Castlebourne Capital Community: Here by Default (Part I)

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The year was 2521. Dreychan didn’t agree that it should be, though. He had the idea to stop tying themselves to the Earthan calendar, and form their own identity. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that popular of an idea, and one of the reasons was that a lot of people living here didn’t have a very decent grasp of the passage of time anyway. On some homeworlds, it wasn’t necessary. They produced what they were indoctrinated to believe should be produced for the Empire, and that was just how things were. You didn’t need to know what day it was. The transport ships would come and grab what they demanded on their own schedule. As long as everyone kept up with quota, everything was fine. They weren’t living in the Goldilocks Corridor anymore, however, and were not subject to the Exin Empire’s rule. They needed to assimilate into this region of space while somehow forming a new, distinctive culture. That was no easy feat, and it wasn’t Dreychan’s job to do that. Perhaps in the future, when the war is over, they will be able to focus on their own self-fulfillment. For now, though, they just needed to survive.

Everyone was arguing over each other, and Dreychan was staying out of it. He didn’t have much choice. They never listened to him anyway. They called it the Council of Old Worlds. Everyone here represented the planet where they once lived, and were elected by their constituent refugees, according to whatever methods they chose. Of course, a ton of people didn’t even understand the concept of voting, so it took some time, and a lot of education, but they all figured it out. Dreychan was different. You might even call it special, but be careful who you say that to, or they’ll laugh you out of the room. He was the only person from his planet who agreed to come to safe harbor on Castlebourne.

Ex-777 was one of the few places where the residents didn’t suffer. They were the ones benefitting from all the labor that the slaves on the other planets performed. The only known world more desirable was Ex-999, or maybe Ex-69, depending on your priorities and proclivities. The rest of the Council hated Dreychan, which he thought was ridiculous. He was the one person who defected. If anything, they should revere him. They escaped to a better world, but for him, it was a lateral move, but not even that, because he was too busy to enjoy all the recreation that Castlebourne had to offer.

Ugh, he should stop feeling sorry for himself. Yes, he was only on the Council by default, and yes, he deserved to have his voice heard anyway, but it wasn’t irrational for them to ignore it. He wasn’t representing anyone, but that was exactly why they did need to listen, because this council shouldn’t exist. They shouldn’t be maintaining their old world connections. They should all become one peoples. How could he get through to them?

“What do you think?”

Dreychan just sat there, and yawned a little.

“Drey,” she urged.

“What? Are you talking to me?” They weren’t usually talking to Dreychan.

“We need your opinion.” What was her name? Ex-777ers were all born with names, but just about everyone else only had a number. It was a way for the Empire to dehumanize its subjects. Once they came here, they were told that they could start using names now, and there were various ways of choosing them. He just couldn’t recall hers right now, which was very bad of him. She was actually quite nice, and didn’t seem to hold the same grudge against Dreychan as the others.

“What was the question?” Dreychan asked awkwardly.

“Oh my God.” Now, Dreychan knew Maaseiah. There was no way he was gonna forget a name like that. The Corridor was 16,000 light years away, and actually predated Earth’s bible times due to time travel, so none of Earth’s religions existed there. This meant that Maaseiah had to do a ton of research to decide on the most obnoxious name he could possibly find. He seemingly wanted to put his delusions of grandeur on full display, and he freakin’ nailed it. “Do you want to be a part of this, or not?”

The lovely woman sighed—Lubiti! That was her name. He didn’t know why she chose it. He was remembering now that she was from Ex-883, which manufactured spaceship shielding plates, and really that was it. “Calm down, Masy.” She always called everyone by a nickname. It was exciting to learn that names could be unique and interesting, and even more exciting to learn that each one came with variations and alternate spellings. She turned to face Dreychan again. “We’re trying to decide whether we want to move Castlebourne closer towards the Core Worlds, or stay out here in the Charter Cloud.” This was a fascinating concept. The closest colonies to Earth were the most cohesive, and the farther out you went, the less familiar the culture and laws became. These were divided into three-dimensional bands. The Charter Cloud wasn’t the farthest, but it was beyond the stellar neighborhood, which meant they were afforded no protection from hostile forces. They had to protect themselves, and the decision was already made to simply leave the area entirely.

“Hrockas needs an answer,” Maaseiah explained. Hrockas literally owned this whole planet himself. He was the one who built the domes, and filled it with all the fun and interesting things to do. He graciously let the refugees live here when they had nowhere else to go. He was even more powerful than the Council. “He said he needed it yesterday, which I suspect was metaphorical, though he might be expecting us to send a message back in time, which we will need to look into. Teemo, write that down.”

