’t matter. It’s about the reason that he’s talking to you. Even if you don’t see it, I do, because I was him. Your mother was a lot younger than me when we first met. But we didn’t really start talking until we were the same age.”

Romana winced, as did everyone else. “What do you mean, she was younger? How could she have aged while you stayed the same?”

Mateo uttered a single unintelligible sound before he became blocked and frozen. He could not explain what he had just said. Leona was younger? And then she got older, and now  they were the same age? That didn’t make any sense at all. He had to cover. He had to figure a way out of this. “You know what I mean, she was just a little too young for me, but as we both aged at the same time, the gap remained the same, but it became less pronounced.” That wasn’t right either. They were the same age!

“And how long would I have to wait before someone Boyd’s age would be appropriate for me?”

“Someone Boyd’s age? Maybe ten years. Boyd himself? Uh, after the sun goes supernova, I guess.”

“The sun’s not going to go supernova, it’s going to expand, cool off, and shrink,” Leona clarified.

Mateo narrowed his eyes at her wife. “Thanks.”

Romana scoffed. “For your information, I know what boys want from me. I mean...look at me. It’s irrelevant what Boyd thinks he’s gonna get in return for helping me, because if I don’t wanna give it, I won’t. He has a friend who works at the Hilo Culinary Arts Institute, so I’m using him however I must to get into that school. We can’t all have careers that fall into our laps just because we got a 100% on our first driving tests, and it inflated our egos.”

“It was 101%,” Mateo reminded her. “I corrected one of the questions for its ambiguity.”

“Oh, how could I forget?” Ramona said in a mocking tone, crossing her arms.

“You can get into whatever school you want, Lechuga—”

“You don’t call me that when we’re fighting,” she argued in a raised voice.

He closed his eyes. They did agree to that. It was a pet name, and those should not be associated with negative emotions or hostilities. “Romana. You’re extremely talented, and we are doing well for ourselves. You don’t have to go to a school nearby, though I would love to have you stay in the area. What I will not tolerate is you using someone for their connections. I’m not saying that you should give it up for him instead, but I didn’t raise you to exploit people any more than I raised you to be careless with your heart and body. You are to treat others with kindness and respect, and if that means losing out on an opportunity, then that’s what will happen. Your integrity is more important.”

This seemed to speak to her. “Yeah,” she said in a lowered voice. She let out an exasperated and disappointed sigh. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for starting a fight.” He turned his attention. “Olimpia, I’m sorry that you saw us fight.”

“It’s okay,” she replied sincerely.

There was an awkward silence, which Leona broke. “I didn’t want to be completely useless tonight, so I made the dessert all by myself. Who here likes sand cake?”

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Microstory 2081: Half a Surprise

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Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

I didn’t have to go to work today. I worked eleven days straight, so it’s time for a break. I’ve not just been sitting around, though. I got out, and did stuff. First, I walked back to the bike shop, where they let you rent for the day. The first time is free as long as you sign up for their emailing list, and promise to seriously consider buying something at a later date. They have a few used ones, so instead of exploring my options online, I think I’ll just end up choosing one of these. I’ve gotten my first deposit, but I’m not exactly a millionaire yet. I would like to get a couple more before I start making any big purchases. I did spend a little cash on some food. I am not much of a cook, but I can get by if I plan it out, and I’m very careful. My landlord happened to have the day off too, so she planned something with a friend. She’ll be home for dinner, though, so I’m making something for her. I told her that I wanted to pick something up for the two of us to thank her for everything she’s done for me, so shh, it’s still half a surprise. She’s a vegetarian too, which is great. Do you know what the most important part of cooking is...? [...] Give up? It’s eating. Eating, of course; what else would be the point. The second most important thing, however, may be timing, and it’s one of the hardest things to learn. That’s what I’m struggling with now, but I think I’m gonna be okay. Something that really helps is having a bunch of little bowls ready with the individual ingredients. This is how they do it on all the cooking shows. My landlord doesn’t cook much herself, because she’s too busy at the clinic, but she inherited a lot of kitchen stuff from her grandmother, so there’s enough here for me to be ready to go. Wish me luck, I’m making a Mediterranean bowl, which shouldn’t be too terribly hard for an unskilled, perpetual novice like me. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 18, 2398

