Microstory 2321: Vacuus, September 26, 2178

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Dear Condor,

Thank you for the sentiment regarding my job. I’m okay whether it’s important or not. It gives me something to do, and besides, it’s not like I have to sit and stare at the alarm for hours on end. There are other tasks, like making sure communications are running smoothly. I mean the communications between various outposts on Vacuus, not to other planets. It would give me a lot more freedom if I had full access to those systems. I would probably know more about Earth than you! Speaking of interplanetary communications, I should have said earlier that they’re going to be down for the next couple of weeks or so. They’re overhauling the entire system, which is something they do every three Earthan years. We’re still on your schedule, which I’m sure you’ve noticed since I’m dating these messages according to your calendar. That’s not just for your benefit. There are certainly no local periodic astronomical phenomena to base anything off of. Anyway, back to the explanation about the systems. Obviously, they update the software about once per month to make it faster, more efficient, and just better overall. But at the end of what they call a Research Cycle, they also upgrade the hardware, because those software updates stop being enough to keep up with advancing technologies, and operational needs. We have all sorts of anniversaries here. The day we launched, the day we landed, the day the first baby was born on Vacuus. One of these “anniversaries” only happens every three years, because we were on this planet for that long before people finally felt like we weren’t just trying to survive, but actively starting to conduct stable daily research as true Vacuans. I dunno, it seems kind of arbitrary to me. No one day marked the end of survival mode, and the beginning of thriving mode, but it’s a pretty big deal. It doesn’t actually happen until the end of October, but that’s when we celebrate it, so they always want the big overhaul to be finished by then. I definitely won’t be able to send you any messages, but it’s a two-way street as far as the transceiver goes, so your messages to me won’t come through either, and in fact, may not even be waiting on a server somewhere for me to read later. I may not ever be able to read a message that tried to come through during the upgrades. If you do try to send something—as people used to say in the olden days—it could get lost in the mail. I’ll hit you back when systems are up and running again. I apologize for not warning you about this sooner. I just forgot about it, because I have to do so much to prepare as part of my job, and I’ve never spoken to anyone who doesn’t already know everything about it.

Until we can talk again,

Corinthia

Microstory 2180: Secretary is a Dirty Word

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My neighbor and new assistant has agreed to let me tell you her name, and a little bit about her. I didn’t ask her if I could do this; she volunteered, thinking that it didn’t make much sense for me to keep referring to her by her relationship to me. I try to keep the specifics about other people out of my posts, and not reveal too many details about them, in order to protect their privacy, but I can also see how it may feel impersonal and detached. I hope that no one else is experiencing any such issues. Anyway, Jasmine Soun is 29 years old. She’s from St. Louis, Missouri. After she graduated from St. Louis University, she decided to leave all of her belongings behind, and just start driving. She stayed on the road for four hours, and the only reason she stopped is because she ran out of gas. She had made it to Kansas City by then, but wasn’t too near a gas station. She had to get out, and walk the rest of the way to buy a gas can, and fill it up before making her way back to her car. It was there that she met her future boyfriend when he offered to give her a ride. He also offered her a job at the gas station, and she didn’t have any other prospects, so she accepted it. That’s the kind of person she is, a real go-with-the-flow type. He would later convert her to vegetarianism, which was what made her have to quit her job before too long. She didn’t like selling the types of foods to which she had a moral objection. I can very understand that. Fast-forward about six years, and she’s no longer with that guy, but they keep in touch. She’s had a number of jobs since then, but just before I hired her, she was a secretary for the Vice President of Manufacturing at a computer hardware company that specialized in memory modules, so she has decent experience, which means that it’s not a cronyistic hire. Back in my home universe, secretary is a dirty word, filled with a historical context of misogyny, and an imbalance of power through a gendered dynamic. People in this world apparently never had that problem, so the word doesn’t have the same negative connotations. Sure, it’s not like it’s a coveted position, admired like astronauts, but it’s not shameful either, and it hasn’t been traditionally dominated by women either. No job really has been; I find that interesting. And on that note, we better get back to work. Say goodbye, Jasmine. She says hello.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: January 26, 2399

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“Why would I be here to kill you?” Mateo asks, taking a step back to look as nonthreatening as possible. “Is someone trying to kill you?”

