Microstory 2790: Spoiler Alert: It’s a Parachute

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They’re moving everything out of the backyard. It’s the only space big enough for what they need to do. Lawn chairs, the table, the cornhole game things; it all has to go. Jande asks Ersence if she can go around stripping everyone’s bed. Some might not be so happy with that, and she doesn’t care what people think, so she can still get it done. Jande carries the sewing machine downstairs himself and sets it on the patio. The point where it gets the best faux sunlight is too far from the wall outlet, so he has to go around looking for an extension cord too. He sets everything up, Ersence gets all the bedding in a pile, and they should be ready to go. He doesn’t know how long it will take, though.

“Why are you asking me?” Dare questions. Everyone’s looking at him.

“You’re the sewing expert,” Jande tells him.

Dare winces. “What the hell gave you that idea?”

“The sewing kit was under your bed,” Jande points out. “Aren’t you a sewer?”

Dare rolls his eyes. “I took the kit because I wanted to learn how to sew. I didn’t even get a chance to try because we got wrapped up in getting rid of the smart dust.”

“Well, shit,” Jande laments. “This whole plan is contingent upon someone being able to sew all these sheets together.” He lifts his head. “So who here can do it? Come on, don’t be shy. Even if you’ve only done it once, at least that’s somewhere to start.”

Ximena raises her hand. “Um...no, not me, but, uh, Mayor can.”

“Mayor,” Jande echoes. “The guy currently playing footsie with Death. He’s the only one with any experience sewing? How did that happen? Was this all planned?”

“Haoran, how is he doing?” Ersence pushes. “Can he move? We could set him up in a chair so he only has to move his arms and hands. There’s a pedal. If he needs someone to hold a pedal down, well, I can certainly volunteer for that.”

Haoran stares at her blankly. “There is a torn shirt in his stomach that reads Y2K Princess. No, Ersence. He can’t move. Best I can do is carefully drag him to the patio.”

“That might be enough,” Jande decides. “He can instruct one of us how to do it.”

Haoran shakes his head, very annoyed. “If he needs to sleep, he needs to sleep.”

“We’re doing this for him,” Tamerlane reminds him. “If he wants to live, he’ll stay awake long enough to teach the sewer. I saw an epinephrine injector in the med kit—”

“You are not giving my patient epinephrine, you fucking psycho. He’ll bleed out in minutes.” Haoran makes himself calm down a little. “Though...I could theoretically...crack it open to control the dosage myself, and get some lucidity out of him. But only for a crash course. We’re talking about a sewing machine here, not a quantum terminal. Once he’s done teaching, he goes back on the sedative to recover.”

“Don’t use too many sedatives,” Kool warns. “We probably won’t get more.”

“And who else needs them?” Haoran questions. “They’re not recreational.”

“I’m not talking about myself,” Kool reacts. “I’m just saying...”

“I’m just saying,” Jande interrupts, “that we need to decide who is the best person for the job. It should be someone with nimble fingers who picks up new skills quickly.” He scans the crowd again. “Really? Still no takers. Do you all want Mayor to die?”

Still no response. No one is guilted into volunteering. They probably don’t want something to go wrong and be blamed for someone’s death. Death is so rare these days.

Jande sighs. “Fine. As a farmer, I guess I have decent hand-eye coordination. But we all have to contribute. Nap time’s over, people. Someone other than me or Mr. Gao, go get our patient, and carefully carry him out here so he can see the machine. There’s a lot of fabric here. I’m going to need help wrangling it. I’ll sit at this little chair, and control the section I’m working on as needed, but it will be a group effort.”

Jande sits down while everyone else is getting ready. He wants to study the sewing machine before he tries anything to maximize the time he has with his injured teacher. It looks relatively simple, but the real danger could be messing up after Mayor falls back asleep, and not knowing how to fix it.

Once Jande actually begins, he soon finds that it’s not as simple as moving the fabric and thread in the right way, and pushing the right buttons. It’s tiring. After twenty minutes, his body has kind of already had enough. He doesn’t keel over and pass out, but he starts making little mistakes which could cost whoever uses this thing their life. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but they only have so much thread, so they have to make sure it holds. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one paying attention.

A few others tag in so they can cycle the responsibility. It’s like a firing squad. If it tears somewhere, they won’t know whose fault it was. In fact, realizing this, Tamerlane suggests that everyone gets a turn on the machine, so they don’t end up being able to zero in on one person. Of course, they hope it holds together anyway, which is why everyone’s work gets checked and stress-tested, but it has to be fair.

Now comes the time when they have to decide who the hell is gonna use this thing. Van declared that whoever showed up would get the antibiotics that Mayor needed, but also that there would be a second prize. Of course, to maintain that tension the producers love so much, he didn’t say what the prize would be. It could be as simple as a slice of pizza, or the chance to name an opponent to be kicked out of the race entirely. That was Zanele’s random idea, and she shouldn’t have said it, because now the producers can use it, assuming they didn’t think of it before.

Jande has been the de facto leader throughout a lot of this, but not all of it. He literally has the loudest voice, except for Mayor. That’s really the only reason. Right?

“Wait, why would I be in charge of deciding?” Haoran asks.

“You don’t have to decide,” Jande says, “but you have to at least decide how we decide. You’re the doctor. You’re the only one who can’t go. The rest of us are fair game.”

“It sounds like you still wanna lead, like you did the sewing challenge,” Haoran reasons. “Candidates vote for themselves every election. So get on up here, big guy.”

“Hold on.” Pryce shakes his head with a chuckle. “We don’t need a moderated debate. We can just vote. All in favor of Jande being the one to go, raise your hands.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. How did I suddenly become the only one in contention? That’s not fair. Who votes for Pryce instead?”

No one raises their hand, not even his literal wife. So Jande has to trust the parachute that he was primarily responsible for putting together. Which actually is somewhat fair. It’s not as bad as he thought. The ride down is cold as hell, but mostly boring. The annoying part is as soon as he lands, the house does too, having been lowered safely on the hydraulics. It was timed perfectly to make him look like a chump.

Van walks over with his microphone. “Welcome to the next challenge! We lied. Before you get the antibiotics, you have to compete in our Sudden Death round. Whoever kills Jande Ter Avest before the timer runs out becomes the Superintendent. If Jande survives the day, we keep going. Okay, three, two, one,” he rattles off, “go!”

