Microstory 2217: He Only Watched

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We’re at the hospital today for a check-up. There’s a lot that I can do for him. I can take care of his basic needs, help with physical therapy homework, and draw blood or run an IV drip. There are still things that a nurse or doctor needs to perform, though. He’ll probably be at the hospital about once a week from now on. While I was on their website to make sure we would park in the right lot, I found out that the hospital was putting on a little talent show. It wasn’t this grand, expensive affair, but the staff like to keep their patients active and in high spirits, so they do things like this sometimes. No one was being judged or ridiculed. Some of the talents were unimpressive by most people’s standards, like one elderly woman who just sort of slowly twirled around while she was looking up at the ceiling, waving her arms around occasionally. One of the radio techs beatboxed. It was a safe environment for people to be themselves, and maybe forget about why they were there. I don’t think that it worked for Nick, but it was worth a shot. He only watched, of course. There was no way I was convincing him to get up on that stage. He says that he wouldn’t have done anything like that on his best day. He’s not much of a performer, and has hated having to do things like that in the past, like for school. Lots of teachers told him that he would get used to it the more he tried it, but that never happened. Evidently, in his world, the culture assumes that everyone can do anything if they work hard enough at it, and obviously, that’s not true. This site was his way of reaching out to the world, and when I pointed that out to him, it actually seemed to resonate, so I’m hoping that means he’ll soon decide to inject his own thoughts back into it, even if that means he dictates what he needs me to type for him. One can hope.

Microstory 2164: Whiny Babies

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A while back, a company reached out to me for a business opportunity. They wanted me to promote their products in my videos, which I do not make, but we still thought there was something there, so we kept talking. An agreement was made, and a deal was quite nearly finalized with a steak dinner. I’m a vegetarian, so I lamented how that affected my mental health. The company didn’t like that, so they pulled out of the deal, and I thought that was the end of it. It’s come back to haunt me today. Now they’ve taken it a step further, and sent me a cease and desist letter. They’re threatening to take legal action unless I remove the posts that mention the issue, and release a public apology. Honestly—and I recognize that saying this might only make things worse—but they’re total morons. I have yet to tell you which company this is, and I will continue to keep that a secret unless they leave me no choice. If I apologize publicly, you will necessarily find out who they are. Now, you might end up on their side because of that, but something tells me that you’re going to continue to side with the lone blogger who was only exercising his freedom of speech over a corporation with an amount of money that I can’t even ballpark, because it would narrow down your list of suspects, which I don’t want you to be able to do. But obviously we’re not talking about some local family run shop with only one location. People tend to not like corporate executives for being the biggest whiny babies in a world that gives them everything they need and want. I don’t think that this will end well for them, which is why I’m doing everything I can to help them move past it. I’m trying to keep things civil, private and confidential, and productive, but I think they’ve just seen how popular I’ve grown to be, and they want in on that action. I guess they think that I’m a millionaire by now, or something. I assure you, I’m not there yet. I may never be, as I’m a blogger, not a movie star. I’m not too worried about where this little legal issue is going to go. They’ll back down when they realize that even if they win, they lose. Their reputation is so much more important than mine is. I can fall into obscurity if I have to. I could live naked in the middle of the woods with nothing, and still survive. A company can’t do that. So come at me, bro.

Microstory 2163: Your Greatest Weakness Is

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Leonard and I had another meeting with the jail warden. He’s not mad, but I think I needed some time to collect my thoughts about what he proposed in the first place. That’s why I’m a writer, and not an improv comedian. We discussed options further, and there’s actually a chance that I could stop having to go to jail altogether. There is precedent for this sort of thing. A few cops who were convicted of various crimes throughout history have gone back into the field during emergencies, and earned their freedom by proving themselves redeemed. In one case, a really dangerous convict broke out of prison, forcing his not-so-bad cellmate to tag along. The latter ended up not only bringing his cellmate down, but also stopped his associates from committing a horrendous crime while he was still on the other side of the walls. So he was set free too. If I went the same route, it would be nothing as glamorous or intense as that. I would just start working for the jail, trying to help them better sort and schedule the guests. I would love the chance to have my sentence commuted, but I’m still not confident that I’m up for the job. I suppose I always thought of myself as someone who wasn’t necessarily talented at anything, but maybe good at finding talented people elsewhere? I could probably come up with a list of desirable positions, and then figure out how to seek out professionals who sufficiently fit the criteria. My dad was in human resources, so while he didn’t exactly ever sit me down, and teach me the ropes, I did pick up a few skills from him. I’ve also had tons of my own job interviews, so I know which questions are too dumb to be asked, like what kind of animal you would be, or what your greatest weakness is. Ugh, that’s such a terrible one. Nobody has a good answer to that, and even if they do, what qualifies you to analyze it to determine some sort of insight into that person’s fitness for the job? I’m getting off track, but none of this is probably going to happen anyway. Remember that business partnership I was working on that went up in spectacular flames? I don’t see things going that sour for this situation, but I doubt the jail that keeps me locked up every weekend is going to turn around and hire me before I’ve completed my sentence. I can’t imagine they would do it even if I had served my time in its entirety. I will admit, though, it’s kind of nice that they’re even entertaining the possibility. I had never, ever, ever been recruited before until I came to this planet, and now it might happen twice? That’s insane. A con can dream, can’t he?