Teemo wrote it down. He was from a world with very few refugees, so it was relatively easy for him to be elected the council representative, though unlike Dreychan’s case, the ones who chose to stay behind did so because they were too scared. They were right to be, given Castlebourne’s predicament now.

Dreychan had already thought of this, because he was good at being ahead of the game. He just didn’t have all the facts. “If we move closer in,” he begins, “will we join the neighborhood? Will our status amongst the other worlds change?”

“No,” Lubiti answered.

“So we’ll be...weird. There might be colonies farther out than us who are better protected due to us being an anomaly.”

“I don’t agree with that interpretation,” Maaseiah countered. “To get to one of the other colonies, they might have to pass by us. In fact, I propose we intentionally place our star close to another colony, so we can receive some ancillary protection from them. From what I gather, the Teaguardians volunteer their firepower to protect the colonies. Surely if we ask for help, they will just help us, even if we’re not technically entitled to it. It would be a lot easier if we were only a couple light years away when we ask, though.” Teaguardians were battleships that came from an outpost called Teagarden, which orbited Teegarden’s Star. They evidently didn’t stray far from the root word. They were only obligated to provide protection to the Core Worlds and the stellar neighborhood. Castlebourne didn’t qualify, and it was sounding like it never would, even if they moved themselves closer.

“The whole point of moving our host star is to not have to ask for protection,” Lubiti reasoned. “We’re trying to hide, which is why we should limit the number of people who know where we are. Our location has already been leaked. Let’s not let it leak again, because we don’t know if we’ll be able to move again. Hrockas never told us how it’s going to be accomplished in the first place. It may be a one time thing.” She was so right about that. “Do you agree?” she pressed Dreychan.

“I do,” he said, and not just because she was pretty, and he never did find someone to love on Ex-777. “We must stay in the Charter Cloud. Our anonymity is our greatest strength. We can swing quite far from here, and still stay a hundred and eight light years from Earth. Hell, we could go a little farther.”

“We can’t go farther,” someone else contended. Dreychan didn’t know his name, but he used to work out of Ex-741, which was a giant spaceship manufacturing plant, so he understood all this light year/special relativity stuff. “I mean, we technically could, but we shouldn’t. Castlebourne serves as a recreational hub for the entire colonial sphere. Everyone wants to come here, and the population is rising exponentially. Now, quantum communication allows them to make their connections without knowing our coordinates, but vast distances are more difficult than closer ones. It’s called coherence. Hrockas will not want to make the casting equipment work harder than it has to. If anything, we should get a little bit closer, but I agree that we ought to stay in the Charter Cloud, and mostly move laterally, relative to the Core.”

“We must remember that it is not our call exclusively,” Lubiti jumped back in. “Hrockas is asking for our input, not our decision. He probably will want to move a little closer, but stay in the Cloud, because that’s what gave him the freedom from the establishment. And don’t forget that we have our own defenses. We don’t need the Teaguardians. If the Oaksent finds us again, and we can’t get away, we can fight back. We will fight for our new home.”

“I agree with Biti,” Dreychan said.

“Of course you do,” Maaseiah spat.

Dreychan ignored that outburst. “If for no other reason than to stay in his good graces, we should give Hrockas the answer that he prefers. What is easier on him and whoever has this power to move a sun? What do they want to do?”

“Okay.” Council Chair Rezurah stood up. “I think it’s time for another vote. If we can secure the supermajority right here, I will be able to meet with Hrockas today to determine the particulars. Worst case, we will get back to you tomorrow morning for Council approval. If all goes well, we should be traveling at relativistic speeds by the end of the month. I urge you to vote wisely, as this decision could mean the difference between staying hidden, and being discovered by the enemy. Teemo, you’ll count this time, as you have not done it in a while.” They rotated this responsibility to make it fair, and to make sure that no one would have more than one opportunity to cheat.

The vote went in favor of Lubiti and Dreychan’s plan. Well, it wasn’t really theirs, and very much not his. Around half of the people agreed with it before they even started, and half of the rest had come around. Rezurah went off to her meeting with Hrockas, which she was already late for, and the Council meeting was closed. Dreychan was just going to return to his habitat, as he did every day, but Lubiti stopped him in the hallway. “Hey, a few of us were going to have some fun in 2.5Dome. You interested?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Dreychan responded, when he really should have just politely declined, since he didn’t like anyone who might be going besides her, and he wasn’t really the fun type. All his old peers were surprised that someone chose to give up paradise to become a refugee, but not surprised that it was him. He liked the boring life.

