Microstory 2275: Now I Can’t Remember What

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This is finally Nick again. Kelly is typing this for me, but it’s my words. I’m really struggling to keep my eyes open. It’s not even that I’m falling asleep. It just kind of feels really uncomfortable to hold up my eyelids. They feel like huge weights on my face. I do occasionally fall asleep when I don’t want to, though, so it may take us a long time for us to finish this post. I would tell you to be patient, but this isn’t live, so by the time you read this, you’ll have known how long it took us to finish. I’m still in the hospital, as you can imagine, and I’m in quite a bit of pain. I’ve limited myself to regular OTC stuff because I don’t like how narcs make me feel. Before I could advocate for my own healthcare needs—back when I was on the brink of death, and totally out of it—they had me on morphine, or something or other. They continued to give this to me after my surgeries, because that was protocol, and I couldn’t tell them otherwise. It was probably for the best during this period, however, because the pain would have been unbearable, and the hallucinations were worth it if I could remember them. I started being able to remember them before I was lucid, though, so I can tell you about them, if you’re curious. The most common one was that every time I tried to shut my eyes to sleep, a cacophony of unintelligible voices would start to talk over one another in the hallway. I asked them to be quiet, but I think in the real world, I wasn’t saying anything at all. These people obviously didn’t exist. The scariest hallucination was when—sorry, I actually did fall asleep in the middle of this sentence, and now I can’t remember what I was gonna say. Maybe I’ll recall for a future update. I would have written it down earlier if I could have. I can barely move. I’ve not gotten out of this bed since they brought me in. Kelly has had to do things for me, even though she doesn’t work here. I’m hoping I’ll be able to stand up by tomorrow, and then shower on my own shortly thereafter.

Microstory 1707: Ram

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I hear a knock on the door, but I don’t get up. I can’t, I’m too out of it. They knock again, and announce themselves as the police. I would be grateful for their arrival if I didn’t know that the door is attached to something with a string. I don’t remember what the other end of the string is attached to, though. I just know it’s bad. They give me one more warning before deciding that I’m up to no good, and they’ll have to force their way in. On the monitor, I see two more officers appear with a large red object. They swing it back, and strike it against the door. I try to scream for them to stop, but they don’t hear. It’s not their fault. I don’t think I can get enough sound to come out of my body. I feel like I’ve been screaming this whole time, and nothing has happened. What did those guys give me, and how can I possibly power through its effects? The battering ram strikes the door again. The noise rings in my ears. I try to reach up to rub them, but my hands just end up falling off, and floating up into the air. I’m pretty sure that’s not actually happening, but it might as well be, because I still have no control over them. As far as I can tell, they’re not even mine anymore. Perhaps they were never really mine, but God’s. He was the one who put me on this Earth, and gave me this life. He decided who my parents were, and how I was raised. He chose the skills I would grow up having, which would inevitably lead me down this path. I’ve always disliked believing in such a God, as it shifts all blame away from people. If they are not responsible for their own actions, what right does anyone have to punish them? We should all be punishing God, shouldn’t we? The ram strikes a third time. A crack appears, but that’s about it, and I may even be imagining that. I can’t trust anything I see, or anything I think. Strike four.