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The McIvers agree to continue hosting Team Matic, but at their real house this time. They don’t have a fancy schmancy infirmary there, but it doesn’t look like that’s what Mateo needs. He just needs rest, and when he wakes up, fluids. There aren’t as many rooms in the farmhouse, but it’s comfortable enough, and the team is grateful. From what Leona can surmise, Mateo spontaneously traveled into the past, where he met up with his cousin, Danica. For whatever reason, she found it necessary to store him in a stasis pod for however long, strip The Constant of all sensitive materials, and leave a single clue as to his whereabouts. Once the trail was at its end, the bunker was programmed to self-destruct, giving Mateo—and anyone else down there—just enough time to escape.

Leona knew that her husband would be found inside that particular wall, if anywhere, because that’s where she found him back in the early 23rd century. He was removed from time, brought back dead using a sort of Rube Goldberg contraption of temporal objects, and resurrected with a final special object. The line from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, “meet me in Montauk” told her that it was the key to finding someone again who she had once forgotten. Mateo should be able to fill in the blanks when he’s better.

“He’s awake!” Trina calls out for the whole house to hear.

Leona was eating her breakfast. It was supposed to be a soup, but she was distracted, and accidentally skipped out on the milk, and most of the water. It’s good, though. She places her bento box in the refrigerator. Then she walks up to the bedroom.

“Lee-lee, what happened?” Mateo asks her after Trina leaves.

“It’s your job to tell us,” Leona says.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Mateo tilts his lizard brain to think. “I was driving out to see if I could find the Constant. Sorry I went alone.”

“That’s the last thing?” she questions. “That was nine days ago.”

“Oh. I jumped forward in time? Then it’s true, and I was right, the Constant is still there, and houses temporal energy. How far are we from it?”

“It was there,” Leona begins to explain. “It’s been destroyed.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember not too long ago in the main sequence, when we ended up in that version of the Constant? Danica told us about a sort of reset protocol if the facility were ever compromised.”

“Yeah, of course. She did that?”

“Evidently, she did it halfway. She said that a new Constant would spring up in its place, and she would be replaced by an alternate version of herself too. But this Constant is just gone. There’s a lake where it used to be. You seemed to know it would happen. You called it Danica Lake.”

“When did I say this?”

“Yesterday. You fell down the elevator shaft, presumably went back in time, was placed in stasis, we found you, and then the whole thing imploded.”

Mateo tries to remember. “We need Nerakali.”

“That’s an understatement, but you passed out shortly after the event, suggesting that your memory loss was predetermined, and nowhere near an accident. It may have even been consensual.”

“I’m sorry,” Mateo says, shaking his head. “I wish I could remember why I don’t remember.”

“You can’t apologize for something you don’t know that you did, or why you did it. I blame you for nothing. I don’t really blame anybody. We’re all okay now.”

“Except for Marie.” Heath is standing in the doorway.

“Except for Marie,” Leona echoes.

“We’ll always have Croatia,” Mateo says, determined. “I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll always protect my team.”

“You should know,” Heath says, hobbling forward. He’s hurt again—not still—having twisted his ankle when the elevator car came crashing down. It was the only injury. “You should know you saved my life. I’m not a traveler. What happened to you when you went back, may not have worked for me.” He frowns. “I probably would have just splattered onto the floor.”

“I would say you’re welcome, but according to..my wife,” Mateo says in a Borat voice, which he has never done before. “..I can’t take credit for something I don’t remember doing.”

“I never said that,” Leona defends.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Mateo contends.

“You need something to eat.” She kisses him on the forehead. “Were I you.”