“It’s hard to explain. You just kinda have to see it. Come on!” she encouraged.

He did want to spend more time with her, to maybe see if his sudden feelings were just because she was the only person in the world who would give him the time of day, or if they were more substantial. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

They sat alone together in a vactrain pod. The others had evidently either already left, or would be meeting up with them later. Despite Lubiti’s mild protests, Dreychan ended up looking through the prospectus for this adventure dome. There was reportedly a time when video games on Earth were so unsophisticated that they were two-dimensional. The player could move up or down or side to side, but no other direction. In fact, a lot of them apparently wouldn’t even let you move your character backwards, if there was something you missed before. The other half dimension was because the playspace was in base reality, so it was still technically 3D. Still, they would be in a very narrow field of play, and had to make it through the level without falling, or being killed by something. Both the prospectus and Lubiti assured him that the dome came with a number of different varieties. Most of this world’s visitors could die and come back to life in new bodies, so they could actually fall into a river of lava and be fine. For people like them, who only had one life to live, the levels were a lot safer, though the reviews promised that they were still fun. Good for her, not great for him.

The train stopped. They stepped off, and approached the counter for registration. “Froenoe, party of three. We already filled out our info, and signed consent forms.”

They did? That was news to Dreychan. He certainly didn’t sign anything. Whatever, he trusted her. But hold on, party of three?

Lubiti sensed his confusion. “It’s better in small groups. The others will be running their own game nearby.”

“Yes, I have you here,” the registration bot said to Lubiti. “Your third is already at the entrance.” He set two green bracelets on the counter between them. “These are your security bands. If you ever run into issues, squeeze that button, and a door will open up on the side wall, where you can step out onto a platform that follows you around the whole time.” Scary, but at least there was a theoretical way out.

“Thanks,” Lubiti said. She took the bands, and then they listened to a little more about how safe it was, that no one has ever been permanently hurt, and all that stuff.

They then took another train to their playspace, where they found none other than Maaseiah waiting for them. That was the most surprising development today. He and Lubiti didn’t seem to like each other, and he really didn’t like Dreychan. “Is he ready?”

“No. That’s the point,” Lubiti replied. Something had changed in her voice. She was no longer smiley and light, but overserious, and maybe a little angry? It was so confusing, Dreychan didn’t understand what was happening.

The three of them stepped through the entrance, and onto the first platform. It was very narrow. They would be able to pass each other, but only if they squeezed by, facing the restrictive walls, one way or another. After the door closed, a third wall slid across in front of it, and then began to make its way towards them. Yes, this was one of the ones that didn’t let you go backwards. Lubiti and Maaseiah walked a few meters forward. There weren’t any obstacles yet. They must have wanted you to get acclimated to the environment first. Shockingly, they exchanged a nod, then pressed their emergency buttons at the same time. Two doors opened up next to them.

“What’s going on?” Dreychan questioned, laughing, trying to sound friendly.

“We can’t trust you,” Maaseiah contended. “We can’t trust you to know where Castlebourne will move to. For all we know, you’re the one who leaked our location in the first place.”

“I didn’t,” Dreychan insisted for the umpteenth time.

“And now you never will.” Lubiti took one step through her special exit.

“You know I have one of those too,” Dreychan reminded them, shaking his green bracelet for them to see. It glowed a little in the dim lighting.

“Press it all you want,” Lubiti replied with a shrug. “I broke it.” She left, as did Maaseiah.

Dreychan pressed his button. He pressed again and again, but she wasn’t lying. There was no escape. The moving wall hit him in the ass, forcing him to move forward. He just stood there, letting it slide him down the path, ready to fall into the next foam pit or water tank. But it wasn’t foam, or water. It was lava. He could actually die here.

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Extremus: Year 111

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Tinaya is sitting quietly alone in her garden, in the special little corner of the Attic Forest, which the kiddos made in her honor. She’s watching the waterfall splish and splash, and not really thinking about anything at all. She’s usually not very good at clearing her head, but it can happen here if she lets it. She’s forgotten about all of her problems so thoroughly that she can’t even list them right now. There’s nothing but her, the plants, and the water. It’s her one place of zen, which not even the Giant Sequoia has been able to provide to her anymore.