I didn’t think someone could get more than three strikes, but there’s a strong possibility that we’re not playing baseball. When I was a boy, my neighbor down the street would take me to games. It took me a long time to realize how strange that was. He never did anything to me, mind you, but my mother didn’t know that. I don’t remember them ever talking to each other for an extended period of time, so she could get to know who he—what the hell was that sound? Is someone at the door? I look over, but don’t think that’s a door, because it’s all bulging and splintery. Doors are meant to be straight and flat. People are yelling on the other side. They sound pretty mad if you ask me, but I don’t know why, since everything is so okay. Sure, there’s a splodey thing attached to that door, but as long as they don’t open it, we should all be totally fine. They hit the door a sixth time, or was it seven? The bottom of it falls into the room, still partially attached to the top, which is staying surprisingly strong. A gigantic rat the size of a man scratches and punches at the door in order to break it off completely. He crawls in and scurries right towards me, then holds a gun to my chest. “Tom,” I say to the big rat. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about, probably because rats don’t speak English. “Rom,” I repeat. He shakes his head and argues, “ram.” He points back to the red thing they used to get through the door. It’s sitting on the threshold, right under another floating hand, which is trying to unlock the door. I shake my head. That’s not what I wanted to say. This isn’t about Tom, or rom, or the ram, or the bomb. Oh wait, no, it is about the bomb. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them. “Bomb.” The rat’s four eyes widen as he looks back at the door, and traces the string with his eyes. He’s too late, the door opens.

Extremus: Year 8

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It took Valencia, and the other smart people on this ship, nearly five months to double check the math, and draw up a flawless plan. While the micrometeoroid threat was indeed growing larger by the second, they couldn’t screw up the solution, and good solutions require time. The robots constructed extra physical shields to the front of Extremus to better deflect oncoming objects, and this proved to be effective for now. At the moment, they’re only about 18% of the way to the galactic core, where it’s most dense. They still don’t really know if it’s going to get worse than it already is, even worse than they ever imagined possible, or be all fine and dandy. Today is a new launch day. Under Valencia’s supervision, the engineering committee is going to be dispatching a series of mining automators to the nearest celestial bodies. The problem is a lack of data. They are literally in uncharted territory, which means they don’t know what kind of planets and asteroids are floating around out here, or what treasures they bear. So multiple automators have been built, hoping that at least one of them doesn’t fail, and encounters something good.

On a personal note, Omega has been doing all right. Medical tests turned up nothing unusual about his physiology, or neurology. He occasionally catches glimpses of the man who isn’t there, smiling down on him, but he no longer speaks. There is no apparent reason for Omega to be having these hallucinations, but as of yet, they have seen no evidence that they’re doing him any harm, besides causing him to doubt himself. He wants to be there for the launches, so while he isn’t in charge of the special project anymore, he’s being released for the day to witness. The nurse insists they keep him in the hoverchair so he doesn’t overexert himself, but it’s completely unnecessary. She doesn’t know what this project is, though, so she can’t stick around. Halan agrees to assume responsibility for his health while they watch the show.

The rest of the committee is already in the observation room that is overlooking the drones in the cargo bay. Omega regards with wonder, glad that they have been able to pull this off so far, and saddened that he wasn’t a part of it. Halan gets him some cheese and bread bites from the refreshments table while they wait to begin. When it’s time, Valencia moves to stand between the crowd and the windows. She has to gesture for August Voll to follow her. “Well, it’s finally ready. The project is about to begin. For those of you without the requisite education, I’ve asked my First Apprentice to explain to you what’s happening today, and why it’s necessary.”

August clears her throat. “When we first launched, we did so with finite resources, as I’m sure you know. Only so much mass can fit on this vessel. We had more than enough to make it through the entire 216-year journey without ever having to stop. We grow our own food, we make our repairs en route. Sadly, as it turns out, the repairs we had to make a few years ago have proven to be far more involved than we thought we would need. Had this happened near the end of the trip, we probably would have been fine, but now our reserves are too low, and it’s too risky. We need more materials, and for that, we need more time. In order to keep our dream of constant motion alive, we’re going to have to get creative. That means getting resources not just from nearby worlds, but from the past.

“What you see in each of the five designated sections of the cargo bay are five space-capable drones. They’re small, I know, but they’re each fitted with a mini-fusion reactor, and an AI program capable of finding a suitable celestial body, landing, and extracting resources. We have enough power to safely send the drones about thirty years into the past. This should be enough time for them to travel to their star system, mine the resources, and return to the rendezvous position. We could send them back further, but it would cost more. We don’t presently have the materials we would need to fit them with reframe engines either, so relativistic speeds are going to have to do. Slow relativistic speeds, in fact. They max out at point-six-c. If they have to travel five light years away, and five back, that leaves them around thirteen years to mine. They should be able to handle that, but it could be tight, which is why we’ve programmed them to extract the materials, but not build the Frontrunners themselves. We don’t really know how far they’ll have to travel in their search.”

