The Fifth Division: Rock of Gibraltar (Part IV)

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The wave of fire is drawing too close, and Ingrid has no choice but to duck into the bunker with Selma, who leads her down the steps to safety. Once they’re at the bottom, they run through the corridor, and into a wide open room, which must be a gym. Nearly everyone is here, notable absences being Killjlir, Ayata, and Andrei. Horrified, the survivors are watching a bird’s eye view of the destruction on the surface, as likely streamed by a sentry drone. Princess Honeypea is crying into her brother’s shoulder while the other Horticulturalists do everything they can to hold back their own tears. They are distraught, though. There’s nothing they can do to fix this. They don’t know about the whole garden world out there yet. Is it Ingrid’s place to tell them? Did the tree have another plan in mind? What the hell are they supposed to do now?

No one seems to know, but Storm knows that it remains her job to be the leader. “The universe has suffered a terrible loss,” she begins. “Most people in existence don’t even know that this place once stood tall and proud and beautiful. Those who did may never learn that our world was destroyed. We have a lot to talk about. Some of us have lost our purpose, others a home, and some of you, a temporary refuge. I don’t know that I can get any of that back for any of you, but I know that we’re all exhausted and sad. The barracks are down the hall, to the right. It’s okay if we sleep here tonight, Weaver?”

“Of course,” Weaver says sincerely.

Storm nods gratefully. “Get yourselves cleaned up, find something to eat in the kitchen, and then get some rest. We’ll reconvene tomorrow once everyone’s up to it.” She looks at Pinesong to say something to him quietly, but stops to say one more thing to the whole group. “Oh, and anyone who blames themselves in any way for what happened, just don’t. We faced an impossible enemy, and we lost. There’s nothing you could have done. Don’t let the anxiety keep you awake.” Now finished, she does move off to the side with her own people so they can whisper in private.

Ingrid is dirty and bloody, so she takes a shower, and lies down in the medical pod for a bit, but she isn’t ready to sleep. She’s too curious. The fire has finished roaring down its path of destruction, leaving the whole dimension in ashes, but the drone seems to have crashed, or just been switched off. If she wants to see what it looks like out there now, she’ll have to go back outside. She dons a respirator mask, and starts walking back up the stairs. Before she has the chance to open the cellar door, it opens on its own. Killjlir is standing there. They’re soaking wet and coughing violently while holding a broken branch tightly in one hand. There are a few flowers growing from it, and one blue fruit pod hanging from the tip. Whatever Killjlir has been through, it’s a wonder this thing is as intact as it is. They pass out, and fall into Ingrid’s arms.

Ingrid carries her new friend back down to the bunker, and into the infirmary. She places Killjlir in the same pod that she was just using, and carefully removes the branch from their grasp so the machine can track their vitals, make its diagnosis, and execute the proper treatments. They’re not doing well, but they’re not going to die. They suffered wounds all over their upper body that are consistent with hand-to-hand combat, and cuts on their legs indicative of crawling through a bower, or perhaps climbing a tree. They have some level three burns too, but the most pressing threat right now is the water still in their lungs. The little robot arms turn them to their side, and then stick a tube down their throat. It suctions some of it out of their lungs while the rest of the fluid manages to leak out of their mouth. The pod leaves Killjlir on their side while it moves on to the next issues, in order of severity. After removing the necrotic tissue, it triggers rapid in situ dermal regeneration to replace the missing skin. It seals up the cuts with a liquid bandage, and breaks down the bruises with something that it calls a macrophage therapy. Lastly, it begins to emit an ultrasonic wave up and down their body to stimulate blood flow for accelerated healing. Ingrid finally exhales in relief, seeing that her friend is going to be okay. This is a strange feeling to be having for a person she once called her enemy.

Storm walks in. “They’re alive.” It’s unclear if this is a question, or a statement.

“Yes,” Ingrid replies.

“Have they spoken?”

“Not yet.”

“Were they carrying that?”

Ingrid looks down at the branch, now in her hand. “Yeah, I don’t know why.”

Storm steps forward. “May I?” She accepts it from a reluctant Ingrid, then runs her hand along it like it’s a violin that she’s just crafted. “Bark...wood...flower...fruit...”

“Did they bring it here for a reason?” Ingrid asks.

“I fell on it,” Killjlir explains with a very hoarse voice. The pod reacts to this development by administering a nebulized soothing agent along their pharynx. Fortunately, it doesn’t have to stick the tube as far down as it did before. Killjlir clears their throat, and tries again. “I was climbing the magnolia when this asshole whacked me in the head. I fell back, and the branch broke my fall, but then I fell the rest of the way with it into the water. The current took me away, but I could see the fiery explosion above, and feel some heat. I’ve been floating ever since. I don’t know how I got here.”

“I carried you from the entrance,” Ingrid tells them. “You were walking on your own before that.”

“I couldn’t have,” they say with a dismissive shake of their head. “I was dying.”

“The tree wasn’t a single consciousness in a single whole organism,” Storm says. “When you broke the branch, you took a little piece of its mind with you. It might have given your body the strength it needed to make it here from the river bank. We’re only about twenty meters from it, I would say.”

“So, it’s gone?” Killjlir asks? “It’s all gone.”

Storm smiles, and raises the branch. “This is still here. It’s a symbol of resilience and strength.”

“The fruit,” Ingrid poses, “can it be planted? Will it make a new magnolia tree?”

Storm shakes her head. “It’s a virgin fruit, like an unfertilized egg. There is no seed inside this pod.”

“That’s why I was climbing,” Killjlir tries to clarify. “The Pryce guy, he told me to retrieve the red fruit on the top of the canopy.”

“A red fruit?” Storm is confused, but intrigued. She pulls the blue fruit off of the branch, and squints at it. “We’ve always wondered what was preventing it from producing seeds. If you’re right, something must have triggered it, but just this once.”

“It’s all about energy.” Princess Honeypea is standing in the doorway.

“Temporal energy?” Storm guesses.