“Were I you.”

Microstory 1757: Norma’s Kitchen in a Box

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Marjorie Norma did not invent 3D printing, but she was instrumental in standardizing it. And when her competitors came for blood, she ended up on top, because she still had the best product, and brand loyalty. The science of additive manufacturing was still in its infancy when she started working on it as a pet project. She knew that speed and sophistication were going to progress on their own, and that all she had to do was keep up with it. She was focused on how people would begin using such things in their home. This meant that industrial synthesizers, and biomedical synthesizers would be less useful to most customers than food synthesizers. For the most part, she found that the current machines were either very large, or very small. Many of them were designed with a specific result in mind, or had unfortunate limitations. If people were going to place these things in their homes, they needed to be versatile, and be capable of making more than just a single pastry at a time. It was never going to transition from a novelty item for people with a disposable income to a ubiquitous household appliance, unless anyone could download any program, and print anything. She got her idea when she walked into her kitchen one day, and looked around. By the entrance was the refrigerator. It took up the most space, and it wasn’t always full. She also had a stove/oven combo, above which her husband had installed a microwave oven. Then there was a sink, and a dishwasher. She owned a fairly small kitchen, and she made pretty good use of the space, but she wasn’t much of a cook, and neither was anyone else in the house. What if she could put everything together, or almost everything? She kept looking back at that fridge. Yes, it was the largest, but it was also the most important. A lot of foods don’t require any cooking, but they all require storage, unless you want to go to the store every day. Some people do that, but it’s not very efficient, and that lifestyle isn’t marketable. There was a solution, and she could find it.

She used that refrigerator as the basis for her new design, knowing that most living spaces were capable of accommodating it. Some units were only large enough for a mini-fridge, but people who lived in such places already knew how to make sacrifices. The top of her design was a water tank. It didn’t necessarily fit in every space, but it would be optional, and customers could connect a waterline either way, just like they would for that refrigerator. Under that would be where the cartridges went. Here she took inspiration from the toner bottles in the copy room down the hall from her office. For the synthesization cavity, she found herself limited by the dimensions of everything else, but it was still larger than the capacity of any standard oven, so that was more than enough. Since the cavity is where her users would be retrieving their food, they couldn’t put this on the floor, but at a reasonable height, which meant everything below it could be dedicated to storage. She chose to include a utensil drawer, and then an extra cartridge cabinet. All told, she figured that a fully stocked synthesizer could feed one person for about six months. Her original model did not include a dishwasher, but later ones did, allowing customers to keep almost an entire kitchen in the space of a refrigerator. It could be programmed to make just about anything, cool food, heat food, and supply water. What more could a normal person need? Well, they needed tools, and they needed organ and tissue replacements. She started to work on those machines next.

Microstory 1612: Absolute Zero

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As we’ve discussed, concurrent realities are rare, but they do come up. Salmonverse has a handful, while Area Double Universe has thousands. Today, I want to talk about a brane that has only two realities. There’s no name for it, to distinguish it from others, as far as I know. All I know is that it’s a scary and dangerous place, and I can’t recommend it for vacation if you’re looking to relieve some stress. As a spirit, I hesitate to make a claim about whether evil exists, or if life is just all about choices, but this brane sure makes a compelling argument for the former. From my perspective, one of the realities appears to be the primary, while the other is reliant on the outcome of events from the first. Let’s say you were from this universe, and you happened to be a chef, and restaurant owner. You keep prices low, treat your employees well, and give your day-old bread to the homeless. You’re not perfect, but on the whole, you’re a good person. Your alternate self will be just as bad as you are good—I mean, exactly as far from absolute zero. On the other hand, if you’re a serial killer, your alternate self would be a saint. But their life would be incredibly difficult, because people are good in general, so that makes the alternate reality pretty bad. So that would be terrible on its own, but at least the main reality would be able to move on, and ignore their counterparts, right? Wrong. Whereas most of the time, you have to advance science enough to figure out how to access other dimensions, that sort of thing sometimes just happens to some people in this world. You could walk through your front door, and end up inside the alternate, and would have to hope you survive long enough to make it back home. Fortunately, if you do manage to not die, you will get back home. People remain permanently connected to their reality, and they will eventually be summoned home without having to do anything special. So there’s not a whole lot of interaction between the two realities—not on a large scale—but it does occur in isolated cases, and it does cause problems.