“That’s what Aunt Aldona told me,” he replies. “She said I have to stay up here, because it’s not safe down on the planet.”

“When you say Aunt Aldona...?”

“She’s a family friend; not a real relative.”

“I see.” So the connection is nebulous, and may not help them understand exactly where Aldona came from. She was in the afterlife simulation, but how—and why—was she resurrected, and where did she go from there? How did she meet this kid, and his family? “Well, I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t even know you were here. My name is Mateo. Mateo Matic. What’s yours?”

“Cedar. Cedar Duvall.”

Mateo perks up. “Your parents are Curtis and Cheyenne.”

“Yes, do you know them?”

“Yes, I know them pretty well. I’m going to go out on a limb here, and assume that you’ve heard of time travel? I mean, real time travel; not just as a concept?”

“Of course,” Cedar says.

“Mateo, what’s the hold up?” Ramses asks through the radio.

The son of Curtis and Cheyenne Duvall is living—possibly totally alone—on a spaceship orbiting Earth. He was brought here by a dead and resurrected woman from another reality. It’s bad enough that Mateo now knows about it. He trusts Ramses, but Aldona doesn’t, and Cedar doesn’t even know him. Their team is having trouble with Aldona, and her choices, but she’s not evil, and he has no reason to believe that she’s not genuinely trying to help. The only way to protect this kid is to tighten the circle as much as possible, which means not so much as telling his wife about it. It’s the only respectful thing to do. The problem is, Mateo is a teleporter. What’s a good reason to not have returned to the hangar to retrieve Ramses in a matter of seconds? “Uhh. I’m, uhh...trapped under this octagon thing. I was just rearranging the equipment a little to make it more organized.”

“Well, I...can’t help you,” Ramses returns.

“No, it’s okay, I’m getting it off. I’m just doing it a centimeter at a time. Give me a minute or two.”

“Why are you lying?” Cedar asks.

“Your aunt is trying to keep you safe. I’m not going to interfere with that, but we have work to do up here, so is there any place that you think would be a good hiding spot? Just so you know, Ramses will need to access this cargo bay, the bridge, engineering, and maybe a common area for food and rest.”

“There’s a safe room behind reclamation. I could survive there for a week or two.”

“That’s perfect, he won’t need that. Go there, and don’t come out unless you hear two knocks, a pause, and then three more knocks. Does this all make sense?”

Cedar starts to leave, but stops. “Why are you helping me?”

“It’s what we do.” Mateo lifts the heavy satellite part that he mentioned to Ramses. He finds the business end of an uncovered screw, and drags it along his leg to draw some blood. “Now go.”

“Thanks.” Cedar runs off.

Mateo gives it another minute, to make sure he can no longer hear footsteps from here. Then he sets the part down carefully, and returns to the surface.

“Are you okay?” Ramses asks.

“I’m fine,” Mateo says. “I’ll heal.”

“Next time, just wait for me. I know how all this stuff goes.”

“Good point. My bad, sorry.”

“It’ll be fine. Now let’s go.”

“Wait! You’re not going anywhere!” Aldona is running towards them with a gun, looking like some kind of federal agent.

“You’re gonna shoot us?” Ramses questions. “Really!”

“It’s a teleporter gun,” Aldona explains. “It’s programmed to send you to hock in the bottom level of the base.”

“You think you can shoot us faster than I can teleport out of here?” Mateo poses.

“I only need to shoot one of you,” Aldona reasons. “You’re standing far enough apart. He can’t teleport without you, and you don’t have anywhere to go without him.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Mateo volleys. He jumps to right behind her. “Behind ya.”

Aldona spins around, and fires the gun, but that was just a distraction. Mateo immediately jumps to Ramses, and takes him up to the ship. She can be forgiven for not thinking this through. She’s desperate to protect her nephew. She doesn’t know that she doesn’t have anything to worry about.

After getting Ramses to where he needs to be, Mateo jumps right back to the hangar again. Her arms are hanging down, and she’s about to hyperventilate. “Cedar seems like a good kid,” he says to her.

“So it’s too late,” she laments.

“Too late to keep him a complete secret, but not too late to keep him safe,” Mateo says. “I didn’t tell anyone else about him. I didn’t even tell Ramses.”