“It metabolizes lots of different forms of energy, including temporal, yes. It typically uses it to produce its leaves, flowers, sap, and virgin fruit, but it doesn’t have enough to make a seed, and didn’t have any reason to until today. When the bad guys broke the dimensional barrier down, the energy that Pinesong usually channeled to keep it up was all pulled into the earth at the same time. This gave the Magnolia a surge of power, which it used to produce a miracle. Like you said, just this one time. It was a last ditch effort to survive.”

Killjlir turns away from them. “I was its only hope, and I failed.”

Honeypea smiles and lifts the clear casing of the pod. She gently rolls Killjlir back over by their shoulder. “You were only a distraction.” She takes the fruit from Storm’s hand. “I can go back to that moment, and fulfill the task just before the fire overwhelms this world.”

Storm snatches it right back. “No. It’s too dangerous. There are ways that we can rebuild. We won’t allow visitors this time. At all. The magnolia was only one tree out of the many thousands of specimens that we’ve saved over the ages. Saving it would accomplish hardly anything.”

Ingrid takes the fruit this time. “It’s the only one that hasn’t already been saved,” she insists. “The rest are out there.” She makes a general gesture towards the surface. “The tree showed us as much. This whole world is lush with your vegetation, untamed and breathtaking. You’ve just never seen it before.”

Storm studies Ingrid’s face for signs of deception. Then she looks over at Honeypea, who shrugs. “I didn’t know. If this is true, Pinesong’s barrier was always thinner than we knew. Maybe he did it on purpose.”

“I did,” Pinesong confirms after they call him in, and bring him up to speed. “I made the barrier weak so seeds could and would travel through it. It’s actually structured to facilitate the right wind currents. That’s also why I insisted on including the birds and the bees, so they could propagate certain specimens in their own way. I regret it now, though. The walls would have held had I made them stronger.”

“Those defilers would have broken through eventually,” Ingrid believes. “And we would have been left with nothing. You saved all the beauty. It was the right call.”

“I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Storm says to her husband.

“You were so focused on a structured system. I just didn’t want to contain life like that, and I was afraid you would force me to change it. I’m sorry.”

“We’re time travelers,” Princess Honeypea begins. “Maybe what you did in the past was caused by it being necessary in the future. Maybe it was always going to end like this.”

“Then it’s my responsibility.” Pinesong takes the fruit from Ingrid. “I’ll go back and find the magnolia seed.”

“How many can go?” Ingrid questions.

“Only one,” Storm answers.

“No, this is a big one. It could carry two,” Honeypea determines.

“In that case, whoever goes, I’m going with,” Ingrid decides. “They’ll need protection, and it won’t hurt to have a second set of eyes on the seed. Once we do get it, it doesn’t mean the day is saved. We’ll have to find a place to plant it way out there.”

“Then it has to be Onyx,” Honeypea suggests. “He’ll know exactly where it needs to go. Assuming there is water out there?” she asks her brother specifically.

“Yeah, there’s even another confluence,” Pinesong replies, “though it’s only three rivers, not eleven. I don’t know if that’s where it would belong, though, or what.”

“That’s why it’s gotta be him,” Honeypea reiterates about Onyx.

Storm considers the options. They could go through with this and risk the timeline, as well as their own lives, or they could cut their losses, and leave the magnolia in the past. This won’t be an easy decision, so she decides to not make it right away. She orders everyone to go to bed while she stores the fruit and the branch it was once attached to somewhere safe, and secret.

It’s not secret enough for Ingrid, however. After some time has passed, she finds the hidden trapdoor, climbs down the ladder, and looks around for the specific hiding place. The room is full of all sorts of treasure. That’s literal. Gold, diamonds, and other precious jewels are strewn about like a dragon’s keep.

Before she can locate the safe, or wherever the fruit may be, she hears Onyx’s voice behind her from the shadows. “It’s not what you think.” He slowly steps into the light, holding his arms behind his back. “We’re not hoarders, and we’re not greedy. This stuff is meaningless to us.”

“Where does it come from?” Ingrid asks.

He breathes deeply as he’s hunting for the right words. “It grows here.”

“Come again?”

“I wasn’t here yet when Storm and Pinesong had the idea to build this world in the first place. They were on their own, and trying to do everything. His pocket dimension could only be so big, and she struggled to figure out where to plant the specimens. But apparently, these little trinkets have always come through since Piney’s sister came on board. You see, transplanting a plant is difficult on its own. Combine that with the need to transport it into a pocket dimension that’s inside a parallel dimension, and you’re just asking for something to go wrong. The Princess solved their problems, but this new method that she uses has a side effect. It attracts gold. Not raw gold, though, but forged pieces. She either doesn’t know why, or refuses to explain. That’s why she changed her first name to Princess. She thought it was fitting and funny. We toss it down here when we find a piece on the ground, because what else are we gonna do with it? Every item comes from a now defunct timeline. Putting it back in the real world would just flood the market, and as I said, it is of no use to us.”

“It is of no use to me either,” Ingrid agrees. “I’m here for something else.”

He swings a hand around to his front, revealing that he’s been holding the last surviving fruit of the magical memory magnolia tree. “Storm is out of her element. She’s just lost everything that she dedicated her life to preserving. She’s never gonna be happy with any decision she makes moving forward. Trust me, she wants us to make it for her.”

“What do we do?”

Onyx flashes those pearly whites, and swings his other arm around to toss her the branch that the fruit came with. He cups the fruit in both hands now, and tears it apart down the middle, handing one half to Ingrid. “Pop it in your mouth, and start chewing.”

She lifts up her half in customary celebration. “May all fall into your gravity well, but only your enemies hit the ground.” She stuffs it in and bites down. The flesh is spicy and bitter, and not juicy. She can feel the fibers shoot out as the fruits are crushed between her teeth. They crawl down her windpipe and her gullet alike. The tips puncture the tissue, and spread into every system—nervous, muscular; everywhere. An energy surges from them, and across every surface of her body, inside and out. Her skin glows blue, as does Onyx’s. The light that they’re both emanating sweeps out into the room, and when it fades away, they find themselves on Magnolia Island. They were aiming for the back of the tree, so Killjlir and Andrei wouldn’t spot them, but it doesn’t matter. All of the gold and jewels were spirited away with them. The treasures clatter and clank as they knock each other down the hill, into the water. The question now is, was this all predetermined, or have they just changed the timeline?