Microstory 2162: Don’t Say No to a Warden

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I finished my work hours a little early, so my parole officer could pick me up, and drive me back to jail, but I wasn’t staying there as a guest. I had a meeting with the warden, which was agitating the butterflies in my stomach. I put it like that, because I always keep butterflies in there, they just don’t always move around this much. As it turns out, it wasn’t bad, but I’m not so sure that it was good either. He read my story, as he apparently does every evening, and he thought that I had some good ideas. I hadn’t even realized that I had presented any ideas, but this was in regards to the disharmony that sometimes arises when guests that don’t get along well with each other are forced to live together in an enclosed space. To me, that’s kind of the definition of jail and prison, but he wants to find a way to put an end to it anyway. That sounds like a lovely sentiment, but I’m not sure that it can be done. Perhaps with a sufficiently advanced artificial intelligence, you could figure out how to accurately profile and categorize everyone in need of being housed in the system with as many labels as necessary, and organize them to prevent gang conflicts, or other major disagreements. But here’s the thing, you wouldn’t just want to stop two gangs from going to war with each other, you would want the gang to stop from forming in the first place, or they’ll just translate all that into the outside world once their sentences were up. That’s why you can’t just sit down with everyone’s psych profile, and sort them like you’re simply planning the seating arrangements for a wedding reception.

If you think that I’m being dismissive of how difficult it is to plan a wedding, you’re mistaken. Wedding receptions are hard. This would be virtually impossible. First thoughts, you’re gonna need a team of behavioral psychologists, and sociologists, and who knows what else, maybe a logistician? See, I couldn’t even tell you how to form the team. While it might have kind of been my idea, I can’t be a part of it. But that’s what he wants. He wants me to start a taskforce of sorts to figure out how to schedule the guests at the jail. But you would have to account for people’s job situations, the judges’ particular rulings on each person’s specific sentence. Again, I think you need an AI to do all this for you. Even a team probably wouldn’t be able to figure it out. I didn’t say no to the request, because you don’t say no to a warden, but I’ve not agreed to it either. I would need to discuss it with my lawyers, and my current employer... It would eat into the time I need for my site and socials. It would also seem weird to me if I were both a staff member of the jail, and a guest who had no choice but to be there for 48 hours a week straight. I know that prisons have work programs, but this is not the same thing as shelving books in the library, or renovating the CO break room. Those are references that, fortunately, none of you gets. Anyway, I guess this is more a long-term shift in strategies. The warden says that if this hypothetical pilot program works, they could theoretically institute it at other facilities. I suppose nothing would really start until after I completed my sentence, assuming any of this gets off the ground, and that there’s a place for me in it at all, which sounds ridiculous right now. Until then (or until never) I’ll just go back to doing my thang, and not worry much about it. The stress would not get me anywhere. My butterflies move around enough as it is.

Microstory 2121: Try to Escape, Blah Blah Blah

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I’ve been calling this weekend jail, but the real and official term is intermittent jail. I don’t know about anywhere else, but the people of this Earth decided that they wanted a lot of their criminals to be able to serve their time while still being able to contribute positively to society. Some prisons offer some sort of work program, but this is difficult to regulate, and studies a long time ago discovered a lot of exploitation, and unfair wage practices. The reason it’s called intermittent is because not everyone can do it on the weekends, because that makes the process too complicated. Everyone who works there would be really busy during these short periods of time, and they don’t want to have to do that. It’s actually harder to get a weekend schedule, because that’s what everyone wants, for obvious reasons. I was able to secure it because of my rising readership count for this website. They argued that my blog was a fixture of public interest that had the potential to paint the court system in a positive light. The system is not known here for its negative press, but good publicity is always welcome, and the judge agreed. So here’s what happened. I checked in at 19:00 exactly on Friday night. First, I should say that there are entire facilities dedicated to intermittent jail time, but some of them cater to mixed populations. You may end up as a cellmate to someone who has to stay there the whole time. In this case, we were all there for the same thing, and I think they’re going to try to keep me with the same cell mate each time, though that might not always work out. I have no feelings on this matter yet, as I have not even had a cellmate, because I was in the intake section.