Enough of this back and forth travel happened throughout history that the governments and experts got together, and started trying to come up with solutions. They decided it was their moral obligation to do something about the other side. Could they destroy them? Could they teach them to be better? What if they shared knowledge, or resources, or disciplinary techniques? After years of study, and a whole lot of incidents that did not go well at all, they came to a single conclusion. The only way to stop everyone from being so evil over there was to stop being so good on the main side. They tried to institute programs, which were designed to teach people to just be okay. No more saints, no more sinners, just regular people who were doing all right. Everyone was expected to get average grades in school, and do the bare minimum at work. Don’t make waves, and don’t change the status quo. Just live your boring life throughout the day, and then go to bed. Certain things were outlawed in the hopes of making this easier. There was no more music or entertainment. Everyone ate meal replacements, and cooking anything else was strictly forbidden. All these things made people too happy, and if they were happy, their alternate was miserable. As you might have guessed, these measures did not work in the least. You can’t just make people be different. A rebel faction rose up, and became more and more violent over the years. Before they knew it, the main reality was more evil, and the secondary reality was full of good people just trying to do the right thing.

Microstory 1563: Soup Du Jour

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Prompt

Soup is the worst food that man created. You make the vegetables mushy and wet, and add far too much sodium. I would much rather eat...

Botner

...chicken noodle soup. Soup. The other night I was in a soup craving mood. I have never enjoyed soup in my entire life. I am not very fond of puréed vegetables. Nor do I like garlic or onion or bread and butter. But...my dear husband...one who is far from it...purchased a chicken noodle soup mix for me one day. I figured that since he bought me the soup mix, I should make it myself. So I went and bought the garlic bread from the grocery store and purchased a can of chicken broth...cause soup needs the broth. A little bit of this and a little bit of that, and I am in the soup bliss. I am hoping this soup is more savory than bland. I find that is rarely the case. I read the whole recipe, scrolled down to the soup recipe. Hmm...the whole thing for a cup of soup. I am not a huge fan of whole wheat bread for soup. Unless it is a very smooth chunky bread, the bread does not cling to the soup like it should. I went ahead and sliced up my garlic bread. I sliced a small piece of onion. I let...

Conclusion

...the tears fill up in my eyes. I continued gathering ingredients, and adding them together. I couldn’t see what I was getting, or how much of it, but I didn’t stop. If this soup was going to have onion, then it was going to be authentic, with no spoon in my mouth, or anything. It would turn out as it turned out, I decided. I cooked the whole thing up, and took my first bite. Or should I say, I took a sip, because that’s what I hate about soup; that you drink it, instead of eating it. But it didn’t matter in this case. This soup was the best I ever had, and I know that’s not saying much, but it really was amazing. It’s so good, I want to eat it every night. But I can’t, because the recipe is gone forever. I couldn’t see well through the tears, and no matter how much I try to recreate the magic, I’ll never get it right. It’s over. My love for soup was brief, and now it’s over.

Microstory 1355: Division (Part 2)

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Magnate Representative: Thank you all for coming back in after lunch. Well, not all, I suppose. I see that Magnate Customer 5 is no longer with us. That should be okay. So, I think we have the Smart Solutions thing squared away. Of course, nothing has been decided, but you have all been such a big help to us so far. We greatly appreciate your contribution. We’re not done with you yet, though. I want to talk to you about Robotics. This part is the reason you signed nondisclosure agreements. We haven’t so much as hinted that we’re planning to jump into this field, because it won’t be officially happening for another two years, but we do want to hear some initial thoughts, because our main goal is supporting the average consumer. Plenty of robotics companies are going after disaster relief, and manufacturing, and of course, the military. We’re interested in the kind of automation that makes life easier for the individual. Does that all sound exciting?