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Microstory 2221: Advocating For My Patient

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We had an uncomfortable meeting at the hospital. Some people who will not be named have expressed interest in keeping Nick there for the duration of the rest of his short life. They believe that I will not be able to provide him the care that he deserves to be safe, healthy, and happy. Let’s start at the end with that. Nick is happy where he is, and he’s the only one in the world qualified to determine what will keep him that way. He’s not healthy, and he’s never going to be healthy; he’s dying! I know, they’re worried about secondary infections, but let me tell you, that apartment is clean. He kept it clean before I got there, and I keep it clean now. Both of us understand the importance of sanitation, and avoiding cross-contamination. Hospitals are full of other sick people, many of whom can’t do all that much to keep themselves and their spaces clean. I would argue that the apartment is better than that, because we can keep him contained, and separated from anyone who isn’t up to our standards. There are too many others in a facility. Lastly, safe? What do you mean, safe? I know what they mean. They think that his fans are going to come clamoring to see him—for autographs, selfies, or just to get in the way. But you wouldn’t do that, would you? You respect his safety, his privacy, and his need to keep his distance, right? Anyway, I argued my little heart out, advocating for my patient to the best of my ability, and in the end, we won out. We won, because this is the patient’s decision, and he wants to stay where he feels comfortable. At this point in the progression of this awful disease, that’s pretty much all he can ask for. As I’ve been saying, this is terminal, and the prognosis is short. Even if he succumbs to a new infection, it’s not like he was going to live a long and joyous life without it. Now I have another fight ahead of me, but it may not be up to Nick, or he may not care anyway. As you know, he’s my first patient since graduating from my Lifecare Assistant class, and passing the exam. The hospital, and the agency, are considering replacing me with someone with more experience. I can’t say that I can blame them for believing that I’m not ready for this kind of responsibility, but I one hundred percent am. I want to see this to the end, and I hope that Nick feels the same way. We’ll have to see how that goes.

Microstory 2220: Rule It

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We have more information now. The prion has been identified. It’s called Neurodegenerative Artiodactyl Acquired Prion Disease, and it is only passed to humans through tainted meat. And since there has only been one time when Nick ate meat of any kind in the last couple of decades, he knows exactly how it happened. He knows what restaurant he went to, he knows precisely what he ordered. He has all sorts of information about the incident. Now, I’m sure the restaurant will claim that it couldn’t possibly be from them, but there can be no denying it. Because even if you don’t believe that Nick was once immortal, and from another universe, you have zero evidence that he ate meat at any other place. That doesn’t mean that there’s going to be a lawsuit, I honestly don’t know, because this is just the beginning of this chapter of the story. At this time, I do not believe that he’s considering taking legal action against anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind in the future. As I’m only his lifecare assistant, I have nothing to do with the decision, but I wouldn’t rule it out. He’s preoccupied right now, but once we get back into a routine, he may start to develop some harsh feelings for who did this to him. At the very least, they need to open an investigation into that restaurant, and into whoever provides them their beef, as well as any other possible victims. He’s obviously not the only person who ate that steak. His would-be business partners ordered basically the same thing, so they could be sick too. I know that there was this whole other legal thing about them claiming that he defamed them. He never told you the name of that company in the first place, but because of all this, it may end up finally coming to light. Like I said, we’re still in the early stages. My job has not changed. It’s still my responsibility to make sure that my patient is safe and comfortable. I have found him a new therapist. She’s experienced with treating the terminally ill. Even though we didn’t learn the prognosis until yesterday, it was rather clear to the both of us—and probably most of his hospital staff—that he was not going to get better. It’s just that now it’s been confirmed. So she’s already ready to go, and will be available to meet with him next week. I’m hoping that she will be able to convince him to get back to his website. I think it would be really important for him to express his final thoughts, so people can continue to read it after he’s gone, and maybe learn from his experiences. As I told you yesterday, not a lot of people are even aware that prions exist, but they are a real danger to your health, and should not be dismissed just because they’re rare. They do happen.

Microstory 2219: It is Always Fatal

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I might try to say more tomorrow, but today is not a good time to spend a lot of time curating a good post. We’re reeling from today’s news. We knew that it was bad. I mean, just look at him; it had to be bad. But we didn’t know quite how bad. There are five types of infections. When Nick first arrived in this universe, he contracted a virus, and shortly thereafter, he got a bacterial infection. These might be the two most common. There are some people who just get the cold every year, whether they take a vaccine for it or not. Fungal infections are fairly common too, and they often go untreated, because symptoms are sometimes rather mild, albeit fairly gross. He also managed to suffer from a fungus when he used some unclean showers in Iowa, but before that, a parasite took hold of him when he was exposed to the wrong plant at the nursery where he worked. All of this happened during the first quarter of this year, and he thought that he was out of the woods for a while. Sadly, that has turned out to not be true, though we didn’t know until today that the disease that he has is yet another infection. You see, all four of the types of infections that you’re familiar with can potentially be deadly. None of them is totally safe. But there is a fifth type that you have probably never even heard of, and the worst part about it is that it is always fatal. It’s called a prion, and while some prion diseases can be treated to some degree, they are the least understood class. The good news (or bad, depending on how you look at it), is that everything I’ve been doing with him has been everything that the doctor would have ordered had he diagnosed this before. Managing symptoms is the only possibly helpful course of action. Now that he knows that it’s there, he can study it more, and tweak some of Nick’s medications, but that’s about it. The horrible truth is that he is going to die from this. He may have a few months to live, but the doctor doesn’t see him making it through the New Year. I’ve written more than I planned on. I better end it here, so I can get back to taking care of him. We’ll see how much time I have tomorrow, or if I’m even emotionally up to it.