While Valencia is talking, Omega notices a figure in the corner of his eye. Other people are standing there, but this person stands out. He’s afraid to look, because he knows who it is. It’s that hallucination again. He appears to just be enjoying the presentation with everyone else. Omega leans over to Captain Yenant, and whispers, “I’m going to get some water.”

“I’ll get it,” Halan says.

“No, I know all this. You should stay with your people.” Omega flies the chair to the back, and heads for the water. The hallucination man follows him. Omega waits behind the table, ready to start actually getting the water if someone were to look back curiously.

“Are you feeling okay?” the hallucination has the audacity to ask.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Omega demands to know.

“I’m a program, and I’m here to make sure the ship runs smoothly.”

“If you were a hologram, other people would be able to see you, and I don’t have any neuro-tech enhancements. I receive life extension treatments, and I have some musculo-skeletal implants. How are we communicating?”

“As a clone, you have advanced neurological capabilities, including techno-psychic communication. You can’t interface with any bit of technology you want, but you’re connected to me, because...”

“Because what? Why are you hesitating?” Omega asks that a little too loud, prompting Head of Security Gideon to look back. Now he reaches for the water.

“Because you are, in terms of security protocols, Elder Caverness.”

“What are you going on about?”

“You altered your DNA to make Old Man’s safe think that you were him, so you could open it.”

“That was temporary.”

The hallucination shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

Omega has some control over his own physiology, and even his genetic code, which is what allowed him to break into the DNA safe in the first place. Still, there is only so much he can do, and only so much information about his health status that he can gather in realtime. He looks down at himself like that alone could confirm or refute what the hallucination is claiming.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s a good thing. Now you have me, and I can help with things, like showing you the solution to the micrometeoroid problem, and telling you that one of these drones is about to land on an inhabited planet.”

“So your creator, he knows the future. There is no other way you could possibly know that. Or you’re just lying.”

“My creator, me...what exactly is the difference?”

“Stop speaking in half-explanations, forcing me to ask more questions. Just give me all the answers.” Gideon looks back again, so Omega has to reach over and sample one of the deserts, even though it’s not time for that yet.

“I wasn’t created by Elder Caverness. I am Elder Caverness. I designed a perimortem consciousness transference device.”

“Those are illegal on this ship,” Omega protests.

Up until this point, since no one else can see or hear him, the hallucination has been speaking in an inside voice. He drops to a whisper to mock him. “Then I suppose we won’t want to tell anyone about it, will we? Shh. Hush-hush.”

“What is your purpose?”

“I designed it primarily for the Captain, so this boat can enjoy a little bit of damn continuity. Why hand over power when you can just stay alive throughout the whole journey?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You were the one who tried to give the Captain the device that would have sent him off to a death in the void.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the program says. “Obviously I had to test the technology first. The last version of me was uploaded into the computer a few months before the incident. I couldn’t tell you why Corporeal!Me tried to kill Captain Yenant, but I had nothing to do with it. We were two separate people by then.”

The conversation has to end as the speech before them does. The people begin to crowd around the windows. The part that Omega missed was about how the successful missions will appear pretty much instantaneously. Years will have passed for them—though it’s impossible to know how many without first knowing how far they’ll have to travel at relativistic speeds. But they won’t even be the same drones anyway. In order to transport the materials they mine, they’ll also use part of the material to build their own replacements. Those will be the ships that will appear in the cargo bay with the payloads. They’ll be extremely bare, and not even vacuum sealed. They’ll be more like only the framing, with enough space to hold what they need, along with the engines. They call it a gridship.