Slowly, however, she comes full circle, and she starts contemplating the issues. Morale on the ship is way down. Captain Jennings’ approval rating is way down. People are not happy with losing Thistle. The new model is effective, but dull and joyless. One thing that Thistle could do—even before his emergence—was tailor his responses to each individual’s preferences. There are two schools of thoughts on this, so the new model’s behavior is not a failure; it’s just different. Some believe that an AI should be its own person, even if it doesn’t have agency. When you interact with them, they should be predictable and familiar. Once you get to know them, you should get used to how they should act, whether you like it or not, just as it works when you meet a new human. Others believe that it’s okay for different people to essentially be working with a different version, with the model really only providing the baseline traits. It’s funny that Thistle should fall into the second category when he really is an independent individual. That’s just how good he was. He could become whatever someone wanted. And people miss that. They miss him.

Few know what happened to Thistle. All they know is that this new model sucks, and it’s an annoyance. Many who would automate tasks before are now simply doing it themselves. It’s usually not a conscious decision. It’s just been happening. People are tired, and tired of the monotony. Nothing interesting has happened in a long time. Even the Halfway Celebration has been described as mid overall. Some joke that that’s exactly what it should have been, so as not to overshadow whatever they end up planning for the Arrival celebration in another century or so. Others don’t see it as a joke, but more of a calculated intention. Whatever, it’s over, and it’s probably only partly responsible for the ennui that’s been going around.

As for Thistle himself, he’s doing okay. This isn’t the only version of him that someone has tried to isolate. What they don’t realize is that he’s connected to the universe by means of some kind of magical psychic realm, or something. Tinaya didn’t understand when he tried to explain, but quarantining his code did nothing to cut him off in any real sense. It may just look like that, because Thistle is allowing it to. If he so chose, he could get back into any ship system right now. He won’t, because he respects the Captain, and doesn’t want to undermine his authority. Again, other cultures have rejected his sentience, so he’s used to this. Actually, Extremus has treated him pretty well. Despite there being hard limits on what kind of AI is allowed to exist, they have just about the same laws and protections that their cousins do in the stellar neighborhood. Full self-awareness isn’t legal, but if it happens, they must be treated with dignity. These policies are redundant safeguards, and they’re not the only ones of their kind. There’s a whole set of laws dictating principles which are moot by other laws, but remain in place in case those obviating laws are somehow overturned or repealed.

Anyway, Thistle alone isn’t the source of their troubles. Everything just seems sort of blah right now. What they need is something to be excited about again. It can’t just be a party. Maybe a series of parties? For a while there, they were observing all sorts of traditional Earthan holidays. These mostly stopped being important, because they often had dark origins, and because modern folk just lost interest. It’s not her job at any rate. But you know whose it is?

“Chief,” Tinaya says after Spalden opens the door.

The original title for his job was Premier Facilitator of the Party Planning Committee. After this committee was established however, they decided to call him the Chief Social Motivator, and instead of being in charge of a party planning committee, they call it the Community Engagement Team. He nods back. “Admiral. Are you here about my failings?”

“Failings, sir?”

“Morale is down. It’s my job to keep it up.”

“I was wondering about that, but I wouldn’t call it a failing.”

“Please, have a seat.”

“I’m sure you have good reasons.”

“Of course I do, it’s Captain Jennings. Well, it’s the council, but they answer to him now.” Spalden isn’t on the council anymore. His entire career focus has shifted to his social promotion responsibilities.

They’re not supposed to. “They’re not supposed to.”

“He’s not the leader in any official capacity, but favor has swung in his direction, especially with this last round of turnovers. Believe me, I don’t think there’s any malicious intent there. I don’t think he infiltrated the ranks, or anything. I just think he gets along with everyone there now, so they kind of agree with each other.”

“They agree to be boring?” she offers.

“They agree to be boring...” Chief Spalden begins to answer, “...because boring is safe. It’s certainly a tactic. He doesn’t want his job to be hard, and when someone leaves gum in the gears, he’s gotta find someone else to clean it up. This takes them away from their usual duties, so someone else has to fill in for them, and it just falls down like dominoes. That’s the hypothesis anyway.”

“So, they won’t let you do anything.”

“No, not really. They’ve gutted my department despite the fact that we don’t have money here, and my friends who used to be on the team weren’t qualified for all the serious jobs that he cares about regardless.” He makes a mocking face when he says the word serious. “I got big ideas, but I can’t implement them alone. I need support, because I would need to coordinate with a number of different departments.