Magnate Customers: [in unison] Yes.

Magnate Customer 6: Sort of.

Magnate Representative: All right, good enough. First off, if you were to own a personal robot assistant—let’s say that money is no object for you—what kinds of things would you want it to be able to do for you?

Magnate Customer 2: Cook me dinner.

Magnate Representative: Okay, cooking. Before we hear from anyone else, would you be more interested in a free-standing robot, or would you rather purchase a smart kitchen, where the appliances work together to build something for you.

Magnate Customer 2: I’m not sure I understand the difference.

Magnate Representative: A free-standing robot would, ignoring any dexterity limitations, be able to do anything you would. It would open the fridge door, take out the ingredients, open the containers, etcetera. A smart kitchen requires you to set some ingredients up, and then machines carry it down the line, as needed, sometimes going back and forth. The latter is less intelligent, but the technology is more readily available. As of yet, no one has built a robot that could theoretically move around the world wherever it wants, and fulfill natural-language requests.

Magnate Customer 4: I would sure rather have the proper robot. If money doesn’t matter in this scenario, why wouldn’t you?

Magnate Customer 6: I’m not certain I would like this humanoid thing in my house, wandering around, listening to everything I do.

Magnate Representative: Okay, so privacy is a concern of yours. You don’t want it to be too available. You would want it to be there when you ask for it, but out of the way when it’s not needed.

Magnate Customer 6: No, I don’t think I want a robot at all. I would much prefer the smart kitchen idea, and a smart bathroom, and a smart garage. I still want to be the one in charge, who has to make everything run. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with this android who can make its own decisions, and also climb stairs. You know what I mean?

Magnate Representative: I understand. Does anyone else share his sentiment?

Magnate Customer 3: I do a little.

Magnate Customer 1: Yeah, me too, but I think I could get used to a little robot friend. This is two years from now at the earliest, right? We already have smart speakers that help us manage information. I imagine the tech will become gradually more and more—shall we say—intrusive? By the time a proper robot rolls around, it probably won’t seem like much of a leap.

Magnate Representative: Ah, that’s a good segue into my next question, which is about robot companionship. Technology will one day allow us to program robot personalities, which mimic human behavior. Would you want that, or would it freak you out too much? Would you rather the machine just do what you ask, and nothing more.

Magnate Customer 6: You all know where I stand on this matter?

Magnate Customer 5: When you say robot companion, do you mean...?

Magnate Representative: We’re not talking about sex robots. I didn’t think you came back after lunch, Magnate Customer 5.

Magnate Customer 5: I’m everywhere.

Magnate Representative: Well, again, this is a family friendly company. Let’s only talk about helpful, privacy-conscious, and platonic robot assistants and/or friends.