The intake section is meant only for people who are going in for the first time. Well, it doesn’t have to be their first time full stop. If they’re a repeat offender, they have to go through the initial intake process all over again, so some of the people I saw there might have already known what to do. That’s the point of all this, to familiarize residents with the process before throwing them in with everyone else. So I got there at 19:00, and started filling out forms, and confirming information with the intake officers. After that, I was asked to place all of my belongings in a box after they were logged, and hand it to one of the officers while I went into a privacy room, and removed all of my clothes. It wasn’t that private, though, because we were all in there together, which I didn’t have a problem with; I just tend to notice funny language errors like that. It was just a locker room. So I removed my clothes, and put on an ugly multicolored striped shirt and ugly multicolored striped sweatpants. These did not have any pockets, because there is no reason to carry anything, such as—you know—weapons? Why were these striped and ugly? Well, if anyone breaks out, they want them to be immediately identifiable by their attire. It would be crazy for someone to break out of intermittent jail, since you would only have to wait a day or two, but I suppose there might be extenuating circumstances, like a dying loved one, or some other emergency.

After I got my new clothes on, I tucked my regulars in an aluminum tub, along with my other personal objects. I then put that whole thing in a big locker, the combination to which is known to the officers, and not to me. The normal lockers inside the privacy room serve no purpose from what I can tell. They led me down a hallway where I continued the intake process, which involved another physical exam, as well as a psych evaluation. All of this stuff is mostly for the first time you go there, but they warned me that they will periodically make me go through it all again, so I should never try to rely on a consistent schedule. Once I was cleared for lockup, they gave me a quick tour. The facility is not complicated. The common area is a hexagon in the center, which includes a gym, the cafeteria, chairs, televisions, and a few recreational amenities, like a pool table. That’s where the phones are too. On the first side of the hexagon is the Intake Sector, where the entrance is, as well as all the stuff that I’ve been describing, plus I think some offices on the upper floors. The common area is only a few stories high but the other sectors go up fourteen stories. The actual cells are in the middle levels of that first sector. The other sides of the hexagon are dedicated to all of the other cells, which is where I’ll go at the end of this week.

My first two nights here weren’t too terribly bad, but again, we were all in the same boat. Everyone there was scared, nervous, anxious, or just unfamiliar. Once I get placed in gen pop, I’ll start running into people who know the ropes. There could be drugs in there, or fights; who knows? I can’t give you a full impression since I’ve had such a limited experience so far. They did lay out the rules for me, most of which are obvious, like don’t cause trouble, or try to escape, blah, blah, blah. There are some less obvious ones too, like when mealtimes are, and how often I’m allowed to use the phone. There are times when I have to be in my cell, and even times when I’m not allowed to be in my cell, even if I just want to go in there to be alone or sleep. These vary by the sector, and by my current privilege status, so they’ll inform me of those specifics later. They will continue to update me with my status as my behavior continues to be monitored and appraised. For the time being, it felt more like staying in a hotel in Iowa. As we all know and agree, Iowa sucks, so if you have to be there for whatever reason, there’s no other reason to leave your hotel room. It’s not like there could be something that you would like to see or do, so staying in the room is the only rational way to pass the time anyway. I’m sure that it will start to feel more like a prison the more I’m obligated to go back, so stay tuned for my shifting perspective.