Microstory 2546: Midwife

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I am a Certified Nurse-Midwife, and the only one that this Foundation has ever seen. I have delivered every single child born of Landis, and many of the children of staff members who happened to get pregnant while they were employed, and chose our team instead of another facility. Landis makes an attempt to procreate with one of the legacy consorts once per night, which means that, on average, I deliver one baby a night. But of course, the timing doesn’t work out perfectly. Everybody is different, and every body is different. It has been known to happen that I’ve delivered two babies in one day. My busiest day was on October 7, 2023 when a perfect storm of storks arrived all at once. I’m mixing metaphors here, but I delivered six babies within a period of 24 hours. It was crazy, but an amazing experience. I’m obviously not entirely alone here. There is an obstetrician, and a host of other nurses and doctors. We’re a pretty streamlined outfit, but every mother here is very well-taken care of. Or I should say family. We take care of families here; that’s our mission. I don’t know much about the healing side of things. I’m pretty busy in the Legacy Department. I do know Landis, though. He doesn’t have the time or bandwidth to raise all of the children, and in order for it to be fair, the decision has been made that he doesn’t raise any of them. Researchers fought against this. They actually wanted there to be an imbalance, so they could measure any differences in development. But the psychological well-being of these kids is more important than their research. There are 815 of them right now, and they deserve stability and predictability, as any child would. They are each raised by a single parent, which that parent is fully aware of when she signs up for the program. She’s then reminded time and time again throughout the program that she will be on her own, except for the care that we provide as third party participants. Landis meets every one of his babies once. He holds them for 15 to 30 minutes, and then they move on with their lives. It might sound cold, but it would be impossible for him to be there for them all, and worse for him to give preferential treatment to a handful of them, or some arbitrary number. I can’t speak to his mental state, but outwardly, he has accepted this dynamic. I don’t think it’s easy, but I had nothing to do with the plan for the Legacy program. I just deliver the babies. Some of my colleagues have told me that it’s unethical, and honestly, they may be right; you’re having babies as an experiment. But I do stress to them that the children will be protected for their whole lives, and they don’t undergo tests. They don’t have their blood drawn, or receive shots, or anything that goes beyond the normal, conventional means of physical health. We had to fight the researchers on that too, but the kids aren’t lab rats. They’re people, and if they develop abilities later in life, they will come to that realization on their own, not because some lab tech sequenced their genome. I won’t have it, and I’m backed by the support of everyone at the Foundation, including Landis, as well as the mothers. Like I said, I don’t know if we should be doing this, but since we are, at least I know that we’re doing it the right way.

Microstory 2525: Rich Patient

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I am no stranger to charity. I have always been on this side of it. I was born into a wealthy family of business moguls. I can’t tell you exactly what our family does, because we have our hands in a lot of different cookie jars. My ancestors liked to invest in ideas, and they were very good at telling the difference between the great ones and the stinkers. Most people in my family have kept the tradition alive, and invest in whatever they think will be the most profitable. They are not saints, but I wouldn’t call them evil either. We didn’t make our money on great instincts alone. Research is the name of the game, and we pride ourselves in supporting ethical and sustainable companies over get-rich-quick schemes that some of our contemporaries are involved in. You’ll notice, I sometimes separate myself from my family, and sometimes lump myself in with them. The truth is that I’ve never been that interested in this kind of work. It’s oh so boring. I like that we do research, but I don’t like to do it myself, so to maintain the integrity of our practices, I have simply chosen to opt out. I’m lucky to have parents who allowed me to do this, and did not insist on me following in their footsteps. They actually had a lot of children for this reason. It might sound so calculated, but really, they were just practical. Instead of having one kid, and hoping they turned out exactly how they dreamed, they played the odds. They knew that the chances of one of us being like them went up the more they had. It ended up only being four, so don’t think they went crazy, or anything, and lucky them, three of them are all in. It’s really only I who chose a different path. I’m not entirely removed. I’m entitled to a trust fund, just as my siblings are, which I use to support my philanthropic endeavors. And you know what? My siblings do the same, but in their own way. They don’t wanna have to judge people, and determine what kind of charity they deserve, or how much, so they just give me the money, and I donate accordingly on their behalf. It’s a truly symbiotic relationship. I’m still quite a bit different than them. I open my own car doors, which my chauffeur keeps forgetting, and I raised my own kids with no help beyond my husband, and a few babysitters here and there. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with a condition called Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. That first word means that they don’t know what caused it. So it’s no one’s fault. I have had it all this time while the Foundation was running, but I hesitated to apply for a healing. I’ve never called myself old, but I’m no spring chicken either. I honestly could have died at any time while I pursued typical treatment. I just didn’t want to butt in. So many other people needed help, and I didn’t want to take anyone’s slot. I admire Landis for developing a fair system that didn’t prioritize people like me, but it still felt so icky. Then something changed. I had grandchildren. Two twin girls. I decided that I wasn’t just fighting for my life, but for the time I could spend with them. So I applied, and got my healing. I don’t know how long I would have survived without it, but...not long. I was likely weeks away from expiring. Did you know, because of all of my charitable donations, they wanted to classify me as a no-pay? I wouldn’t have it. It goes against my entire being. I insisted they recategorize me for pay-up, so I could contribute my fair share. I didn’t give them all my money, since I need to leave some for my family when I finally do die, but I think I helped keep the lights on for a few more days. It’s the least I could do.

Microstory 2520: Guide

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Once you walk into the building, and get checked in with one of the greeters, you can ask me for help. There are a ton of us, patrolling and stationed strategically around the floor, ready to provide assistance. There’s at least one in every waiting room, one in the auditorium, several in the mainline. Outside, inside, topside. If you’re thirsty, we’ll get you water. If you don’t know where the nearest restroom is, we’ll escort you there. If you were in line when you had to step out, we’ll have a queuer keep track of where you were, and put you back in it at the right place. We can also answer questions about the history of the Foundation, and behind-the-scenes information. We know where you need to be, and where you’re going, and who you will be dealing with. Guides are friendly, knowledgeable, and always ready to take action. We get a ton of steps, so there’s one advantage. Since our job requires moving around so much more than others, we enjoy a very special exception. We’re entitled to injury healings. Hold for gasps. For the most part, Landis does not handle cuts and broken bones. They may hurt, and they may even be life-threatening, but because of the acute time constraint involved in the most severe cases, the responsibility falls squarely on traditional medicine. It will get your application immediately rejected, even before you upload your medical and financial records. Some applicants have actually gotten real upset about that, because they also had a chronic illness, and figured they should include the normal injury along with it to be the most accurate. Don’t do it. Anyway, that’s not really the point. I’ve kind of made it sound like guides and queuers are getting injured left and right, but really, it’s more like a benefit in our insurance package. It’s there if we need it, and while it has happened before, we rarely need it. Mostly, the only people who ever had to use it were either exhausted or dehydrated. I recall one guy who twisted his ankle, and another was straight up punched in the face by a patient companion who was trying to defend her mother against another patient. But those were extreme circumstances. If necessary, we are allowed to cut in line to get it completed, but that’s only when we can’t continue our shift without it. Since it almost never happens, it might seem like a small thing, but I think it speaks to the culture of our organization. The leaders understand that there are exceptions to every rule. It’s important to maintain order and fairness, but that doesn’t mean being overly strict and inflexible. It’s also just kind of cool being a little bit more special on a staff of a very special Foundation.