Microstory 2216: Him to Survive

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Nick is catatonic today, not in the literal sense, but in the faking sort of way. I know that he can hear me, and that he’s processing information just fine. He’s anxious about the results of the latest test, which are said to be coming by the end of the week. The diagnostics doctor doesn’t want to say beforehand what he’s thinking, or what specifically the test is for, but Nick says that he has this feeling that the answer is on its way. He believes that we will know what we’re dealing with on Friday. The anticipation is killing him faster than the disease probably could. So he’s refusing to eat or communicate, or even sleep. He just lies there, staring up at the ceiling. I’m taking care of his bodily imperatives, but there are ways for him to still handle some of that himself, so I will not continue doing it all for him for an extended period of time. It’s okay for now, but he’ll have to get back to work on his own recovery tomorrow. This is a home care program, so if that’s not enough for him to survive, then I’ll have no choice but to check him into a facility full time. I don’t think he wants that. He’s gotta meet me halfway. I think he thought that he would be a pro at this, but his reaction to all this change is perfectly normal. We will get through it. Together.

Microstory 2214: With an Autopsy

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There was a bit of a misunderstanding. Due to Nick’s sleep issues, the EEG test needed to be able to measure his brain activity while he was awake, and also while he was asleep. I asked if we should reschedule it for the nighttime, but Nick was confident that he would be able to fall asleep given the right conditions. To make it happen, they packed his hospital room with a number of medical staff who weren’t too busy with other things. For almost thirty minutes, he was the center of attention. They asked him questions, mostly not about his medical issues. He had to talk about the universe where he’s from, and all the adventures he went on after he left it. It didn’t matter whether they believed him or not, or even if they were listening. Being around crowds of people is exhausting for him, and it’s even worse when they’re paying all their attention to him. By the end of it, he had little trouble sleeping. The doctor rechecked the electrodes, shut off the lights, and left the room. I asked to stay by his side, but he insisted that Nick be alone, which admittedly made sense. I don’t want to say that these results were inconclusive, like all the others, but they were. Best guess at the moment is that he’s suffering from some form of dementia. The MRI would seem to support this possibility, but only as a possibility. That is to say, it doesn’t rule it out. Unfortunately, the best way to know for sure that that’s the case is with an autopsy, which is obviously not in the cards at this stage. I suppose it might one day give his survivors some sense of closure, but it doesn’t help Nick now, and I’m still holding out hope for a turnaround. As for the lumbar puncture, we have only received a few preliminary results so far. His cell count and glucose levels are totally fine. The diagnostician said that his protein levels were suspicious, but he couldn’t elaborate on that. My schooling did not go over any of this kind of stuff, and he’s aware of that, so he didn’t bother elaborating. He did seem pretty cryptic about it, though. He said that he needed to send the data off to a special lab, but that it could take up to a week to get more answers. I’m really worried about it, so I’ve decided to not tell Nick about that just yet. It will only cause him more anxiety, and it might also end up being nothing. That’s it for the tests for now. We have nothing planned for tomorrow, but I’ll probably get him back to his physical therapy to help him stay as independent as possible for as long as possible.

Microstory 2213: Calming Environment

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Negative. Negative or inconclusive, that is. All of the blood test results came back, and none of them told us what Nick might have. We woke up to no answers today, just as we have every morning in recent days. He was scheduled to have an MRI in the early afternoon, so we were still hopeful that that would turn up something, but it didn’t tell us anything either. Well, I’m sure it told the doctor something, but it goes over our heads. All we know is that Nick is sick, and there is no apparent treatment for it. While we were waiting for the ultimately unhelpful MRI analysis results, I took him for a walk in the arboretum. This is precisely why they built the hospital at this location, so patients and loved ones can have a calming environment in some of their darkest times. There are trails in there that are somewhat difficult to walk on, or at least which require two legs, but for the less mobile people, there are also paved paths. We stayed on those, but were still able to enjoy a lot of beauty. I think it was really great for him to be out there. If you go deep enough, you stop being able to see the ninety degree angles of the buildings and roads, and hear the sounds of the cars. He told me that he likes either being inside with the conditioned air, or in nature, but not in between. He doesn’t like the urban world, with all its loud artificial noises, and crowds of people. Due to all the jail time he experienced, and the work he did during and after that, he hasn’t been able to spend much time in places like that. He agrees that it did him good, but there was a downside to it. I pushed him in the wheelchair, which is not the same thing as walking it himself. He regrets not going on one more hike, but of course, he had no idea that things would turn out like this. He may never be able to once again walk on his own, but I’ll take him to places like this every day if he wants. Nature has been scientifically proven to be emotionally and mentally beneficial to all, but especially for someone like him, and for someone in his condition. EEG, and maybe a spinal tap, tomorrow. Yikes!

Microstory 2212: All the More Alarming

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We met with a diagnostician today who normally works out of New Jersey, but he flew down here, because he’s an apparent avid reader of this site, and is fascinated by Nick’s case. Nick laughed when he heard where he was from, but he wouldn’t tell us what that’s all about. He promises that his laugh is not a symptom, and that he had genuine reason to find the news humorous. The diagnostician was inclined to believe that, though he does not believe him about much else. He has to operate under the assumption that Nick’s belief that he’s from another universe is a part of this mysterious disease. If that’s true, then he’s had whatever this is for several months now, which would make his decline all the more sudden, and all the more alarming. He’s scheduled a bunch of lab work and scans to perform over the course of the next few days. Today only involved a comprehensive examination. It included everything you get from your periodic physical exam, plus a whole bunch more. He had him hold his arms out to his side, and try to keep them still, which Nick found difficult. He had trouble walking in a straight line, and reciting simple prompted phrases from memory. Now that I write it all out, I realize that it sounds like a sobriety test. But obviously that’s not the cause as Nick doesn’t drink. The diagnostician had him walk on a treadmill, and ride a stationary bike. They weren’t measuring stress, or anything. This all seemed to be about his motor skills. So far, the doctor can’t come to any conclusion, which frustrated Nick, even though he understands that this was never going to be a quick or easy fix. It’s only the first of several tests. The doctors and techs have to start at the beginning, and move forwards from there. Even if one of them doesn’t diagnose the right disease, it will give us more information than we had before. We need to be patient. After a couple of hours of this, Nick was tired, and ready to go home, so it was good that we were done for the day. I drove him back to his apartment, and made him some dinner. His former personal assistant ate with us, and told us how the work has been going at the jail. They have kept the spirit of his vision alive, and are making real progress on their prison reform ideas. It saddened him to hear it, since he expected to be there working on all that himself, but he’s pleased that the project is still very much alive. I think the dinner gave him a boost of positivity, even if he would never admit it. I don’t know Jasmine very well, so after I tucked him into bed, she and I stayed up to get to know each other a little bit. We have more tests to get to tomorrow, so I turned in too before too long.