Omega flies over towards the window, and the crowd separates so he can see better. As August is counting down to the first launch, Omega notices AI!Elder, or whatever it is they should call him, standing in the fourth section. He’s wearing an old timey airport marshaller’s uniform, and making random arm movements, demonstrating the importance of this particular section. He opens his mouth, and rolls his eyes to the back of his head as he pulls at his shirt collar. He’s pantomiming dying. He’s pantomiming dying in section four. For whatever reason, when the gridship rendezvouses with Extremus, people are going to die. And apparently, Omega is the only one who can stop it.

“Go for One!” August declares. The drone disappears. A minute passes, but nothing returns.

“Aww,” the crowd groans, displeased and disappointed.

“Go for Two!” It’s only eight billion miles away from the first one, but it’s heading on a completely different vector, so it should have different candidate objects. It returns with a nice payload of various building materials, which will help them complete their project. The crowd cheers. It’s only about half of what they need to dispatch the Frontrunners, so hopefully one of the others also succeeds.

August waits another five minutes, which gives the third drone about forty billion miles to find something else. “Go for Three!” It comes back with more than enough of what they will need. The crowd cheers again, this time much louder.

The Elder program is still in section four of the main cargo bay. He’s shaking his head. Nothing has changed. This will still end badly. Omega doesn’t know how he knows this, especially with so many variables, but he can’t take the chance. They have the raw materials they need right now. There is no reason to continue. They could always send more missions later on, now that they know it’s possible.

Now the Elder program is pointing at the scorch station. Should a contaminate be loaded into the cargo bay—which is what this program appears to be suggesting will happen—the scorch station is capable of destroying any organic substance in the entire cargo bay. Since this is obviously so dangerous, it’s not like anyone is allowed to just walk up to it, and turn it on. They need authorization. Fortunately for Omega, he is more than qualified to break into it, especially if the Elder program is there to help him out. First, he hacks his chair, and teleports into what’s generally a time power-free zone. He won’t be able to trick the system into believing he’s a senior officer, but he can make it think he’s the cargomaster, who is also authorized to perform this action.

He checks his watch as he’s working, acutely aware that the next scheduled launch is in less than two minutes. He doesn’t absolutely have to get this done before the contaminant shows up. Either the fire prevents the launch from taking place, or it kills what’s already come through. Either way, everyone remains safe. It looks like it’s going to be the second possibility. Just when he’s cracked it, Omega sees the drone disappear, only to be immediately replaced by another vessel, but it’s not a gridship. It’s sealed up with a hull, and the hatchway is opening, which suggests that someone alive is inside. It’s too late. Scorch protocol engages, and overwhelms the cargo bay.

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Microstory 1396: Soma

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Psychiatrist: Welcome back, Mr. Stern.

Fiore Stern: Thank you.

Psychiatrist: Tell me how you’ve been feeling this week?

Fiore Stern: I’m still really nervous around other people. I never thought going undercover in a terrorist organization would make me feel like this. I keep seeing people as victims, as if I’m the one who hurt them.

Psychiatrist: Well, that’s understandable. A lot of highly trained people in law enforcement come back out of undercover feeling responsible for the things they did while they were pretending to be someone else.

Fiore Stern: That’s just it, I didn’t have to do anything. All I did was teach people how to reinforce their lawns, and spread fertilizer. If the company had never told me they were terrorists, I would have just been some guy with a normal job. I’m not responsible for the things they did, even while I was working there. They would have been doing that anyway.

Psychiatrist: It’s good that you recognize that intellectually. I would call it the first step towards getting you to a better place in your life. Your conscious brain now just needs to tell your subconscious that, not only did you do nothing wrong, but that you did something amazingly heroic. That’s what these medications should be doing for you. Tell me how they’re going.

Fiore Stern: They’re all right, I guess. I get a little tired of having to remember to take them.

Psychiatrist: They have apps on your phone now that can help you schedule doses. I have one a lot of my patients use that they seem quite pleased with.