Microstory 2519: Greeter

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People hear my job title, and think that all I do is smile and wave at the patients as they come in. Whoa-ho-ho, that ain’t it. You come to me, you give me your name and ID, and I check you in. I make sure that you’ve come within your appointment window, and aren’t trying to jump the line, or that you’re late. I then send you to a waiting room based on availability. Once one room gets full, I’ll move onto the next one. So don’t go thinking that there’s anything connecting you with the other patients in your room. People have come back out and complained, because they get to talking with one another, and decide that some patients are less needy than others. That’s not what’s happening here. You’re grouped based on time, as was the appointment window in the first place. We encourage you to make friends while you’re waiting, and bond over your shared experience, but don’t imagine that the group you end up with says anything about what we think of you. I don’t know why I have to say all this, but I do. I would certainly never call mine the hardest job at the Foundation, but it’s not as easy as people think, so I always want to clarify that a nice smile is not all you need to do it. You will get belligerent people here, who feel entitled to certain accommodations, and as the first person they encounter, you will receive a lot of that hostility. It doesn’t happen every time. Ninety-nine out of a hundred patients are perfectly lovely. But it does happen sometimes, and it makes it hard to maintain that smile. I do it, because it’s important, and that’s what’s expected out of me. It’s not terribly complicated, so there’s really nothing more to say about it, but we’re always looking for new greeters, because we do have a shockingly high turnover rate compared to other departments. So if you think you can handle the stress, please apply. People think that operations are winding down because the panacea is close, but that is not what I’m hearing. The Foundation may never close. There may be a persistent market for direct healings, and obviously, it’s not up to me. It’s a decent job with great pay, and it’s really nice to just live right upstairs, so don’t let the news discourage you. Even if it doesn’t last forever, it covers any gap you might otherwise have in your résumé, and the Foundation shutting down is definitely a better reason for it to end. Most of the time, I bet your job ended because you were let go, right? That doesn’t really happen here, so just something to think about.

Microstory 2517: Campground Manager

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Even though it’s not my department, I do receive daily updates from the hotel about how they’re faring in there. I know how many people got in line, and how many people were cured. Those numbers are usually quite close together, with only a handful of people who ever have to wait until the next day. They’re obviously marked as such, and prioritized in the morning. Delays are built into the schedule, but it’s never perfect. In fact, if it ever gets to be too much, Landis will work extra hours to make up for it. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I’ve never met him. We’re worlds apart. I’m one of the few staff members who does not have a room in the building, and in my case, it’s a necessity. I’m on the clock 24/7, and always have to be available to the guests. People come from far and wide to get their cure. They encourage visitors to check into nearby hotels (which are still hotels, and not healing foundations). For these places, that’s just about all they do. You’re gonna have a hard time finding a room if you just wanna take a tour of the area. They’ll ask you to find somewhere close to the city. While there’s no rule against it for these unrelated facilities, there is one for the campground. We will not assign you a plot if you aren’t scheduled for a healing in the next week at the most. We understand that some people want to come early, because they’re worried about travel delays, which is why the campground exists in the first place, but we can’t have people living here for weeks on end. We certainly can’t accommodate people who just want to be ready to go while they wait for their application to be processed. I promise you, once you’re accepted, you will have plenty of time to make arrangements for travel. There is no such thing as a same-day appointment here. I hear so many requests for that. Everybody wants to be bumped up the list. First of all, I don’t have that kind of pull. I just manage the plots, and the tents for people who can’t afford their own. Secondly, everyone in the world wants to get in on this, and Landis can only see about 2,000 people per day. There are no bribes here. There are no special accommodations. Everybody’s sick, we are not going to prioritize based on need. The only fair way to do it is on a first come, first serve basis. The amount of coordination that would go into quantifying patients for triage is an unreasonable expectation to have for any organization. You would be waiting for years, just like people have done for organ transplants through conventional medicine. Is that what you want? Trust me, it’s better if you sign up, and snag an appointment a few weeks out. Application control comes from the scope of the application itself. If you just have a boo-boo on your knee, or you’re unwilling to divulge your financial situation, it’s going to slow things down. Only people who are serious about this are going to get through, which is why the 2,000 patient per day figure isn’t too much lower than the applicant per day figure—whatever that is; I don’t have those numbers. I know, I’m talking a lot about things that don’t really have anything to do with me, but that’s because my job isn’t that hard. A lot of this is self-service. We don’t provide meals, we don’t offer travel to and from. I’m mostly here to make sure the only people who try to drive through that gate are authorized, and that we have enough space for everyone. I don’t even handle security. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a lot of work, and it gets tough in the winter, but it’s pretty straight-forward, and far less stressful than it is for some of my colleagues. They may get to work inside, but I wouldn’t want to field the kind of questions they get every day.

Microstory 2480: Archidome

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I recently read a review on the prospectus for another dome. They were talking about how a lot of culture has faded from vonearthan society because of how standardized everything has become. And I must say that I agree. I understand why it happened. The basic design of the arcologies on Earth are perfect for what they’re intended to be. Each unit is a small and efficient living space, and they’re connected in such a way that allows modularization for shifting needs. You can open a door to grant a neighbor’s access to your units, or close them when you’re a teenager who needs to exert more independence. Everyone has a window, yet the structure is sound, because the spokes distribute the weight evenly, and over a sufficiently wide area. They’re nice, but they’re best for people who don’t care about what their homes look like, probably because they spend most of their time in simulations, or at least on the network. What your dwelling looked like, and how it was arranged, used to be profoundly important. I cannot stress to you enough how crucial it was for people to get to decide what their homes were like. That is what made it a home in the first place. There were multiple channels on linear television with dozens of programs about people finding, building, remodeling, or selling homes. And that’s before you include all the innumerable web content. It was a subculture of our society, and it went away due to a number of factors, which I’ve already touched upon. But the biggest moves happened in tandem with the shift to a post-scarcity economy. The government couldn’t put effort into building something to your specifications, or with any sort of flair or whimsy. Even before megastructures, they came up with a few models, and everyone got the same thing, because it was the most fair. Castlebourne gives us the opportunity to go back to the creativity of yesterday, in many respects, and in this respect, Archidome is the place for original architecture. It was empty at first—I really wish I had been here to see that. If you come here, you’re supposed to design your own building. It doesn’t have to be a single-family home. It can be an apartment complex, or a museum, or even a cathedral. The only restriction, really, is that you have to hold the rights to the intellectual property. I’ve heard a number of stories about visitors hoping to recreate some structure from their favorite movie, and that’s just not what this is for. Again, you get to decide what you build, and what it’s used for. It may never be used for its intended purpose, or anything at all. It’s up to you to promote it, and try to get visitors. I’m sure, over time, as the population of this planet in general increases, the chances that someone comes to see what you’ve created will go up. Until then, you might just have to be satisfied with the completion of the project itself. I’m proud of my columbarium, even though people don’t really die anymore. I’m proud of it because its mine, and it’s real. What will you create?