Microstory 2117: Cosmic Frequency

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Since I have nowhere else to live, I’m still in the hotel room that the government is paying for. I spoke with my lawyer yesterday—the one that my former employer is paying for—and also this morning. It looks like this thing isn’t going to be going to a full trial. The FBI and my benefactors are going to be vouching for me to the judge, as will reportedly my social worker. I’ll most likely serve some time in prison, but not in the way that you think. Have you ever heard anyone on a police or lawyer procedural say that a convict is being sentenced to consecutive time? Have you ever wondered if that means that there’s such a thing as nonconsecutive prison time? Well, yes, young Padawan, there is! It’s often called weekend jail, and it’s generally meant to allow people to continue working throughout the week, and/or take care of their families. I’m currently in between jobs, so I’ve been advised to start working closely with my social worker to change that. He’ll probably have ideas on an employer who would be willing to deal with what will become an unusual schedule. Or maybe it’s not that unusual. My frame of reference isn’t perfect, but I do believe that intermittent confinement is more common on this world. That reminds me, I’m a visitor from another universe, and people are very interested in that. That’s why they’ve been so helpful, because they want to understand if it’s even a little bit true. They don’t believe me entirely, but who could expect them to? I have no proof, and no way to prove it. A science fiction story would suggest that people from different universes have different quarks, or something, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I wrote a story once where a character was in a similar situation. He ended up in a highly advanced galaxy, where a group of doctors were able to run a “cosmic frequency” test on him to confirm his alien origins. I’m not sure how difficult it would be to do that here, but if researchers want to know how I tick, I guess I’ll suggest that, and see what they say. This is all in the very early stages. The military isn’t going to spend too many resources studying me until they have some real reason to believe that I’m telling the truth. For now, everyone’s playing this by ear, including me. Not everyone is gonna believe me at all, or be on my side. They’ll expect me to pay for my crimes, and won’t let the FBI, a private organization, or anyone else exonerate me, even under special circumstances. Weekend jail sounds like a good deal to me. I’m not a partier, so it’s not like I’m known to do anything special with my days off. Plus, that would allow me to stay online throughout my sentence. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? I am getting the sense that they want me to keep up with my blog too. My view count has been skyrocketing lately. Word is spreading about my life story, and people are catching up on my previous posts. It’s surreal. I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Microstory 1930: Rights of the Accused

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Junior Special Investigator: Leonard Miazga?

Leonard: Yes, that’s me. Do you work at the Office of Special Investigations?

Jr. Investigator: That’s not for you to know. All you need to know is that you are under arrest under special extenuating circumstances. Under the Alsten Act, according to Provision 83 of Special Investigations Code One, I hereby detain you for the defense of national security. You are not entitled to representation, and must comply with all demands, and answer all questions. All crimes committed prior to this moment, including those seemingly unrelated to the current accusations, as well as any crimes committed following this moment, shall be taken under consideration when considering judgment, punishment, or any other outcome of your circumstances. Do you understand everything I’ve informed you of today?

Leonard: Not really.

Jr. Investigator: Sir.

Leonard: What’s the Alsten Act?

Jr. Investigator: Sir, please.

Leonard: Please tell me that you recited those words verbatim, and that you didn’t try to regurgitate it using your own words.

Jr. Investigator: We are required to recite your status and rights in the eyes of federal law in order to detain you properly, using the exact same words as they are written and approved by the Office of the National Commander.

Leonard: So when I say that the words were repetitive, nonsensical, and just overall ridiculous, you won’t take personal offense?

Jr. Investigator: No, sir.

Leonard: Are you required to address me as sir?

Jr. Investigator: No.

Leonard: Then just call me Leonard, or Leo.

Jr. Investigator: Sir...Leo, I require you to state in no uncertain terms that you understand your rights as I have listed them for you.

Leonard: You mean the rights that have been stripped from me? Yeah, I guess so.

Jr. Investigator: [...]

Leonard: I mean, yes, I unequivocally understand them perfectly, fully, and perfectly.

Jr. Investigator: I’m going to have to place these handcuffs on you, but you may retrieve a coat, and drape it over your arms to remain inconspicuous.

Leonard: I don’t have a coat. It was summer on my world when I came here, and it’s summer now. I don’t exactly have a credit card to recreate my wardrobe. Besides, I’ve seen that before as a bystander, and let me tell ya, the coat trick ain’t foolin’ no one.

Jr. Investigator: Very well, sir—Leonard. I’ll leave the cuffs rather loose, as long as you promise not to make any attempt at escape.

Leonard: I promise to not try to escape. I’ll get this all sorted out at OSI.

Jr. Investigator: Uh...one more thing.

Leonard: Yes?

Jr. Investigator: Once we get into the car, you’re gonna have to wear a hood.