Fiore Stern: Yeah, I know. I suppose a part of me still doesn’t like taking them in the first place. I just don’t get why I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but like, the other half of my brain doesn’t? Can’t I just...I dunno, talk to myself, and convince me to be better?

Psychiatrist: That’s kind of what therapy is for, and you said you didn’t feel that was helping. If you would like to start seeing your therapist again, however, I can only see that as a good choice.

Fiore Stern: I didn’t really like her. She didn’t exactly get me, ya know?

Psychiatrist: There are plenty of others. Just like with medication, sometimes it just takes a little experimentation to find someone who’s right for you.

Fiore Stern: Yeah. I probably do need to keep taking your drugs, though. I believe they help me distinguish fact from fiction. When I’m seeing some random person on the street, paralysed in place, and bleeding from their neck, I need the meds to tell me that that’s not real.

Psychiatrist: Yes, it’s important to be able to tell what’s not really there. I have a question about that, though.

Fiore Stern: Okay.

Psychiatrist: You say you see people paralyzed and bleeding? How are they bleeding? Is it flowing from a wound, or does it kind of look like they’re painting with the blood? Do you see burn marks, or—forgive me—dismembered body parts?

Fiore Stern: Wow, you have a sick mind, don’t you, Psychiatrist? It’s pretty normal. The blood is just coming out of them. Now burn marks. Why? Does that say something about my worldview, or my personality?

Psychiatrist: Well, the organization you helped take down for the authorities was a bomb-making outfit, was it not?

Fiore Stern: It was, yes.

Psychiatrist: From what I read, they didn’t—forgive me again—cut people, or anything. Why would you be seeing victims that look like that, if you’re subconscious is feeling responsible for explosions?

Fiore Stern: Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I didn’t think it all the way through. I should have just kept it vague, and told you I saw dead bodies.

Psychiatrist: Mr. Stern, have you been lying to me to score recreational drugs?

Fiore Stern: Ha! Nothing so human, I assure you. What do you take me for, some kind of amateur?

Psychiatrist: Interesting word choice. Does that mean you’re a professional? A professional what?

Fiore Stern: Tell me, Psychiatrist. Do you have any other appointments today?

Psychiatrist: I can clear my schedule, if you really need me to. We should get to the bottom of whatever is going on with you.

Fiore Stern: Yes, I agree. We should nip it in the bud, lest you poison the world with your claims about me.

Psychiatrist: Mr. Stern, what are you talking about?

Fiore Stern: Why don’t you stop recording, and I’ll explain.

Psychiatrist: Stop. Don’t touch that. Please keep your distance, Mr. Stern. Mr. Stern! If you don’t—

Microstory 1341: Bad Thoughts

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New Patient: Where should I sit? Or should I lie down?

Psychologist: You can sit or lie down wherever you like, however you like. That’s why I have so many options. I have one patient who prefers to curl up against the wall, because it makes them feel safer.

New Patient: Okay, thanks.

Psychologist: So, what brings you in today? The way I understand it, you’re having mixed feelings about something?

New Patient: Well, that’s one way to put it. I would describe what I’m experiencing as bad thoughts. I just keep—not seeing things; I don’t have hallucinations—but I have these urges to do things I know are wrong.

Psychologist: Things like what?

New Patient: Well, the other day, the cashier at the grocery store got upset with me, because I’m apparently supposed to scan my rewards card before I pay, so now there was nothing she could do about it. I can’t say that I wanted to do this, but I just had a vision—this flash—where I shoved the card in her mouth, and told her to scan it now. Oh my God, that’s so terrible. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.

Psychologist: That’s okay. This is a safe space. Everything you say is confidential, and I’m not here to judge you. Mine is only to help.