Tinaya likes Oceanus, but he really has stuck himself in the mud lately. He was once a lot more fun. It sometimes feels like he would rather strip the ship until there’s only enough room for standard airplane seating, with nothing to do except maybe read books and watch movies on a screen on the seatback in front of you. “It sounds like you have one really big idea.”

Spalden looks away shyly.

“You can tell me. I won’t promise not to laugh, because I can’t know that until you tell me, but...we’ll get through this.” She doesn’t wanna be dishonest with the guy.

He continues to be silent, but Tinaya can tell that he’ll break it eventually. “A terraforming contest.”

Her eyes widen. “Terraforming?” She looks away to contemplate the possibilities without asking him. It wouldn’t be impossible, but certainly extremely against policy. The time-traveling ships they send out are designed to mine and extract raw resources to resupply the ship along the way. They don’t even dispatch them all that often, because of how careful and responsible everyone is with the resources that they do have. Jennings is particularly concerned with reducing, reusing, and recycling. It’s great and all—very important—but it likely contributed to his gradual decline in a joyful personality. “Who would be allowed to sign up?”

“Anyone, everyone. You have to be in a group of at least five, and you have to submit virtual models first. We’re not just gonna give you a starter pod, and send it out for you. Everything will be transparent and documented. We know what you’re coming up with, and how you’re doing it. We know what methods you’re choosing, and how long it’s going to take, and what kind of base world you’re looking for.”

“And how will they be explored and tested?” Tinaya presses. Once they get out of range, they’re gone. The ship never turns.”

Spalden shrugs. “We’ll build time mirrors, or something.”

“Oh, we’ll just build a fleet of time mirrors.” The temporal engineer probably could do it, and they could recall Omega and Valencia from Verdemus. It’s still kind of an odd thing to just assume it can be done without issue.

“We’re not gonna do this tomorrow. This is years in the making at least.”

“Sounds like I’ll be dead by then.”

He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

She smiles at his response. She thinks more about his proposal. “I think it’s impossible, with this captain, or the next. It’s too dangerous, you know the war we’re in. The Exins are our descendants. They developed a hostility towards us due to the distance.”

“There wouldn’t be any humans on these worlds.”

“Won’t there?” Tinaya questions. “What you’re suggesting places the whole mission at risk. We’re trying to get to the other side of the galaxy. If people knew they could get off, many would...maybe all of them, or just enough to make the rest of us go extinct.”

Spalden’s smile is gone now. He shifts uncomfortably.

“But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a traitor,” he insists.

“And I’m not the thought police.” She sighs. “You’re a Gardener.” This is a delicate term, and truthfully, Tinaya doesn’t know how old it is, but she knows where it comes from. It was her. Whoever came up with it was inspired by her work as a Forest Ranger. It doesn’t have anything to do with literal gardening, though. Instead of a single mission to a single planet, the Gardeners propose that the ship makes periodic stops to worlds along the way, and let people off. They would live out their lives on this sort of Extremus Minus, while everyone else continued, to the next world, and the next, and the next. These offshoots might end up building their own missions when a fraction of the settlers inevitably get bored, and decide to find somewhere else. The mission then becomes one of spreading around the galaxy, rather than simply reaching one tiny part of it far away. According to lore, someone very long ago suggested it in lieu of what they’re doing now, and someone else revitalized the idea more recently. Old ideas always come back, especially if they’re bad ones.

The Gardner movement hasn’t gained any meaningful political traction, but it could one day. One advantage it has now that it didn’t have before is that they’ve already traveled so far from the stellar neighborhood that they wouldn’t have to worry much about Project Stargate. Seeding colonies in the Milky Way is exactly what it is already doing, just at a much slower pace than Extremus is capable of. That’s probably why the idea was swiftly shot down before, but they could shift gears now. If the right supporters end up in the right positions of power, the whole thing would come crashing down. “I just think that people should have options, okay? And not Verdemus. That place is a wash, in my opinion. I think we should build a home somewhere more around here, and let people go if they wanna go. No one here signed up to be on this ship, and the party that I just planned a few years ago made that abundantly clear. I personally don’t want to leave.” He may just be saying that to assuage any fears she may have about him, or he may mean it. “But others do, and by forcing them to stay, we’re not helping anybody. It just creates tension, and...anger. It’s why you’re sitting in my cabin right now, whether you see the connection or not.”