Microstory 2209: We’re in the Endgame Now

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Might wanna skip this one if you have depression or anxiety issues, because they may be triggered by my words. The doctors have no clue what’s wrong with me, but the signs and symptoms are clear. Long before I started traveling the bulk, I watched my maternal grandfather slowly die of Parkinson’s disease. I don’t actually know if that’s what killed him, but it certainly contributed to it. I’m exhibiting a lot of the same problems that I remember him having. Stiffness, numbing, tremors. You don’t use the same term for it here, but after some conversation, the doctors were able to assure me that their idea of this same disease could be ruled out. It’s something else. That’s neither good nor bad, because it can’t be cured on either world. Neither can whatever it actually is...probably. Based on my rate of decline, and their lack of understanding, they don’t see any reason why I would improve. It’s likely going to keep getting worse until I become nothing more than a shell of my former self. Death is almost certain to follow. It will be slow, painful, and extremely frustrating. So far, the mental component hasn’t been too bad, but it has still been an issue. I’ve forgotten things, and I’ve been snapping at people, even before I went into the hospital. I’ve asked them to keep me alive at just about all costs, but at some point—probably rather soon—you won’t be hearing from me anymore. I won’t be able to think, let alone type or talk. We’re in the endgame now.

Microstory 2207: Fork Myself

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I’ve been having both good and bad days, and the doctors believe that this is going to continue until they can figure out what’s wrong with me. They’re stumped, and they don’t want to keep me in the hospital because I’m taking a bed from someone who needs it. They didn’t actually say that out loud, but I can read between the lines. Fret not, I’m okay with it. I don’t want to be here anymore either. Most of what’s happening to me involves nurses with less education helping me. They’ve been helping me eat, and bathe, and use the toilet. I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m struggling with doing these things on my own these days. My mind is still all right, but my hands have been shaking, so I can’t be trusted to hold a knife and fork myself. To free up this room, the hospital has suggested a home care option. This person will be able to take samples from me periodically, and send them off to the lab, but they’ll do it from the comfort of my home. Some of them come to work every day, and some live with their patients. The position is called a Lifecare Assistant, and I believe that it is rather similar to a CNA back on my homeworld. Well, I think that it may be a mix of CNA and phlebotomist, because they will also be able to draw blood and administer IV when necessary. I’m currently looking over my options, but I’ve not lost my job yet, so paying for it shouldn’t be a problem. It shouldn’t last long, as I’m sure they’ll determine what’s wrong with me eventually.

Microstory 2206: Securing a Private

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Stress, vitamin deficiencies, sleep disorder, depression, anxiety, or maybe even dementia. These are the possible explanations for my most recent health problems. It could also be cancer, because it could always be cancer. The doctor ordered blood tests, and the results have not come in yet, but the preliminaries have. The biggest evidence of an infection is a raised white blood cell count. Due to my history of infections, that is the first thing that they looked for, and they’re not seeing any issues in that regard. I was half-hoping that that would be the thing, because then we would know, and it could be treated. I’m actually feeling okay now, but since the mystery remains, I know that this issue is just going to keep dragging on. They asked me to check into the hospital, so they can keep observing me, even though my symptoms have abated. There is no telling how long I’m going to have to stay here, so I guess I’m glad to have this great job. I imagine my hospital bill will be pretty high in the end. I tell you this in all honesty to remind you to please not try to raise funds for me again. Really, if you do, this time I’ll just let it sit in whatever bank account it ends up in. The only value in money is how it’s spent. Until that happens, no matter how high the number is in that account, its value rests at a perfect zero. So don’t waste it on me, I’ll be fine. Now that I have the sense that I might be in here for the long-haul, I’m working on securing a private room, which will allow me to continue working remotely. The medical staff has asked me not to do that since stress is the number one suspect. Yeah, no. I’ve been stressed out my entire life, and yes, it has caused a lot of problems for my health, but that’s never meant that I’ve ever been able to stop. Back then, I had to keep working to survive. Now, I have to keep working, because it’s too important. I tell them, if they don’t want me to work in the hospital, then discharge me, and let me go to work. They try to point out the flaw in my logic, but I still don’t see it. People are counting on me, and there is too much to do. I can’t just let go.

Microstory 2205: I Really Need It

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I don’t have much to say. I mean, I do, but it’s hard for me to say it. I got to work okay, but then I started stiffening up while I was just sitting in my chair, and my whole body hurt. Not all at once, but it was rather persistent. I think maybe we underestimated how much my body was damaged from my stair tumble the other day. I had no choice but to go home, and stop working. I literally almost can’t move around. I’m dictating everything here for you, but it is not easy. I probably shouldn’t even be trying to write this post, but now that I’ve begun, I can’t just give up. My voice is starting to feel a little difficult. It’s growing more difficult to speak, that is. I’m sure that it will all be back to normal by morning. I just need to get some extra rest. Jasmine et al. think that I should go to the doctor, but we’re not there yet. Really, let’s just see what things are like tomorrow. I promise, I’ll seek medical attention if I really need it. It’s not another infection. It doesn’t fit with any of the typical signs or symptoms. Okay, the autocorrect is working really hard to fix my slurred speech so I better go.