Microstory 2467: Tagdome

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This is a funny one. It’s several giant games of tag, each one made up of a lot of other subdivisions of tag. You can come in here with just about any substrate you want, but you’ll be grouped according to strength and speed. We can’t have superstrong mechs barreling through normal organics, now can we? There aren’t too many of what they generally call weight classes, but you stay in your respective sectors, and don’t interact with the others. But you do interact with everyone else in your sector. That sector is further divided into regions, zones, districts, territories, and neighborhoods. I honestly couldn’t tell you how they decide where you’re assigned beyond the weight class for fairness. But whatever it is, the divisions are based upon the modern standardized Dunbar grouping system. Your neighborhood will have 21 people total, which is a fairly normal and manageable number of contestants to contend with. You will ultimately compete with other neighborhoods. Seven neighborhoods makes a territory of 147 people. There are three territories in a district of 441 people, then four districts in each zone of 1,764, and four zones in each region of 7,056 players. Finally, there are seven regions in the whole sector. Sorry if that was confusing, but this game is confusing, by its nature. The best players are the ones who can figure it out. How about gameplay? You play a simple game of tag in your neighborhood for some period of time, based on your sector’s weight class. Higher classes theoretically have more stamina, and can go for longer. Don’t worry about those. Only consider your own. We’ll use the example of a normal organic human sector, which is only expected to play for half an hour. As you play against each other, your points start racking up. The longer you avoid becoming a Pursuer, the more points you end up with, and the longer you are the Pursuer, the more points you lose. At the end of your neighborhood’s allotted time, your points will be tallied up. It’s entirely possible that the entire game only ever had one Pursuer who never managed to catch anybody. That’s okay. They’re always watching you. Some people got closer to being caught than others. There will be leaders on the leaderboard, who will move on to compete at the territory level. The top seven will represent their neighborhood in a game of 49 players and begin to run as a team. Things start getting more complicated here as you can work together to build enough points to open gates to other territories. If you invade them, you can get in on their game as an opposing force, and start taking away their points while making some more of your own. The games get progressively more complicated, with more intricate environments, obstacles, and even vehicles like bikes and cars. Everyone wears special clothing, which color-coordinates the teams and alliances in realtime, but it’s not uncommon to get lost and confused. That’s part of the game, and your intelligence is factored into those weight classes I was telling you about. I know this was less of a review, and more of an overview, but I don’t really want to give you my opinion. I want you to see it for yourself. If you’re not much of a runner, or you don’t feel ready for the competition, there is a spectator component, so you can just check it out to get a better sense of what I’ve been talking about.

Microstory 2067: Something Less Monogamous

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Another one answered my ad in the paper, even though I only bought space on the one day. I left my new email address, though, so strangers could be emailing me over the course of the next few centuries if they wanted. Since I’m not a real person, I’ve not built up enough history to be getting many other emails, so I’m not worried about being inundated, or anything. It’s not like it will clog up my inbox, and make it harder to keep up with interesting news articles. Since, ya know, you don’t really have those here. Moving on, the woman I spoke to on the phone isn’t an alien, and doesn’t think she is. She’s just kind of an alien groupie. This was an apparent truth from the start, that she wants to meet me in person because of who I claim to be, but I kept talking to her, because what if I’m not the first? If she’s already done the work of finding people like me, I might as well nurture this relationship. I don’t want to lead her on, though. Cricket is in another universe right now—hopefully a very safe one, but cheating is cheating, and I am no cheater. The way I see it, if you’re committed to someone monogamously, and you want to connect with someone else, either turn your current partnership into something less monogamous, or leave them. It’s not fair that you get to have whatever you want at anyone else’s expense. Your happiness is not all that matters. I don’t want to be with anyone but him, in any capacity, and even if I did, I couldn’t do anything about it, because I’m not capable of having a conversation with him about it first. And anyway, I don’t know who this woman has met, or if they’re the real deal. Will stay in contact with her just the same, just like with the guy before.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: February 10, 2399

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Leona wakes up with the worst headache she’s ever had, and she’s had a lot of pretty terrible headaches. This one time, someone blended her brain with the memories of two of her alternate selves. The most painful memories were the most severe, overwhelming all the happy ones by orders of magnitude. This is worse than that, and she doesn’t know why. The last thing she remembers, she was leaving the city government building near Vulcan Point, on her way back to the jet. She wasn’t alone either. The pilot was with her. “Tarboda?”

“Present,” he replies in a gravelly voice.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Negative.”

“Do you know what happened to us?”

“Got kidnapped.”

“Hm.” She searches for those memories. They sound familiar, but she still can’t recall what led up to them, or what she was doing. She’s chained to the wall, though, so that tracks. “Did you see them?”

“They came out of nowhere. Couldn’t pick a single one of ‘em out of a line-up.”

“Wait, do you mean that literally? Were they just really quick, or—?”

“Shh! They’re probably listening.”

“Good point.”

“I think they were just really quick.”

“Have you found a light switch anywhere?”

“Can’t see a damned thing. Chained to the wall.”

“Kind of afraid to turn the lights on anyway, lest I find myself chained to a pipe in a moldy bathroom, across from a guy who’s drowning in a bathtub, and a third guy between us with an apparent suicidal gunshot wound to the head, but—spoiler alert—he’s not really dead; he’s the bad guy, and he’s been listening the whole time.”

“That is incredibly specific,” Tarboda replies.

“Yeah.”

“Is anybody else here?” she asks with a raised voice. “We’re awake now!”