New Patient: I sure hope you can, because this isn’t even the worst example. I can’t explain it. Like I was saying with that one, I don’t have a desire to hurt people, but I can’t help but think of these alternative responses. The normal thing to do is just open the door that’s just been accidentally shut in my face, but a part of me wants to get them back for that; to physically drag them back to the threshold, and slam it in their face too.

Psychologist: So your thoughts are more about exacting justice, or revenge, on people who have wronged you.

New Patient: Yeah, I guess that’s probably an accurate limitation. I don’t walk past someone on the street, and think about randomly slitting their throat. It just seems to bother me more those little annoying things that people do. I mean, I would almost rather just be the kind of jerk who snaps at others, because then at least I wouldn’t be hurting them. I’m worried I’ll one day just lose control, and actually act on these thoughts.

Psychologist: Well, I wouldn’t be worried about that just yet. Simply by acknowledging that these are, and would be, irrational reactions, you’ve taken the first step in changing your perspective.

New Patient: I’ve just never been like this before. I grew up totally fine, but now it’s all I can think about, at least for a few moments after something frustrating happens to me. It’s making it hard to focus on everything I need to do.

Psychologist: There’s probably some reason it’s happening now. When people change their moods like that, it’s usually due to newer, stressful situations. Let’s talk more about who you are, what you do, and what has changed in your life recently that could cause you to feel a little more temperamental than before.

Microstory 1216: Ladonna Buhle

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Ladonna Buhle was born in Port Elizabeth, South Africa on October 21, 1981. Her parents were not in a financial position to get her help when she started talking about seeing angels floating in the air all over the place. They couldn’t stop her from claiming that these things were real, but with any luck, they could stop her from telling everyone in town about them. As it turned out, her ability was similar to Vidar Wolfe’s. She could detect temporal anomalies, which included objects with unusual properties, and also people with powers of their own, or salmon patterns. She couldn’t inherently take advantage of these things, but that didn’t mean they weren’t useful to her. She was strong and formidable, and crossing her was generally a bad idea, especially not when she was grown, and figured out the truth about what she was seeing. She kept in touch with her family as best she could, but like so many others, she pretty much shed her old life, and started traveling the world. Ladonna could go to any time and place of her choosing, as long as she found the right anomaly to cross through, but she chose to stay in the present day. She wasn’t worried about the act of altering the past itself, but she didn’t like the idea of there being multiple versions of her with the potential to interact with each other. It shook her religious core, and caused her existential anxiety. So she essentially became a teleporter, except she could only go to and from certain places. Anomalies were difficult to use properly, but with enough time and patience, she could figure anything out. But her power wasn’t what made her special. Others could detect—or even utilize—natural spacetime anomalies, and temporal objects. Her greatest contribution came because she studied them, and understood how they worked on a fundamental level. She created the first map of nonlinear spacetime, and it was her research that became the foundation for The Weaver’s invention of the Compass of Disturbance. Like Ladonna, the compass could detect and access anomalies, among other things, but any human could operate it. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this development. Theoretically, it was a dangerous thing to exist, but the only people who ever used it proved themselves to be noble and trustworthy, so she made her peace with the consequences of her choices. After some years of travel, it started to get a little dull for her. Sure, there were lots of places she hadn’t seen yet, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see them. She wasn’t the type of person who could experience more awe or joy while standing in an impressively constructed building than she could just by using the right tools on the internet. She found landscapes to be beautiful and calming, but this sense of tranquility was interrupted every time she tried to go somewhere new, so she eventually decided to settle down in just one beautiful place. She chose to make her home at Brooks Lake. It was the aquatic hub of Earth, naturally connecting every significantly large body of water to this one, relatively small, body. The transition from it to another place was so smooth that she even considered the trip itself to be a relaxing experience. It was here that she lived out the rest of her days, until she was killed for trying to get others to see things her way, and carrying out her beliefs in a way that contradicted her own values.