Microstory 1871: Soft Peddle

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I’ve never done drugs in my entire life. I drink a little, just to kind of chill out at the end of the day, but I don’t like to party, or anything. Some of my customers have asked me how I can conduct business if I’ve never used the product myself, and I don’t think it’s too crazy that I don’t partake. A lotion salesperson probably hasn’t used every single type of lotion in the store; or perfume, or whatever. And caskets, what about caskets? Not a single casket dealer has ever used one of their own models. Or rather, they haven’t used it for its intended long-term purpose. I suppose there are maybe a few freaks out there who get down like that, and that’s what draws them to the industry. The way I see it, I don’t need to know what it feels like to take a pill of certain properties. I just need to understand my clientele, and what they’re looking for. My business came out of nowhere. I had a lot of emotional problems when I was young, and my parents had the idea to just throw mind-altering drugs at everything. I took this, and I took that, and I tried cocktail after cocktail. Nothing helped until I delved deep into my issues, and focused on getting better through traditional therapeutic techniques. But then I had all these pills left over that nobody—nobody—asked me to dispose of. I guess I was simply expected to take the initiative to drop them off at my local pharmacy. Well, I didn’t, so I just kept everything with me, and when I went off to college, I didn’t bother sorting them out. I grabbed all of my medicine, and threw them in the top drawer of my desk in the dorm. Some of it I still needed, like my allergy meds, generic over-the-counter pain management, and melatonin. But it was all in there, in the back, and one day, when a neighbor asked me if I had something for his headache, a business was born.

He saw what else I had, and told me I was crazy for just sitting on them. I could make some serious money if I started peddling it to other students. It wasn’t the most insane idea. I mean, a few of those things could really help them focus on studying, and taking tests. Still, I was hesitant, so I closed the drawer, and dropped it. The other guy didn’t drop it, though. He started spreading word around, and somehow, without me even making a single sale, people were starting to call me The Pharmacist. They were in such need, and I wasn’t, so who was I to stop them? They were all adults capable of making their own decisions, and if this was what they wanted, fine. I didn’t truly understand street value at the time, so I didn’t charge them very much, but I had so much volume, so I made a huge profit, because I didn’t pay for any of it myself. As time went on, word spread farther beyond the dorm, and across campus. I was the guy to go to if you were looking for a little help, and didn’t technically have some stuffy doctor to agree to it. By the time I ran out of my supply, I was approached by a real life drug dealer who wasn’t happy I was taking business away from him. I apologized, and said I wasn’t in it for the long haul, but he wasn’t hearing it. He said I had to go talk to Fartle. I didn’t ask him where Fartle got his nickname. Or the spider tattoos. Or the gun. Fearing for my life, I agreed to start selling for him, as long as I never had to sell anything that had to be injected or snorted. He was fine with that, so that’s what I did. I didn’t call myself a drug dealer until the first time I went to jail, and the judge made me say those words, or he would double my sentence. When I got out, I found myself free of Fartle, but I still felt compelled to sell. I’m too good at it, so I’ve been doing it for ten years. I regret nothing.

Microstory 1870: Nullified

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I can’t tell you how many regrets rest on my shoulders that will burden me until the moment I die, which is coming up soon. The biggest thing I did with my life, however, is not one of them. The day I pulled that trigger was the proudest of my life, second only to the day when that choice was validated. I never officially admitted to any wrongdoing. I pleaded not guilty because of a loophole. You see, they charged me with murder, and I still don’t count my actions as murder. It was self-defense; I did it in protection of others. That’s not murder, so we went forward with the trial. I didn’t do that in the hopes that I would be set free—the evidence against me was insurmountable—but I wanted the facts to get out there, so the world would understand why. I didn’t care how the judge and jury saw me. I wanted everyone else to judge me for themselves. The verdict was a bonus that made the whole ordeal taste sweeter, but it wasn’t necessary. Several years ago, a pharmaceutical company made a breakthrough in their research, which made lifesaving medicine ten times cheaper to produce, and ten times more effective. It was revolutionary, and should have been the best news for millions of people. Instead, the company buried the true cost, and only promoted the benefits, which allowed them to charge more than they were before, and it was already really inexpensive, sometimes prohibitively so. The General in this army of scoundrels was the most evil of them all, and he shall remain nameless, because he’s dead now, and justice prevailed, even though it did not bring back the estimated 56,000 people who died as a result of his wicked practices. He could have saved them, but he chose not to, and it was for that reason that I chose to send him to hell. But it was no choice at all.