A door thunders opening, flooding the room with a light so bright, Leona and Tarboda can’t actually see anything. The door closes just as quickly, and they hear a single clap of the hands. A much more manageable reddish light begins to shine. Leona blinks as the scent begins to hit her too. The man approaching her—and while she still cannot see, let’s face it, it is a man—reeks of expired cologne, butter garlic vapor, and a diaper. He doesn’t smell of a dirty diaper, mind you, but clean diapers have a certain repulsive odor all on their own. It’s like he’s trying to torture them just by being around, and maybe it’s not like it, but that’s precisely his intention.

“What do you want with us?” Tarboda demands to know.

“We want nothing from you.”

Funny, Leona was expecting either a Filipino accent, or North American, but he sounds like he’s from Ireland. If true, it would be interesting to hear him explain where he thinks he’s from since the North Atlantic Isles literally disappeared to another reality, leaving no one with any memories of it. She obviously can’t ask that, though. “Okay, what do you want with me?”

“Yur Leona Matic.”

“I am.”

“Tere’s a bounty on yur head.”

She kind of forgot about that. Kivi Bristol and her team have been working really hard to take down anyone with any serious plans to collect the prize, but they cannot figure out who declared it in the first place. If they could stop them from being able to pay it out, and prove to the world that the bounty was voided, the problem would be solved. Kivi’s special psychic powers have yet to lead her to that ultimate goal. Meanwhile, Leona has been mostly living on the fringes of society, trusting in the discretion and loyalty of the relatively few government employees who have ever been aware of her and Arcadia’s whereabouts. She has not spent much time out in the world. She let her guard down, and this was stupid of her. “Ah, this is about the reward, eh?” She starts talking like a stereotypical caveman. “I primacean. I like stuff. You give me stuff, or I bonk you on a head.”

“What?”

“Idiotsayshuh?”

The abductor pauses. “Huh?” She knew he’d fall for it.

“How do you collect this bounty?”

“We were tinkin’ we could shoot ya, and take a photo.”

“Nah, nah, nah. You can’t do that,” Leona reasons. “Photos can be faked. They’ll never believe you.”

“What would yu do?”

That’s a good question. “For starters, I would take a photo of me holding today’s newspaper.”

“You said photos can be faked.”

She sighs. “Yes, but you’re just getting your foot in the door for now. You send them the photo, and demand payment. When they say it’s not good enough, tell them you want to meet. Bring me to that meeting, and I’ll be the living proof.”

He looks confused. “Then we shoot yu?”

How did she get caught by these people? She can’t help but sigh again. “No. Then you ask to see the money.”

“Hey, I’m not stupid.”

The door opens again, and someone else enters the room. “Get back to your post soldier,” he orders.

“I was just—”

“Get back to your post!” he repeats.

The first guy hangs his head low, and leaves.

“A tousand apologies, Miss Matic. He and his bruda are absolute eejits.”

“Well, you hired them, didn’t you?

“It’s true.”

“And it’s Missus Matic,” she corrects.

“Another tousand apologies.” His eyes dart over to Tarboda.

“No, not him. He’s my pilot. My husband died. He died saving your world. You’re welcome.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says.

“And you never will. You’re welcome again.”

“Listen, Mrs. Matic. Oi got nothin’ against ya, but we need tat money. Yu shouldn’ta gon’ out in public.”

“You should just get a job.”

“Dis is my job. Yur lucky I’m da one doing it, ‘stead of someone else.”

“And why is that?”

“Oi’m gonna give you a fair chance. If you can come up with a quarter of the money yurself, I won’t turn you in. You come up with half, I’ll take you anywhere in the world. You come up with all da money, I’ll protect ya for life. We take care of our own, and yu can be oneovus.”

“First of all, no thanks. Secondly, I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yu could also do a job or two for us, start payin’ it off.”

“No. Not interested. I don’t know what kind of jobs a group of people like you would do, but they can’t be good.”

“Oi understand. You’ll have two days to change yur moind. It will take as long to coordinate and negotiate with the bounty-setter.”

“In the meantime, I appreciate your hospitality,” Leona replies sarcastically.

The boss looks around the dirty boiler room. “I’ll see about getting you some better accommodations.”

He nods politely as if she’s just agreed to fill in for him for his shift at the grocery store while he goes to his cousin’s wedding. Then he leaves the room.

“You seem unconcerned,” Tarboda points out.

“I’m in trouble here,” Leona replies. “This means that my friend can find me. She can find anybody.”

“Yeah, I know her. I’ve flown her and her team around a bit.” He takes a beat. “But the way she explained it, she does this through some kind of psychic power, not because she simply guesses where or someone is.”

“That’s right.”

“Which means that not only do you have to be in trouble, but you have to feel like you’re in trouble.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, if you’re confident that she’ll find you, you won’t be sending her a psychic distress signal, so she won’t be able to find you.”

“You’re right. So I need to feel real fear.”

“How would we go about triggering that? Pardon the awful suggestion, but would it work if I threatened your life? Perhaps I could strangle you with my chains? I mean, I wouldn’t hurt you, but...”

“No, that wouldn’t work. I don’t know where she is, but to prompt her to come this direction, it would have to be a continuous fear, otherwise the signal would just dissipate. I think, at least. I don’t really know how it works, but it makes sense.”

“What can we do?”

Leona stands up, and assesses the area. “We have to get them to do it.”

“How?”

“This would not be the first prison I’ve broken out of. If it works, I get free, and if it doesn’t, I piss them off so much, they put the fear of God in me. Either way, we win.”

“Tell me what to do?”

“Can you reach that wrench?”

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: November 8, 2398

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Each grave chamber on the AOC is wide enough to accommodate two sleeping persons, but there are only six seats in the main area, life support would struggle to satisfy the needs of twelve people, and microponics would not be able to feed all of them for an extended period of time. Plus, it would just be too crowded. Ramses built this ship using the resources that he was allotted on Proxima Doma, which were not infinite. It was never meant for the long term. Its only purpose at the time of fabrication was to make a quick jump to Bungula, and really that’s it. There are nine people here right now, and it’s already getting to be too much. The only one on their team who didn’t join them is Kivi, because she’s working with her tack team on the ground.

Leona had to go into orbit to heal her legs—which is working, by the way—but also to avoid the killer bounty hunters who are trying to kill her, either for the money, or because they’re true believers. Arcadia had to come up here too, because she looks like Leona, and guns don’t discriminate. Just as Mateo wanted to be with his wife, so too Vearden wanted to be with whatever he and Arcadia call each other. Marie and Cheyenne probably had to come, because they’re known associates of Leona by now, and are in just as much danger. Lastly, Ramses is the engineer, and had a lot of projects on the backburner that he has finally been able to actually follow through on. As for the final two new residents, Alyssa politely asked to see Earth from above, and Winona demanded impolitely.