“He didn’t see him yet?”

“No, and he won’t. I told Cedar to hide in the safe room. I don’t think Ramses will need more than a week up there. Once the satellite is deployed, he should be able to work it remotely, like any other satellite.”

For a second, she looks hopeful, but it fades. “No, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a matter of time before someone else finds out about him.”

“I don’t know what about your past—or future—interactions with us have made you think that we can’t be trusted, but I assure you that Cedar is safe. We would never hurt him, and we would never let anyone else hurt him either. People from all over the multiverse know that that shit doesn’t fly with us.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand what he’s up against.”

“You’re right, I don’t, and I don’t need to. Because anyone who’s after him doesn’t know what they’re up against. We don’t lose. Besides, I can guess why he’s at risk. No one will tell us what the Sixth Key really is, but one thing we have figured out is that Cheyenne is very special. The Officiant jumped at the chance to take a favor from her. If Cedar is half as important, it’s no wonder you’re working so hard to keep him a secret.”

She shakes her head again, but not lamentably this time. “If you have learned and surmised all that, you’re already too much of a danger to him. I’m sorry, I can’t let you go up there again, or bring Ramses back.” She shoots him in the chest.

Microstory 1710: Everything But the Chisel

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My chisel is all that’s left. Ever since I moved into this house I’ve had a hard time remembering to close the garage. Everywhere I lived before, I would walk straight into the house, but this one is unattached. It’s right up against the house, mind you, and it’s even connected to the grid, but I have to walk outside to actually get into my home. It’s annoying, but I can deal. I just need to learn to make closing that door a habit by using the keypad, or maybe by buying an extra clicker to hang on the key hook. I guess it doesn’t matter much now. Everything is gone. Everything except my chisel. I don’t even have any use for a chisel. Just about everything I own I inherited from my family; in the case of the tools, my dad. He somewhat recently bought all new supplies, but the old ones were fine, and they were just sitting in his father’s father’s toolbox for years until it was time for me to move out. Now I’ve lost it all, except for the chisel. They took my car, naturally. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it start up, since the walls are so thin. They must have been professionals, who knew how to get in and out quickly and quietly. They didn’t want any chisels, though. Fortunately, the door to the inside of my house is always locked. I never forget to do that. In my old age, I can’t take off my shoes without holding onto something to steady myself, and the doorknob is pretty good for that. I suppose I could use a chair, but who has the time to remember that? Anyway, my hand’s already there, so before I grab all the way onto it, I turn the lock, and I’m safe. Or maybe they never wanted inside at all as there’s nothing of value in here, except for my life, and maybe not even that. My laptop is obsolete, my TV is a square. They would probably still want it anyway. After all, they took the trash can I keep in the garage for junk mail. They crave that 49 cents off a bag of carrots, but not a chisel, I guess.

I stand there staring at it, feeling like there must be some kind of message in this. If it were on the floor, I would assume they just dropped it on their way out. But it’s still up on this pegboard, right where I’m pretty sure I left. Well, I didn’t leave it there. My mom set this up for me secretly while I was at work one day. She likes to do things for me, because she knows how irresponsible I can be. Remember that I’m the one who never remembers to close his garage door. In all this time, I’ve probably only used a couple of these tools. The deck is old, so I have to smash down the screws and nails with a hammer so my dog doesn’t step on them. I would use the pocket knife to open packages. Those are really the only things here that I ever needed. I wonder if it’s possible to use the chisel for both of those tasks. I could hit the screws and nails with the handle, and stab into the boxes and bags. That would probably risk damaging the contents, but I believe I deserve it. Yeah, this must be a message, and it has nothing to do with online orders or hardware. The burglars are telling me that I’m not only a tool, but a useless one. Chisels are great when you’re the kind of person who uses chisels, but they’re not an everyday thing for most people. I’m not an everyday person. I’m only good under certain conditions, like when you want someone to steal all of your stuff without breaking a sweat, or if you need a mediocre file clerk who’s always making mistakes. This chisel represents me: alone, and not especially valuable. As I’m contemplating my sad life, one of the burglars returns and explains that he forgot something. He’s about to reach for the chisel, but I grab it first. And I stab him in the throat with it.