Microstory 2131: Little Cell

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My fungal infection is evidently extremely contagious, so I’m in prison now, in a special wing of the facility for this very thing. Most of the other guys are in here to protect the other prisoners, though to varying degrees. I think a couple of them just need to be protected from others, for at least a period of time. The FBI is very serious about what’s happened to me. They know that this is the fourth time in as many months that I’ve been sick, so they’re not messin’ around. They sent investigators to every place I’ve been to, in Kansas City, Iowa, and even down in Alabama. I didn’t think that they would find anything, because it should be the proverbial needle in a haystack, but they actually confirmed the source of my infection. When I first escaped to Iowa, the ID makers (who, you’ll recall, kidnapped their daughter when she was little) set me up in an abandoned warehouse. They found traces of mold in the showers that I used to clean myself while I was staying there. So it was in me for a month before I started showing symptoms. Because of this, everyone I’ve come in contact with since then, including law enforcement agents, court staff, and even the teenage girl, who is now in witness protection, has to be tested. That’s going to take some time, which is going to stress me out quite a bit. I’ll just be devastated if it turns out that I infected someone else. Even the ID makers would be bad news. I just don’t like hurting people, and anyway, my lawyer says that they would be able to use it to their advantage in their own criminal case. All I can do is wait, and hope that I was careful enough so as to not infect anyone else. It’s not guaranteed that I did. I’ve never been a fan of being around other people, so I instinctively keep my distance, even when there’s no reason to suspect that anyone is sick. Hopefully it was enough.

For the time being, I’m just in my little cell. There are no windows, because that would expose the outside world to me, and vice versa. The bed is less comfortable than the ones in jail. The food isn’t as good. The correctional officers aren’t as nice. They know that my situation is different than everyone else in here, but they don’t really care. They’ve been trained to not treat people great, so that’s what they’re used to. As far as I’ve seen, they’re not abusive, but I would honestly be less surprised if I learned that they actually were. I don’t interact with them very much, as you would expect. I don’t get yard time, and I take all my meals inside the cell. If I want to work out, my only choice is a pull-up bar. Of course, I’m supposed to be resting and recovering right now, but I wouldn’t use it anyway, because I hate pull-ups. A nurse comes to check my vitals every two hours, and a doctor visits twice a day. The nurses take my blood occasionally too, to keep testing it. They think that I’m going to have to stay in here for the rest of the week. Even if I stop exhibiting symptoms, I could still be contagious. Fortunately, the judge agreed to give me a computer with internet access. This will allow me to start my job today, which is really important, because I don’t want to be fired on my first day. A big thanks to my parole officer, Leonard who fought for me. Obviously, since you’re reading this on a Monday, you know that I’ll be able to continue to post to my website too. There’s nothing stopping me from going to whatever site I want, but I want to commit right now to only using this for work and writing. Okay? You can verify that by monitoring my activity, I assume, prison officials. No funny business, I promise.

Microstory 2130: Not Lookin’ Good For Me

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Things are not good. At first, I thought I just overdid it with all the walking and shopping yesterday, and that surely exacerbated the issue, but that is not what’s making me sick. It couldn’t be. Exercise might make you nauseated, and certainly tired and sore, but my symptoms are a lot worse than that. I was restless all night last night. I’m not sure if I got any sleep, but I was pretty out of it the whole time. Things started to come back to me as more time passed after waking up, reminding me that I never truly got any sleep, though I wasn’t ever fully conscious either. I was sweating throughout, and coughing regularly. There’s a rash kind of all over my body that I think I’ve probably had for a few days now, but didn’t give much thought to before. I was really hot and chilly at the same time this morning, so I was guessing that I had a fever, but at no point during my shopping did I think to buy myself a thermometer. I first took a shower to clear myself up, but that did no good, so I filled up the tub, and let the steam wrap me up. Then I had to shower again, because that’s what you gotta do. It was a relief while I was in the water, but it didn’t last one second on the bathmat. I knew that I had to do something to actively fix this, so I called my parole officer, who basically ordered me to go to the pharmacy down the street. They have a clinic there for quick visits, which are only meant to give you an idea of what’s wrong. They don’t provide treatment, but they can give you recommendations. They’re quite certain that I have an infection, though they can’t tell me whether it’s bacterial, viral, or parasitic again. They sent my blood to a lab, but that could take time to process, as you can imagine. I don’t have any insurance yet, so I can’t go to a regular doctor, but fortunately, I’m a felon! That means the state has to provide me with minimal medical care. I’m going to the jail an hour and a half early to speak with the medical staff there. We still need to figure out what this means, because regardless of my specific diagnosis, it’s not lookin’ good for me. I’m likely contagious, and can’t be allowed to roam around the general population. The solitary cells aren’t equipped to handle me either. Even if all I need is water and rest, it’s a legal issue to just throw me in a hole, and let me fend for myself. The prison that’s about an hour away has a special medical ward, but I’m really hoping that they don’t make me go there. I know that I won’t really be in prison, but it’s close enough that I don’t want to do it. My parole officer is looking into house arrest options, or just a postponement of my sentence, but they’ve already accommodated me for a lot, so I don’t like my chances.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 22, 2443

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With their advanced substrates, the team was capable of surviving any number of harsh environments, but that wasn’t something that they were going to seek out on purpose. It was really only something they should use when they had no other choice, and this wasn’t such a case; it was a test. The reframe engine was ready, but there was still a chance that it would vaporize the whole ship upon initiation of reframe speeds. So they didn’t want to be anywhere near it when they first turned it on. Ramses created an interfacing computer, which would allow him to operate the Vellani Ambassador from Ex-382, where it was safer. It wasn’t safe, per se, because the world itself was dangerous in its own special way, but it was manageable for a period of time since they were staying within the self-contained atmosphere of their pocket dimension, and because they had vacuum suits for excursions.