It has only been a day, but everyone is already getting on each other’s nerves. Over half of them weren’t originally part of the crew, so no one yet knows their quirks and pet peeves. The shorthand the four originals had with each other has gone out the window in mixed company. So nobody’s happy, but the ones who have a choice don’t want to choose to leave. Mateo has proposed a competition. The winner gets to stay, and the losers have to go back down to the surface. Leona, Marie, Arcadia, and Cheyenne are exempt. Ramses doesn’t have to compete either, because he will be traveling back and forth as needed. This leaves Mateo versus Alyssa versus Vearden versus Winona. The only question is what the contest will entail. His first idea is to play a round of RPS-101 Plus, but he’s the only one in the group who has ever played it, so isn’t that unfair?

“Yes, it’s very unfair,” Leona points out.

“You have four people,” Marie begins. “You could always play Bridge.”

“No, remember what you told me?” Cheyenne asks her.

“Oh, yeah.” Marie frowns a little. “People here play Bridge with different rules.”

“I’ve never played before, so that doesn’t seem to matter,” Mateo notes.

“Neither have I,” says all three other contestants simultaneously.

“Why are we overthinking this?” Vearden questions. “Let’s just play regular rock, paper, scissors. Anyone can win, even if you’ve never played before.”

“A little boring, if you ask me,” Arcadia says.

“Do we really want to base it on chance?” Winona asks. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Everyone starts arguing all at once—about RPS, the flip of a coin, and a few computer games that the ship has installed—until Alyssa loudly interrupts, “enough! Here’s what we’re gonna do. Mateo, Winona, and I will go back to Earth. Vearden will be allowed to stay with the mother of his child. There. It’s done.” Yeah, that makes sense.

Microstory 1800: A Life Well-Earned

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I was born into a very wealthy family, which only got wealthier with each generation. None of us was allowed to rest on our laurels, and relax. We had a system in place. Parents were expected to take care of their children, and give them just about anything they wanted (within reason). Once they turned 18, their college would be paid for, and everything that goes with that, like food and lodging. Any purchases they wanted beyond that had to be approved, and were always contingent upon extremely good grades. No one was expected to join the family business, but they had to do something with their lives. They had to live up to our name, whether that meant doing as they were told by their betters, or striking out on their own. A well-rounded education was vital to this. You were cut off once you turned 26, regardless of how prepared you were. The idea was to give everyone enough time to finish their undergraduate studies, plus their graduate studies—if they so chose to continue their education—and also begin pulling in their own income. There was no trust, there were no allowances. Everybody had to make their own way, at least after spending a quarter of their lives learning how to do that. I know, I know, this all sounds very ridiculous to normal people, but what would you have us do, reject our family money as soon as we could speak? That wouldn’t have done anyone any good, would it? For my part, actually, I didn’t even let my family do this much for me. I let them pay for tuition, books, and other educational expenses, but I paid for food, and my own place to live. I had a job while I was there, which was smarter than my siblings and cousins, because I learned a lot more about the labor force than they did from their ivory towers. I wouldn’t say that I struggled, but I certainly worked harder than the rest of them. I was at least closer to seeing what real life was like for most people.

Rich people have problems too, and I don’t mean to sound like we don’t, but I always tried to be careful with my perspective. The fact is that I had an easy life, and people like me have a responsibility to use our privilege to help others as possible. What better way to support those people than to provide them with jobs? No one wants to be a charity case. They don’t want you to just hand them stuff. They want to feel like they earned it. No, strike that from the record; they want to know that they undeniably earned it. Ya know, receiving free stuff activates the same part of the brain as incurring debt does. I mean...I don’t actually know that for sure, but it sounds right, so it probably is. People hate to feel like what they have isn’t really theirs, and I chose to do my part to alleviate that for them. I paid my employees fair wages, and I treated them fairly. Sure, if you read the statistics, it sounds like workers were generally unhappy in their positions, but that data is always skewed. Only the loudest and angriest of people are going to fill out those surveys. Content people tend to be too happy to bother telling other people about why. And sure, my company technically pays most jobs on the left side of that bell curve, but that doesn’t matter. That isn’t what my organization is about. What I found—and this is another one of those things that my relatives never understood—is that an employee would much rather be validated by their superiors than just be given more money. Money doesn’t make you smile. Money can’t buy you monthly division birthday parties, and great online coupons. Well, I guess it does, but family doesn’t need that from each other. That’s what we are at the company; a family. I couldn’t die prouder.

Microstory 1424: How to Protect a Town With Pointless Powers

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Some of the source mages wanted the process of gifting people with mage powers to be fair. They wanted to randomize it, so that a selectee could ultimately end up with anything. That seemed fine on paper, but it could cause a lot of problems down the road. No amount of competitive scoring was good enough to measure precisely what an individual would do with their powers once they actually received them. A given person might be incredibly noble and brave with the ability to repulse time monsters, but end up gravely dangerous with the power to manipulate reality itself. Same person, different powers, wildly different outcomes. Still, it would be irresponsible to leave it up to chance. They ought to be trying to tailor powers towards the mage’s innate abilities. There were also countless powers that wouldn’t be very helpful for a mage at all. For instance, it might be cool for someone to have the ability to see what an object will look like in the future, to measure the effects of wear and tear over time, but they wouldn’t be able to fight a monster with that. By the time the first sourcing ceremony began, the source mages had reached a decision, though some were not happy about it. They didn’t feel like they had any choice but to control what power someone received. They would do their best not to play favorites, but making it random was just too risky. It was not, however, so simple. No matter how unbiased they were, or thought they were, people would accuse them of being unfair. They could claim it was random, but some would not believe it, and even if these were only a minority voice, a small group could grow. To protect themselves against this backlash, they decided that someone needed to be sacrificed. His name was Vaion Newport, and he hoped to end up the most powerful town mage of all, but his excellent scores in the Mage Games were exactly what made this impossible.