Microstory 1199: Nadia Dupond

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Nadia Dupond was so excited to finally move out of her parents’ house, and into her own place. She had just spent four years after college, trying to find a job good enough to allow her to fend for herself. But things weren’t going to go perfectly for her, at least not at first. One night, she was driving home from work when she noticed something strange on the radio. It was broadcasting a show that was clearly from clear on the other side of the country. Well, there must be some logical reason for it, she figured. Maybe they were sister stations, and were just doing some kind of cross-promotional thing. But the more she listened, the stranger it became. After playing another song, the radio personality got back on the mic, and started reading off some of the recent news, which appeared to have taken place about a week in the future. Okay, so not just a bizarre cross-promotion, but it’s also a prank on the listeners. She shrugged it off and moved on with her life, because she had no reason to believe she was in a science fiction movie. But weird things continued to happen to her. She approached her front door, and found it to be both open and closed at the same time. Seeing one state was like adjusting her eyes to a different distance, and she could just as easily readjust to see the other state. It smelled of barbecue where there was no barbecue, and it felt like winter in the middle of summer. She expressed her concerns on social media, but deleted it within seconds, worried how people would treat her if she started talking about these things. She thought she was going crazy and/or hallucinating, and probably would have checked herself into some kind of facility had she not made that post. No one who knew what was happening to her would have had any inkling to approach her about it.

That post’s short life on the internet was enough to alert a news-obsessed man, who regularly searched the web for anything that sounded like a time traveler. He generally stuck to the tabloids and obscure local news sources, but he did place some social media alerts for certain keywords. He didn’t know exactly why Nadia was experiencing disjointed time, but he knew what she was; either a choosing one, or a salmon. He made sure she acknowledged that the things she was sensing were very real, perfectly normal for their kind, and probably not going away. Her best bet was to practice what she could do, so she could do it at will, rather than at inopportune or dangerous times, like while driving. As it turned out, she was capable of seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling, or even tasting different points in time, but not space. Radio waves could subvert the spatial component since they’re always in motion, but they were practically impossible to control, so this exception wasn’t much use to her. Any and all of the past and future could converge upon her, so she needed to be able to filter out what she wanted to receive, and what she needed to leave when and where it was meant to be. The first person to contact her about this could only do so much to help her. He wasn’t a doctor, or an expert of any kind, but he did know other people like them, so he made some introductions. That was sort of how it worked. Once you met one, you could eventually gain access to anyone else. With the help of others, Nadia continued to learn about her time powers, and learn to control them. While she had chosen to pursue a pragmatic career, she was always interested in history, and this was her chance to explore that side of her. She eventually quit her job, and focused exclusively on her new role. Other time travelers can go witness historical events, even from the safety of an observation dimension, to prevent interference. Nadia, however, can watch history unfold over time; fastforwarding and rewinding as needed. She started taking on more responsibility as she got better with her powers, and ultimately came to be known as The Historian.