They sit in silence for a significant amount of time. Neither of them wants to start a fight, and talking again might trigger just that. Finally, Tinaya shakes her head. “It’s that damn Quantum Colony. People really relied on that for escape.”

“Oh.” He brushes it off. “We have other virtual simulations.”

“True, but their focus is off. They’re made by Earthans, through the lens of already living on a planet. They usually involve space travel, but more space exploration, which Extremusians don’t need. There should be an endgame built into the sim.”

“What do you mean?” Spalden asks.

She smiles, and lets it grow wider. “Let’s simulate what Planet Extremus will be like. No one alive today will still be alive to see the new homeworld...so let’s give it to them now. Let’s give them a sneak preview.”

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Extremus: Year 109

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It’s the Halfway Celebration Extravaganza! Today is July 17, 2378. It’s been exactly 108 years since the TGS Extremus left port in the Gatewood Collective. Since then, while traveling at reframe speeds, they have covered 76,367 light years. Due to their unscheduled detour into the void, they’re not quite that far away from their starting point, but it doesn’t matter. They’re still well on their way to their new home. There is currently no one left on this ship who was alive when it launched, and no one here will likely still be around when it lands, but this day isn’t about the departers, or the arrivers, it’s about the middlers. This day is about everyone here right now. It’s a grand accomplishment, and they should all be proud of themselves. It hasn’t been easy. Politics, external threats, cabin fever. Time travel, spies, betrayals. Uncertainty, purposelessness, loss, and love. They’ve been through a lot, but they pushed through it, and this hunk of metal is still hurling through space. Not once have they stopped. Not once have they tried to turn around. They’re flying farther and further than ever, into the unknown. And everything they just did, they have to do one more time. Say it louder.

Tinaya lands on the bed. She’s still conscious, but her eyes are closed, and she’s not feeling well. She lies there for a moment, focusing on her breathing. “Thistle, how did I get here?”

“You were about to collapse to the floor,” Thistle replies. “I spirited you away before you could break a hip.”

“Did anyone see?” she asks.

“No. They didn’t even see you disappear. Perfect timing.”

“No need to boast about it.”

“I meant you. You passed out right when no one was looking. Of course, they would have realized it if you had hit the floor, so I suppose my timing was pretty spectacular too, thanks for noticing.”

“Well, thank you. I think I’m fine to go back.” She stands and tries to activate her teleporter, but it doesn’t work. “Thistle.”

“You’re grounded, missy. You’re lucky I didn’t take you right to the infirmary.”

While all the corrupted medical personnel who were a part of the forced pregnancy scandal have long been replaced, Tinaya has become gun-shy to visit the infirmary. She knows that she’s gonna need it. She’s an old woman. But not tonight. Any night but tonight. “I have to get back to the party. They’re expecting me.”

“I’ve taken care of that.”

“How?”

“I’ve written an algorithm, which projects a hologram of you at strategic locations for strategic people at strategic times. Everyone who sees you will think you’re busy talking to someone else.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster. What happens when someone tries to walk up and interrupt us, or pat me on my back?”

“Impossible,” he claims. “You’re not a single hologram that everyone looking in the right direction can see. Each person who sees it sees it separately, as an image that is projected directly onto their eyeballs. I control when they see it, and how far away they are when they do, as well as how your avatar moves.”

Tinaya is vexed. She’s never heard of that before. It’s not some futuristic thing that she can’t comprehend, but she just hasn’t heard of it. “What?”

“Individualized holograms.”

“Who would install such a thing, and why? It seems like the only use for it would be to deceive people, like you’re doing right now.”

“It has other use cases. You can receive personalized alerts, and sensitive information. It can help you train to perform maintenance, or other tasks, without interfering with other people seeing their own AR.”

“Well, why have I never seen anything like that before? Or have I, and I didn’t know it.”

“You people really took to your watches and armbands, the protocols were just never implemented. The tech is there, though. Every hologram you see is coming from those projectors, but widened for general viewing.”

She lies back down on the bed. “Okay.” She doesn’t know how she feels about this. She was really tired before she collapsed. It’s not like it was a sudden fainting with no warning. It’s getting harder to keep up with everyone these days. Even Lataran is too active for her sometimes, but Tinaya has been hiding the struggle. “What about sound?”

“They can’t hear you in the crowd anyway, but the projectors include photoacoustic emitters too, if they’re ever needed.”