The entire surface of Ex-382 was a toxic wasteland. No one lived here, and hopefully they never did. They at least didn’t detect any signs of civilization here, except for the piles and piles of garbage. It was all over the place, randomly strewn about. The smell was unbearable, even here at the South Pole, where there wasn’t as much as there was elsewhere. This wasn’t just a planet-wide landfill. They dumped truly dangerous materials here, namely radioactive waste. By the time the ship Extremus was built, fusion power was ubiquitous and unremarkable, which meant that Bronach Oaksent would have been able to utilize it as soon as he went back in time, and began to build his empire in the Goldilocks Corridor. There should be no real reason for him to make any plans that included nuclear fission power plants. It was a perfectly fine alternative for Earth during its developmental years, but when one was starting from scratch, it just didn’t make much sense.

One of the hardest obstacles to overcome when pursuing fusion and antimatter solutions to energy needs was manufacturing the stuff. It didn’t exactly grow on trees. That was why it took so long for these both to be adopted, even when power generation techniques were perfected. Mining fissile elements was not easy, but it was relatively straightforward. Hydrogen was the lightest element in the universe, which was why it literally floated away, making it difficult to capture, and even to store. Still, Oaksent was an immortal who came from the future, and had untold time to formulate his new civilization. Using resources to maintain the infrastructure for nuclear fission production was probably only done as yet another form of control over his people. He didn’t have to use it, but making people labor away in the mines, in the plants, and on the ships that brought all the waste here, was keeping everyone reliant on him, and not letting them be too happy. He didn’t like happy people. That much was clear from whatever psychological profile they could cook up in their collective headcanons. He wasn’t dumping the waste on the planets where people lived at least. That should also be in his profile, that he didn’t want his people to die; not prematurely anyway.

“Ugh, I can still smell it,” Marie noted.

“Switch off your olfactory receptors,” Ramses instructed. He was tweaking the interface system, making sure that he was linked to every single system on board the Ambassador, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential.

“That...what? That’s something we can do?” she questioned.

“Did no one read the manual?” Ramses asked with a sigh.

“Be careful,” Leona warned Marie, and the rest of the team currently present. Smell is highly linked to breathing, and also serves the evolutionary purpose of alerting you to smells that could lead to death. Don’t keep it off all the time. You may still get sick, and just not know it.”

“So...” Marie pressed.

“You can shut it off right now because of the smell,” Leona allowed. “I would lock up our suits, but we have to keep them close and accessible in case of emergency. Just remember to turn it back on once we live. I’ll remember to clean and disinfect the suits thoroughly later.”

“I’ll do that,” Mateo volunteered. “You have more important concerns to worry over, Captain.”

“Did you guys know that Earth is 70% water? I’ve never seen that much water in my life.” Korali was still reading about Earth from the central archives, and had come to the conclusion that all of these simple facts were not likely to be lies that the team made up in order to brainwash her, but that it was the other way around. They were trying to show her what the galaxy was really like, and even though she had by no means switched sides already, she was starting to accept that some of the things that she was brought up to believe were not entirely—or maybe not at all—accurate.

“Hmm. You’re right,” Mateo realized. “The worlds that we’ve gone to have been mostly barren, with fairly little water. The resort world had the most, but they were nowhere near the levels of Earth from the orbital images that I’m remembering.”

“More control,” Leona guessed. She was spraying an air purifier on their suits to mask some of the terrible smell until they could be fully detailed.

“I’m ready,” Ramses announced. “What about the backup?” Leona asked him.

“It’s been coded, and will only take a year to manufacture,” he answered.”

“The pod is fueled?”

Ramses laughed. “It’s fine. It’ll get us into space. I wouldn’t let us go into this half-prepared.” The dimensional generator was attached to one of the personal pods. These were capable of traveling through a star system in a matter of months, and landing on an orbital, maybe to refuel hydrogen levels, or to manufacture other structures, or just to wait for rescue. They weren’t really designed to launch from the surface of a massive terrestrial planet, but they were technically capable of it. It would use nearly its entire reserve of isotopes to make it happen, but it was better than staying here if the Vellani Ambassador was destroyed during the test. Ramses planned to install teleporters on them, but that would also require temporal batteries or something, because they didn’t use any less fusion power than the rocket equation demanded for a regular launch, so it wasn’t like that solved the problem. Hopefully, the test of the reframe engine would go perfectly, and none of this would matter.

“I appreciate all of your hard work,” Leona told him. “It does not go unnoticed. Go ahead and start the countdown.”

Ramses switched on all of the camera feeds, including the satellite that they had dropped out to watch the event from the outside. He started counting down from eleven, hovering his hand over the button. Everyone held their breath, including Korali, who managed to peel herself away from her studies long enough to bear witness. “Three, two, one, max.”

The ship disappeared in a flash of light. They all looked at the other views now, which were coming in from the interior. The bridge looked perfectly normal, and was completely intact. The corridors and rooms were all still fine. The camera from the engine room was a problem at first, which prevented everyone from exhaling. It was showing them snow for the first several seconds until the spatio-temporal distortion resettled, and the image returned to normal. The engine was holding as it was meant to. It was vibrating at an incredibly high frequency; so high, in fact, that it was imperceptible to human vision, even with these advanced eyes that they had. If the ship was going to vaporize, it should have done it by now due to the immense stress that these intense oscillations were causing the machine to experience. Still, they wanted to be sure that the nanosealant was permanent, and not merely holding temporarily.

For the next three hours, the Ambassador flew away from them, managing to make it out about 15,000 astronomical units. The engine then shut off for an hour while an army of microbots spread all over the engine to check for nanofractures. Leona knew exactly where the original ruptures were. If the bots found these to have returned, the smart ones here would know that the sealant hadn’t fully worked. If they found new ruptures, that would tell them that there was some kind of systemic issue that might not be repairable by what they had, or by any efforts at all. By this time, most of the group had begun to breathe again. Mateo and Marie occupied their time teaching Korali how to play RPS 101 Plus. Ramses worked on other projects while he kept an eye on the quantum data coming through from the diagnostics. Leona proverbially held her breath the whole time as she focused on nothing but the data. It was her only concern. If this wasn’t successful, they could build a new ship, but their plan to free the people of the Corridor from its despot would have to be placed on hold indefinitely until they regathered resources.