Microstory 1107: Judy Schmidt

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There was nothing particularly special about Judy Schmidt. She grew up with a normal family, in a normal town, and ended up with a normal job in marketing. She was raised as an atheist, and after careful study of the world’s religions when she was older, decided she still was. She wasn’t superstitious, and she didn’t believe in anything that hadn’t been officially recorded in history. She believed in dinosaurs and meteorites, but not ghosts, and definitely not time travelers. After a few years of working for the company, she finally felt comfortable with her career status. She wasn’t interested in doing the same job, for the same rate of pay, forever, but she wasn’t overly ambitious either. She was ready to hold steady for awhile, and maybe focus a little more on her personal life. Her friends had been wanting to set her up on a blind date, so she agreed. She and Rebecca started off slow. First they had coffee, then lunch, then dinner, and then they had a date that took place in two locations. This occurred over the course of a month, and it seemed to be going so well, that they both decided they wanted to take the next step. On the first night that Rebecca stayed over, she disappeared...literally. They were sitting up in bed, just talking, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone, right in the middle of her sentence. A frightened Judy immediately called poison control, thinking she had ingested something bad, but there was nothing they could do for her if she didn’t specifically remembering taking something. They directed her to urgent care, where the doctors and nurses were unable to find anything wrong with her. There was no sign she had been given a hallucinogen, or anything else. There wasn’t even any alcohol in her system. She finally had to surrender to the odd, but still plausible, possibility that she fell asleep, and by the time she woke up, Rebecca had simply left. Sure, her recollection of what the clock read didn’t account for this, and sure, Rebecca wasn’t picking up her phone, but that didn’t mean she was magic. But she was, sort of. Two days later, Judy was getting ready for work when Rebecca suddenly returned. She was wearing different clothes, and covered in mud. As it turned out, she had just spent the entire time in 2011, providing aid for families displaced by the Sidoarjo mud flow in Indonesia. Judy had a hard time believing it, but couldn’t deny the fact that she never did receive a more reasonable explanation for Rebecca’s disappearance. Three days later, it happened again. This time, she was only gone for about eight hours, and returned apparently from the same time and place as before. This continued to happen every day. She was sent off to work, as if it were any other job, except it was taking place over thirty years in the past. She tried to break up with Judy, but Judy wouldn’t accept it. Though this was all new to her, Judy could tell that her relationship with Rebecca was real, and it would be unfair to the both of them if she just ignored their potential. So she stayed, ultimately forever, and she never regretted it.

Microstory 108: Verner Holt

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As mentioned earlier, second generation anomalies were few and far between, though they did exist. Verner Holt was one of these. He was kept secret by his father, an early active member of Bellevue, for several years before being discovered, even though his ability didn’t manifest until just before. One morning, little Verner was walking down the street with his mother. A homeless veteran of war happened to be experiencing traumatic flashbacks in the alleyway up ahead. While his mother was waiting for a street vendor to complete the transaction, Verner broke away and approached the veteran. What he saw in there were enemy and friendly soldiers, battling in the trenches. He watched as the vet fought off a combatant and killed him with his bayonet. Even though he too could see the soldiers, he knew that they were hallucinations, and could no longer hurt anyone. Out of instinct, he approached the vet who was scared out of his mind, and comforted him by touch. Without saying a word, Verner was eventually able to somehow convey to the man that these were only memories, and that the war had long past. Luckily, before Verner’s mother found the alley where the two new friends were sitting, the hallucinations had depleted entirely. While he was not entirely cured of his post-traumatic stress disorder, what Verner did for him in that moment gave him the faculties and time he needed to contact Bellevue and report his miraculous encounter with the anomaly boy. Verner went on to enter the field of psychiatry, using his ability out in the open to treat severe neurological conditions. A side of effect of his profession was a cult-like following of former patients, grateful for having known the one and only person who could truly understand what they were going through.

Microstory 89: Gift Horse

Maxwell Morgenstern’s best friend in the entire world, Maria Gali died a week ago. They had met when they were young children, and their families soon learned quite how difficult it was to keep them apart. They never developed romantic feelings for each other, but their profound connection still put pressure on relationships they tried to form with others. After the burial ceremony, Maxwell began to see Maria’s face everywhere he went. It started off subtly, as the faces of strangers tended to look more like her than he would have previously thought. Soon she became her own person, appearing in full view, and even striking up conversations with Maxwell the likes of which they would have had when she was alive. His continued relationship with his dead friend raised concerns amongst his family, despite the fact that it wasn’t interfering with his responsibilities. He finally felt forced to visit the doctor about the situation. They ran scans and discovered a mass in his brain, which they had no choice but to remove surgically. He put off the procedure for as long as he could, but time eventually ran out. When his mother asked him if he now knew that the apparition wasn’t actually the ghost of Maria, he responded, “I knew from the first second that she wasn’t, strictly speaking, real. But I held on to her because I considered it a blessing; a gift that my brain gave me in order to help my transition. I know the tumor needed to be removed, but I do not regret the extra time my perception allowed me to have with her.”