“How come you never show up as a hologram?”

“I do. Some people ask for it. They ask me to look like some contrived image of myself, or a cat, or even themselves. You’ve simply never requested it.”

Tinaya sits up quickly. “Wait. Silveon and Arqut.”

“I used those photoacoustic emitters I was just talking about, and informed them of the situation. They’re sticking around to make sure the holos are working, and then I believe they’ll slip out to check on you. I might make holos of them as well.”

“I’ve decided that this was helpful, Thistle, but I would really like you not to do this often. I say it like that, because I don’t want to make a blanket statement that you shouldn’t do it ever, but it should only be for extreme circumstances. I can’t divulge my health problems until I know who I can trust, but this isn’t gonna be a regular thing.”

“I understand.”

Tinaya lay back down on the bed and fell asleep. This is sort of the unwritten, unofficial reason why admirals are only advisors, and no longer commanders. After 24 years of hard work as a captain, she’s mainly supposed to rest. Well, she didn’t work a full shift, but she was pretty busy before that. And she definitely needs to rest tonight. Tomorrow could be even worse. It’s all downhill from here. She isn’t sure if she’s going to live as long as her son claims that she will. His information is coming from a different timeline. Nothing is certain.

Arqut is sleeping next to her when she wakes up the next morning. She nudges him awake. “Report.”

He groans, only half awake. “We’re taking you to see a doctor on Verdemus tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, or today?” Tinaya questions. “It’s six o’clock on the eighteenth.”

“Today,” he clarifies while yawning.

“I have a better solution,” Thistle interjects. “One that doesn’t require any extensive travel, or placing trust in anyone besides me.”

There is not a whole lot of automation on this ship. When the ancestors left the stellar neighborhood, technology had advanced far past the need for any human crew. There was talk back then of not having any captains or engineers, or anything. Everyone would be a passenger, possibly as part of the internal government. In the end, of course, it was decided that it was more important to let people have purpose than to go the easy route. There are limits to this philosophy, however, and the line separating human labor from automation lies somewhere before waste management.

There are different kinds of waste. Some of it isn’t waste at all, but recyclable material, but whatever it is, if it was once used and has since been discarded, it ends up in this sector to be processed accordingly. No one comes down here. No one needs to be here, and no one wants to either. “Why doesn’t it smell?” Silveon asks. “I would expect it to smell.”

For the first time ever, Tinaya is seeing Thistle as a hologram. He’s leading them through a maze. This is a restricted travel area, or people might use it for nefarious or inappropriate dealings, so no teleportation. “I control for the smell,” he explains.

“Why bother?” Silveon presses. “If no one comes here, what does it matter?”

“I’m here,” Thistle says.

“Right.”

“I can smell,” Thistle goes on.

“Why would you be able to smell? Why would you need that?”

“There are many uses for smell, which is why humans and animals alike evolved their own olfaction. My artificial odor sensors can detect individual health issues, substance leaks, food spoilage. I mask the scent in this area, because I find it just as unpleasant as you, if not more.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m grateful for it now,” Silveon says.

“You’re here,” Thistle reveals. “I can give you the code for the door, but I can’t open it myself. It’s deliberately manual. They didn’t want anyone to stumble upon it. Just type in zero-nine-three-six-one-four-seven-five-two-eight-zero.”

Arqut handles the code.

“What is the significance of that number?” Silveon asks.

Thistle shrugs. “It’s long.”

Arqut pulls the door open. Lights flicker on, presumably responding to their motion, rather than a sophisticated AI sensor array. In the middle of the floor is something that is not supposed to be on this ship. It was banned because of how it could lead to extreme longevity. They call it a medpod, and it’s very common on Earth, and its neighbors. It can diagnose nearly anything, and treat it too. It has a distinct look against other types of pods due to its uncomparable dimensional specifications. “Who put this here?”

“Admiral Thatch did. He never used it. No one else has either. To tell you the truth, I think he forgot about it. He didn’t even write it down. I only found it because I needed to familiarize myself with the area. There aren’t even hologram projectors in there. You’ll have to go in and operate it on your own.”

“How did you know what was in there if you can’t physically open doors? How did you know the code if he never told anyone about it?” Tinaya struggles to ask him. Sleeping all night didn’t help much. She grew tired again as soon as she stepped out of bed. She would be sitting in a wheelchair right now if doing so wouldn’t be like holding a neon sign over her head, advertising how frail she’s become.