“How’s it lookin’?” Marie asked after their game was over, and Mateo’s sponge was finally too bigged by her wall.

“I think we’ll be safe. We’ll know in another four hours,” Leona answered. The ship would make the three-hour trip back here, and then go through the whole diagnostic process all over again. Only then could they leave for their next stop.

“Good,” Mateo decided, still bitter about losing the game. “I’m ready to go.”

“Did y’all know that something called a cow has four stomachs?” Korali asked.

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The Advancement of Mateo Matic: Year 102,398

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Bhulan steps out of her stasis pod, and then out of the joint stasis chamber. She stands in the hallway for a moment, rubbing her eyes. She was actually sleeping in there, instead of only standing and waiting for the time to pass. She yawns, and smacks her lips together in a cartoonish way. “Constance, have Danica and Mateo returned yet?”

“Not yet, sir. I would have alerted you if they had.”

“You would not have if she had told you not to.”

“If she had told me not to, I would probably be lying right now.”

“Are you lying?”

Constance pauses for effect. “No.”

“Where are Tamerlane and Asier?”

“Asier is still in stasis. Tamerlane is in his simulation room.”

Bhulan rolls her eyes, and heads that way. She finds him busy at his desk, scribbling notes on paper, instead of typing them out with a keyboard, or dictating them directly. The floor is covered in crumpled up paper from his now defunct ideas, and other mistakes. He’s not looking well. “How are we feeling today?”

He darts his head up, apparently having just realized that she’s in the room. “Bhu, I think I have it figured out. Instead of having all the different levels in the same world, we put them on completely separate worlds. You can’t want what you don’t know exists. I’m still working out the levels, but this system allows a lot more of them than the old one. If you’re allowed to build new worlds, then you do that on a separate server from the people who are stuck in prison. And they’re separate from just the regular folks. Right? I mean this makes sense, right? It makes sense to me. Heaven.”

“So, in your version of the afterlife simulation, no one can ever improve their afterlives. Whatever they did in their real lives decides their eternity, and that never changes.”

He starts nodding at her with an earnest forced smile. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, umm...shit. You’re right, this doesn’t work.” He stares at the corner of the room while he grabs some of the paper, crumples it up, and tosses it away. He then looks back down at his desk. “Wait, I threw away the wrong thing.”

“Tam.” She can see where this is going.

“Where did that end up on the floor? Do you see it? I think it was yellow.” He gets on his knees, and shuffles around in search of it.

“Tam, get up.”

“No, I have to find it. I was calculating the power requirements earlier. See, I think my real problem was relying too much on the Matrioshka Body as hosts. I need to be in control of the hardware, as well as the software, or I won’t be able to protect the residents.”

Bhulan crouches down, and tries to comfort him with her hands on his shoulders. “Tam, that wasn’t you. It was an alternate version of you.”

He stares into her eyes like she just kicked his puppy. “I know that, you think I don’t know that? You know what I mean. I’m trying to do better than he did. If I can figure this out, I can rewrite the entire program, and dismantle his version of the simulation entirely. You know how much heartbreak I can prevent?”

“Tam, he didn’t...he didn’t come up with it. He took ideas from others. And those people aren’t here either. This is not your problem to solve.” This isn’t the first time he’s become singularly focused on trying to fix the supposed mistakes of his counterpart in the main sequence who created an entire computer simulation that houses the uploaded consciousness of everyone who died across a span of tens of thousands of years. She has to be patient with him when he’s in this state. He spends the most amount of time out of stasis—to no one’s fault but his own—and he spends a lot of that in here, dealing with his issues. None of them is qualified to bring him back to reality. Still, they have to try every time, because they don’t think his fixation is healthy.

“People know what he did. They know who he is, and I look exactly like him. How do I stop looking like him?” He blinks slowly, and falls back to sit against the wall. “I had the dream again.” Time moves differently in dreams, and this is true of everyone, but the phenomenon is especially potent in people who are in stasis while they’re doing it. They can experience many lifetimes—or even longer—in great detail in a short amount of pod time if their brain becomes acutely aware of the passage of realtime. Some are more susceptible to this bug than others, Tamerlane Pryce being one of them. It starts to become a real problem after the first few thousand years in stasis, which is why most people wouldn’t even know what you’re talking about if you bring it up. This is one reason why the four of them always come out every once in a while, to stretch their legs, and to reset their internal clocks. Again, he has to do it more often to avoid suffering from psychotic breaks, but sometimes, not even that is enough.

“Come on,” she says, helping him back to his feet. “I know you’re afraid to go back to sleep, but once you surrender, you always feel better. You’re not in stasis right now, and I promise you that no one is going to force you back into it. Why don’t you just stay out here for a year or two? Someone will be with you at all times, starting with me.”

“Are Dani and Matt not back yet?”

“No, but if you agree to go to sleep, I’ll run diagnostics on the machine again.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Bhulan helps him back to his room, and even into his bed, as if a mother mothering her child. He conks out pretty quickly, so she leaves. She’s about to just go watch some Future!TV when she decides to not make herself a liar. She goes up to the time machine room, which they’re not even supposed to enter, but Mateo did, and Danica went after him. They disappeared 40,000 years ago, and never returned. They plan to be here for billions of years, so there’s technically no rush, but it’s still worrisome. According to the literature, the machine is designed for recon, and should always bring the travelers back to the moment of departure, even if they’re dead, and even if the machine itself is broken, which it isn’t anymore. She stands there in the doorway for a few minutes after a good diagnostics check, knowing that there’s not much else she can do to help the situation. She turns around, like she always does, giving up on this being the day they come back. Suddenly, the machine powers up.

A naked body appears in the center of the chamber, its back to Bhulan. It doesn’t move for a minute, and she’s honestly kind of afraid to approach. She’s lived with Danica for thousands of years, so she knows it’s not her, but it could be anyone else with a feminine figure. She’s breathing, though, so that’s good. Finally, she turns over so Bhulan can see her face. “Who the hell are you?” Bhulan questions.

“Abigail. Abigail Genifer Siskin Pryce.”