Source mage Madoc Raptis was tasked with giving Vaion a pointless power. They wanted to show that anyone could end up with any gift, and there was no guarantee they would like it. It was particularly important to use Madoc for this, because he hated the inequity of some of their decisions, and he was considered the lucky one. If even he could source someone a power that wasn’t good for them, then it could happen to anyone, and the source mages must not have been lying when they claimed it was completely out of their control. After being sourced, Vaion learned that he now had the ability to freeze time in place. That kind of thing happened all the time in movies, but in real life, it was practically impossible, and no one had ever heard of it before. If time were to stop completely, then nothing would be moving. Photons couldn’t bounce off of objects, and show an observer what they looked like. Air couldn’t reach people’s lungs. Nothing could move, not even Vaion himself. And of course, that was the whole problem. While technically time wasn’t totally stopped, it was slow enough, and did not really give anyone an advantage, or disadvantage. While this was active, Vaion was able to continue thinking, and even process oxygen in his blood, but once time restarted, everything pretty much just continued as it was, without anyone having detected a change. It was interesting to be able to essentially stop time—and no one in histories enjoyed this same power—but since he also couldn’t move, it was useless in the war against the monsters. If he wanted to help the town, he had to contribute in some other way. Madoc was sick to his stomach that he had to do this to Vaion. None of the winners would have deserved this, but especially not him. Madoc resented his friends for making him do it, and vowed to never do anything like it again. He walked another path, and subverted the Mage Games by sourcing those who did nothing to earn powers at all, every year, and everyone let him do this. Meanwhile, the rest of the source mages continued as they were, and in order to maintain the lie, they always sourced at least one person with a power that was pointless against the monsters.

Microstory 1422: Proto-Protectorate

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Now that the source mage children looked nearly twice as old as they really were, they decided it was time to assume full control over Springfield, and possibly Splitsville. The Adhocracy was nice while it lasted, but it had come to an end, and times needed to change. People had spent their whole lives since the Deathfall hoping that it would all lead them back to Earth, but the source mages knew this was not possible. The last time they were there was nearly thirteen years ago, and as the members of the Triumvirate had explained to them, no one there could even remember that they existed. Durus was their home now, and they needed to make sure everyone knew that. They weren’t just going to survive, and hope the monster never took them out eventually. They were going to make this place safe and prosperous, so that if the Earthans did learn of their existence, some might even want to move. They thought they had their plans all figured out, but when Orabela showed them they were capable of gifting other people with special temporal powers, nothing they first thought of made any sense. So they started over, and spent months working on a brand new system. They called it the Mage Protectorate. They would give other people powers, so they could shoulder the burden, and protect the towns collectively. With more people, what was formerly called the Baby Barrier would be able to grow, and give the Durune people more space. The only question then was how to choose who received these gifts, and who didn’t. They couldn’t just let anyone run around with powers, doing whatever they wanted. Sure, they could regulate them with laws, but what if insurgents banded together, and rose up against their leaders? No, it was too dangerous to make the job available to just anyone. This required some way of weeding out potential bad eggs. This sparked the idea of the Mage Games.

Anyone could apply to be a town mage, but that didn’t guarantee they would be selected. The new leaders called upon their best statistician, and other experts, to gauge how many people would want in on this, and how many winners they needed to keep things running smoothly. This was a very involved process, which demanded help from lots of other people. This was perfect, though, because by including non-source mages in the decision-making processes, they only made themselves look better. This was going to be a fair government, where everyone’s voice was heard. They were going to call it a protectorate, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t also be democratic. The initial assumption was that the Mage Games would be held every year. Maybe there would actually only be one winner each time, and that one person would go on to join the ranks of the many veterans before them. This didn’t sound so unreasonable, but it came with risks. First of all, the source mages didn’t really want to have to go through this every single year. And, if the competition was annual, they worried it would be too accessible, easily corrupted by inequality, and fraught with logistical issues. A vicennial competition, however, would make turnover slow, and hopefully discourage mages from trying to quit early. Plus, most people would end up too old to compete a second time if they failed once; though neither impossible, nor against their rules. This fostered a group composed of committed competitors, who were not taking this lightly. If they didn’t manage to get in, they might not get another chance, and if they did get in, trying to get out of it would put the whole population in danger, so it was important that they understood what it was they were signing up for, and what it would mean for their lives. This was not a car dealership, though. The standards were flexible, and sensible. If they determined, for instance, that every town mage had to be able to do a hundred pushups, and their strongest competitor could only do ninety-nine, then they would just end up with no mages, and that wasn’t helpful at all. They wanted everyone who was worthy, and if that meant everyone who applied was ultimately accepted, then so be it. The point was to prevent the wrong people from having too much power, but if those people didn’t exist, or didn’t even try—and there was enough offensive work to justify the numbers—then fine. Armed with this wisdom, it was finally time to decide what the Mage Games entailed.

Varkas Reflex: Identity (Part VII)

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First order of business as Superintendent of Varkas Reflex was to figure out what it meant to be the Superintendent of Varkas Reflex. Hokusai knew she needed help, and the best place to get it was from someone with experience. Even better than that one person with experience was an entire council of them. Several people had held the position on Earth, while each of the colony planets only had one, with the exception of Sujo. Its first superintendent couldn’t handle the responsibility, and fled into the void with a stolen interstellar vessel, never to be heard from again. Of course, that wasn’t much help, because Hokusai would not be able to communicate with him, which was sad, because understanding what went wrong could have resulted in invaluable advice. Not everyone agreed to become part of Hokusai’s council, which was fine. She wasn’t looking to run a survey about them with a large sample size, but gain insight and guidance. There were eleven of them, ready to help in any way they could.

Hokusai built quantum surrogate substrates for the visitors, so they could arrive much faster. The former superintendent of Teagarden was unable to use one, since she never installed the necessary transhumanistic upgrades to accomplish this, so she appeared as a hologram. Hokusai wasn’t sure what she was expecting out of these people. Were they going to be helpful and supportive, or balk at her inexperience and naivety. They had all dedicated their lives to public service, and were presently serving in other ways. She was just a scientist, living on a planet that elected her because she was cool, and there wasn’t anyone else. Would the council believe that was enough? As it turned out, some did, while others were not so convinced. They weren’t nasty or pretentious about it, though. They applauded her for having the wisdom to form the council in the first place, and recognized that Varkas was unlike any of the planets they had dealt with themselves. Their formal approach wasn’t going to work well in this case, and they would all have to tap into their creative side in order to make this work.

After months of discussions, they decided that they had come up with something reasonable, and appropriate for this world. Hokusai realized on her own that she was never the only superintendent at all. By forming the council, she had outsourced a lot of the decisions. It went swimmingly, and if it could work for this, it could work with the actual government. So there would be no congress, no delegators, no advisors, and no administrators. This world’s government was going to be a council democracy. Councils would be formed as needed, and disbanded when the problem they were trying to solve was over, which could potentially mean never. If the council wasn’t trying to solve anything, but was there to maintain harmony, then that council would simply continue on. The question then was how to form any given council in the first place.