Microstory 1265: Allen Tupper

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Allen Tupper wanted very little out of life. He saw it as a lack of entitlement, while his family saw it as a lack of ambition. He dropped out of college during his sophomore year, not because it was too hard, or because he was struggling with his grades, but just because he didn’t feel like he was getting much out of it. He didn’t have a thirst for knowledge, and he wasn’t much into the party scene, so higher education was a waste of his time, and a waste of parents’ money. At first, they were disappointed in his choices, but they came to realize the wisdom, and became thankful that he didn’t end up with mountains of student loan debt he would never be capable of paying off himself. His aunt owned a restaurant within walking distance of the house, so he started working there instead. He started out at the bottom, as a busser, but eventually made his way into the kitchen, where he became a line cook. He wasn’t astonishingly good at the work, but the menu wasn’t astonishingly complicated either, and he picked it up pretty quickly. His aunt was generous, and since the place was doing quite well, she kept it overstaffed, which afforded each worker more time off than most restaurants would be able to handle. Most of his coworkers didn’t take much time, since they weren’t getting paid to do it, but Allen didn’t care about the money. He worked to pay his bills, and as long as the number in his checking account stayed over zero, he didn’t feel the need to tire himself out. Instead, he took trips. He had this dream to go on a camping trip in every state in the country. Well, it wasn’t so much a dream as it was a long-term goal that his therapist suggested he come up with. She wanted him to worry a little more about the future, and not let himself get in a rut. It worked, because the only times he truly felt happy were when he was out there in nature, far from other people. There was one person he didn’t want to be apart from, however. Richard Parker had the exact same long-term goal, though he was a little less apathetic about it, and more enthusiastic. To make things even weirder, they had each already camped in the same states, so it was almost as if time were waiting for them to meet each other. Allen never believed in much, and he didn’t think anything happened for a reason. He couldn’t help but question his position, though. It was just too perfect, like they were already leading parallel lives, and just needed to notice each other. They exchanged information, and connected on social media upon returning home from Colorado. Richard was nine years younger, but it didn’t seem to bother him, so Allen decided to not let it bother him either. They took things slow, first moving to the same city to be closer to each other year-round, then moving in together, and finally marrying after a three year relationship. Unfortunately, they were only able to enjoy one year of marital bliss before their lives got really crazy.

Microstory 1082: Trevor

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I’ve never been a good student. I don’t care about school, I don’t like it, and I don’t know what it looks like to try. I don’t criticize others for being good students, but it was just never my thing. Part of it is definitely my fault; I have trouble with motivation in general. But I also didn’t grow up in a great household. It’s funny, I’ve never been left alone, but I also haven’t been raised by two people at the same time. My dad left when I was a baby, then he cleaned up his act, and returned before I was old enough to realize anything was different. My mother took her opportunity to run off with some other guy shortly thereafter, though, so my dad had to take over. This kind of pattern has continued all throughout my life, as this bizarre unspoken custody contract. They were never married, and there’s never been a question as to who has the most rights. My upbringing was just really unstable, and I’ve had to learn a lot of basic life skills from my peers. As you can imagine, they haven’t all been gems. Except for Viola. We were still pretty young when she invited me to her house for the first time. She didn’t say what we were going to do, but it turned out she was baking cookies. I struggled a lot, and messed up a few times—the difference between flour and sugar is a lot more obvious to me now—but I got better over time. She kept inviting me over, and it became a regular thing where she would teach me how to cook. I am, by no means, a world class chef, but I can hold my own in the kitchen now.

It would be a lie if I claimed it was a passion of mine, but I sure as shit don’t like doing anything else, and at least I’m good at it. Unfortunately, I don’t have any money, so I can’t afford to go to culinary school. I wasn’t trained by some reputable chef in the area either, so it’s not like I could get a good recommendation. I think Viola knew this, though, and just before she died, she gave me another way I could use my talents to make a living. Without actually suggesting I seek a job with them, she casually mentioned that fact that Nora and a couple of new friends from Silver Shade were starting an event planning for business. The two of them would be builders, while she the boss. At present, it doesn’t appear that they have any sort of catering arm of their company, but Viola hinted that I would be perfect for it. In the beginning, they wouldn’t be able to afford one of those world class chefs I was telling you about, but I come pretty cheap. I don’t have any formal education, but I’m surprisingly good at following direction. A lot of other people who are so bad at school are also bad at their jobs, but I’m not like that. I’m always on time, I do good work, and I’m very ethical. That’s the only subject in school that I truly understood, and if it were possible to study ethics without being smart at a bunch of other things, I may have considered going to college for that. I dunno, that’s a path I’m no longer in a position to take. Right now, I just need to work up the courage to apply for a job with Nora’s company. I’m worried they won’t take me seriously, and I wish Viola were here to help me with a practice interview.