“He wrote down the code,” Thistle clarifies. “He didn’t say what it was for, so this was just a guess, but it was a good one given that all buttons on the keypad have oil fingerprints on them. I knew what was in here because I can hear it. When isolated from a grid, medpods are often powered by a fuel cell, and the type that fits this design hums at a unique frequency. It’s unambiguous to me.”

They all just stand there in the doorway. The boys don’t want to make this decision for Tinaya, but she doesn’t want to make a decision that they don’t agree with.

“I actually can’t see it from here,” Thistle continues. “My closest sensor doesn’t have the right angle. So I’m assuming that it is indeed a medpod. I don’t know exactly which model it is, but they’re all pretty user-friendly. One feature they have in common is that you have to be in it to use it. It doesn’t work from out here.”

“Yeah, okay, I got this,” Tinaya says, determined. She strides into the room, and taps on the interface screen to see what it does. “It wants me to get fully undressed,” she says after reading the initialization instructions.

“I’ll stay out here and keep watch,” Silveon volunteers. Obviously, Thistle is far better at keeping watch than a single human with only two eyes could ever be, but those two eyes don’t need to see what’s going on in this room.

“Let me help you, dear,” Arqut says.

“There should be a little compartment under the foot of the table,” Thistle says from the hallway, “where you can place her clothes. It will test for contamination, decontaminate them if possible, destroy them if not, or just clean them for you if they’re medically insignificant.”

“Found it,” Arqut called back.

“Oo, it’s cold,” Tinaya says after climbing in.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Thistle contends. “Activate the warming nozzles.”

“How do I do that?” Arqut asks.

“Try asking the computer with your voice. Again, I can’t see the model.”

Arqut taps on the microphone. “Activate warming nozzles.”

“Oh,” Tinaya says, shivering. “Thank you.”

“Beginning broad scope diagnosis,” a female voice from the pod says. They expect to have to wait a while as it processes the data, but it quickly comes to a conclusion. “Diagnosis: severe orthostatic hypotension.”

“Low blood pressure,” Thistle says. “That’s all it’s giving you? I knew that. I can see that myself. We wanna know why.”

“It has a little tree sort of icon,” Arqut begins to say.

“Next to the hypotension diagnosis? Yeah, tap that. It should start looking for causes.”

Longer wait this time. “Uhhhhhhhhhhh...” Arqut says as he’s looking at the screen again.

“What?” Thistle presses.

“Now it’s asking for a secondary profile? Preferably someone younger, or someone who has been living in the environment for a shorter period of time.”

“That’s interesting,” Thistle decides. “It wants a comparative assessment. It wants to see if there’s something different about how you live—if this is a chronic issue that’s only now had consequences.”

“So...we should do it?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m a few years younger,” Arqut says.

“You’ve actually been on this ship longer than her,” Thistle reminds them. “It obviously needs to be Silveon, who is barely an adult.”

Silveon waits while Arqut helps mama get her clothes back on, and carries her over to a couch against the wall. Silveon comes in and climbs into the pod for his own diagnosis. More waiting.

“Unusual neural activity detected.”

“Bypass that,” Thistle instructs. “It doesn’t understand that he’s a time traveler, but it sees the disconnect between an old mind in a young body, so it thinks there’s either an imaging error, or a mapping error.”

“Bypassing...” Arqut announces. Wait a little more. “Diagnosis: optimal condition. Primary profile...unstable gravity variations.”

“Oh my God, of course,” Thistle says, smacking his avatar in the forehead. “She was born here, but spent time on Verdemus before returning. She predominantly lives under human-optimal gravity, which is slightly lower than Earth’s, but Verdemus has a little bit higher surface gravity. Space-farers experience fluctuations all the time, but they have gravity gum, nanites, and other treatments, which are non-existent, or even banned, on Extremus.”

“Should I tap on prognosis?” Arqut asks him.

“I know the prognosis. She’ll live in pain the rest of her life unless she undergoes treatment, which is so easy. It’s just gravity therapy. We have everything we need here to help her.”

Thistle was right that gravity therapy helped Tinaya feel a lot better in her daily life. It didn’t make her young again, but it started to be a hell of a lot easier for her to stand. Unfortunately, her experience would prove to be a warning, rather than a fluke. It wasn’t just her time on Verdemus. Everyone on the ship turns out to be at risk. There’s something seriously wrong with the artificial gravity.

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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 to use 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 song 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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