Would they be elected? Selected? Earned? Completely open? Yes, all of those things. Hokusai decided that the people had the right to decide how any new council was formed—making the entire populace one gigantic council in its own right—and they didn’t have to do it in the same way previous councils were done. Some councils may require particular expertise, and would only be available to certain people, who exemplified certain criteria. Others could impact the entire population, and didn’t necessitate specific competencies, so anyone who wanted to could join. If this resulted in an unmanageably large council, then it could be broken apart into smaller subcouncils. This flexibility made things really complex, but it also prevented the system from getting bogged down by its own procedural regulations. The technocracy that the majority of the stellar neighborhood used was great. Everyone had a role, and the only people allowed to make decisions were those that knew what the hell they were talking about. But it was also a slow process—often slower than the highly bureaucratic democratic republics that dominated Earth in the 20th and 21st centuries. Councils got things done, and they did it efficiently, as long as they were supervised by someone who could make sure the councilors weren’t getting sidetracked, or wasting time. This was the problem that Hokusai needed to solve now, and Pribadium thought she had the solution.

“Here me out,” Pribadium said, “we upload your mind to multiple substrates.”

“Why would we do that?” Hokusai asked.

“You say these councils need leaders. In fact, you say that each council needs one leader. This crowdsourcing is good and all, but it won’t work if they spend so long discussing the possibilities, that they can’t ever come to a conclusion. Someone needs to protect them from themselves, and who better than you?”

“First of all,” Hokusai began, “lots of people. Secondly, why would we have to upload anyone’s mind to multiple bodies? All you’re asking for is a singular entity that oversees the proceedings.”

“Eh, no one has time to be in more than one place at once.”

“Right, but why can’t each council just have its own leader.”

“Because the profusion of leaders is just going to lead to the same problem. I’m not sure if you’ve thought this all the way through. You think councils can be fast-acting, but they could be slower than republics. At least the technocracy is efficient. Most consequences to any action are predicted at some point down the assembly line. With a council, everyone might have some great idea, but they won’t say anything, because no one else is, so they may think it’s actually not that good.”

“What are you saying, that this should be a monarchy?”

Pribadium knew that Hokusai didn’t actually think that’s what she was saying. “A real democracy is perfect when you have a few dozen people. It doesn’t work in the thousands, millions, or, God forbid, billions. That’s why most healthy governments operate under representation, to varying degrees of success and moral honesty. People hate to think about it, but power must be consolidated. That’s just the way it has to be. It’s your job to make sure that consolidation is fair and reasonable. A soviet democra—”

“Don’t call it that. It has negative historical connotations that predate your birth.”

“Very well. A council democracy is fair, but it is not reasonable. You’re gonna run into problems, and in order to fix them, you’re going to form more councils, and that’s just going to add to the problem, and it will never end. The councils need a single voice. And when I say single, I mean single; not one each.”

“So, you are kind of promoting a monarchy.”

“All monarchs are tyrants, so no. I was using you as an example of the voice, but perhaps that is how it should remain, as an example. This overseer can take any number of forms. It can be elected any way you want, and remain in control however long you want. You worried about checks and balances? They’re built right in. Let’s say the overseer poses some existential threat to the planet. No problem, form a council to get rid of them. The overseer doesn’t have to run every single meeting for every single council, but they have to have the potential to be involved in any council, except for ones that would come with a conflict of interest. That’s why I suggested you copy yourself—or rather, whoever we choose for this—so each one gradually loses identity. You see, what we need is a good leader with a good history, but that’s only necessary as a foundation. Once that’s established, the copies can go off and start living other lives, but at least they all came from the same place.”

Hokusai was shaking her head. “I think you’re looking at it the wrong way. Good governments are based on diversity. Each leader should be separate, and have always been separate. Then they can serve to check and balance each other.”

Loa stepped into the room, having been listening from the hallway for most of the conversation. “Why don’t you take the best of both worlds?”

“How so?” Pribadium asked.

“Mind-uploading, councils, single voice. Put them together, what do you have?”

Neither of them answered for a while, not sure if it was a rhetorical question, or a sincere inquiry.

“Amalgamated consciousness,” Loa answered herself.

“Where did you hear that term?” Hokusai asked her.

“My mind-brain,” Loa replied. “You want fast government, but you want the people to have a say. So. Upload their minds into a system, but don’t just keep them isolated, like we normally do. Merge them together. Create a new entity. This entity won’t have to discuss how to deal with the issue. They’ll immediately know what that council would have said about it. The answers will just be right there. That’s how a normal brain works. If I asked you how to keep this door from being opened, you’ll have an answer right away. You’ll say we should install a lock on it. If I asked Pribadium, she would say let’s drag a bookcase in front of it. Ask someone else, they’ll say we should murder everyone who might try to open it. But if we put these brains together, the council-entity would say we should install a lock, plus a deadbolt, and then ask everyone who might want to open it to not do so, so we don’t have to kill them.”

“Amalgamated consciousness,” Hokusai echoed, thinking it over. “That’s a pretty big departure from how we decided to do it.”

Loa brushed this away. “The superintendent council is not the superintendent of Varkas Reflex; you are. You don’t have to consult them. You were just using them for advice, never forget that. It is still your responsibility.”

Pribadium didn’t approve. “I’ve seen this show. This is The Borg. You will be assimilated.”

“Assimilators in fiction are evil. We won’t do this to anyone who does not wish for it, and we won’t be neurosponging them. These will be copies, which leave the original contributors both independent, and intact.”

“The only reason we would do this,” Hokusai began to explain, “would be to increase the speed of decision-making. It doesn’t actually help with proving the sensibility of the decisions themselves.”

Loa disagreed. “No, it’s like Pribadium said. People might be afraid to speak up. If we copy their perspective—which is really what we’re after; not people’s episodic memories—they won’t have to worry about sounding foolish. They will have good ideas.”

“There are a hell of a lot of ethical considerations no one thought they would have to make. If we were to do this, we would be the only government to do so. All eyes will be on us, and we will have to make sure we don’t screw it up. Like, what happens to the entity we create when we amalgamated the council? Is that a person in their own right? Do we dissolve this creature later? Do we keep them on retainer for later decisions? Do we let them run off to lead their own lives? Do we let them leave the planet?”

“Now you’re getting into science that you know I don’t understand,” Loa said. “And ethics isn’t my forte either. This is an idea, which I came up with after hearing your ideas. I can’t be expected to have it all figured out.”

She was right. This was just the start. They spent the next year working on the new plan. And then they instituted it.

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