I didn’t know anyone who suffered from the disease, let alone died from it. It was because of the children. I was outraged when I found out, as were most others. But I trusted in the judicial system, because that was what we were taught to believe. I have mixed feelings about it now. He was going to get away with it. The jury found him not guilty, and he was just going to walk. His purse might have gotten lighter in a civil case, but he was a billionaire, he didn’t care. Someone had to do something. Others tried, but they couldn’t get close. I was fortunate enough to have been working at the hotel where he was staying while the government worked on reopening his assets. No one pays attention to the invisible maid, so I found it easy to slip in with a revolver my late father left me, and which I wasn’t even sure would function. I didn’t make him beg or suffer like he did so many others. I told him why I was there, and then ended his life painlessly. I won’t get into how the trial went. It would have been brutal for someone who hadn’t resigned themselves to their fate, but I was comfortable, and like I said, I regret nothing. After a few hours, the jury returned with a not guilty verdict, despite all the facts, including my admission that I did it. The judge called it jury nullification, but there was evidently nothing she could do. I was already becoming a folk hero, and if they thought it was hard to find an unbiased jury before, it would have been impossible after all this publicity, so declaring a mistrial probably would have probably just been a waste of everyone’s time. The prosecutor chose to let it go, probably out of a secret sympathy for my decision. Now, according to my attorney, all I needed to worry about was a civil trial. But this never came to fruition, because no one cared about him.

Microstory 1833: Younger Sister

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My sister and I were never really close growing up. She was seven years older than me, so we didn’t have very much in common. Our parents tried to get her to help take care of me, because they were so old and tired, but she had an excuse for everything. Before quite recently, she thought the world of herself, and didn’t give too much thought to anyone else. She needed to get away from the two of them, and be free of the burden, and it wasn’t relevant that I couldn’t leave. I had to grow up fast after that. I started driving them around even though I was nowhere near old enough to have my license. I’m just talking about the bread store and the pharmacy, but I got caught by the cops a couple of times, and suddenly I’m the bad sister. The judge went easy on me, because she understood that I wasn’t just going out for joyrides. Still, if I let it happen again, she would contact family services, and then we would be in a real mess. I continued to care for them even after that, though I no longer drive. I started to hustle, because we needed money for all the rides we were sourcing. Don’t worry, I didn’t get caught from one of my schemes, and I put those old habits in the rearview mirror when I was old enough to get a job and start driving again; legally, this time. I didn’t do great in school, but it didn’t really matter. I just needed to graduate so I could be taken at least a little bit seriously. Not going to college is a very normal thing that a lot of people do, and you often don’t even have to tell them why it never happened. It could be money, it could be grades, it could be having to stay home with family. Anyone who judges you for it can go suck a—anyway, all of those reasons were mine. I had to focus on holding down a decent job with flexible hours, and upward mobility. I didn’t need to become the owner of my own franchise, but some kind of manager would suffice. That was my goal.

I busted my ass. I was still taking care of the parents, who weren’t getting any better—mind you—but taking as many shifts at the department store as I could. My co-workers liked me, the customers loved me, and the bosses were impressed with me. I had that promotion in the bag. It should have been mine. When they told me they gave it to someone else just because he had a dick, I lost it. Okay, so that wasn’t exactly their reason, but it sure felt that way. I started rampaging through the store, throwing clothes around and...well that’s all I did. It was an inconvenience to clean up, and I was super fired for it, but they didn’t even call the cops. I realized then that this was all my big sister’s fault. She left me here to deal with all this crap, and now she was living the high life out in Vegas, or whatever. I was literally in the car, having just turned in my badge when I got the call that my father’s medical bill was overdue. So I lost it again. I called my sister to complain, but a volcano erupted inside me, and I started to scream. She was cool about it, to her credit, and after a few more conversations, she agreed to come back and finally pitch in. While she was helping, we got to know each other better, and learned that we had more in common than we realized. For instance, we both wanted to try mountain hiking. We didn’t want to do big long backpacking treks, but we wanted to admire the view. Now that the parents are dead and buried, we’ve decided to go on a trip to Whiteside Mountain with a family friend. It’s great, and we’re having a lot of fun, so we want to commemorate our newfound relationship with a selfie. The edge of that cliff just comes out of nowhere. Someone really should have put up a sign on the fence.

Microstory 1816: Right to Die

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My children want me to get myself cured. We don’t live too far away from the foundation, and they’re sure that I’ll be able to make an appointment, but I’ve decided not to, and I’ll explain why. I had a very happy, but very tiring, life. I ended up having more children than we planned, and much more than I wanted. My husband—God rest his soul—was loving and caring, but he never did quite understand how taxing it was to carry, deliver, and raise eight entire people, mostly on my own. I didn’t have any multiples, which would have been hell in its own right. I went through all that eight times, and it exhausted me. Anyone who says that being a homemaker isn’t a real job should try to step into my worn out shoes. That’s not to say I don’t love them all to death, or that I regret a single second of it. I just mean that it’s over, and I’m done. Even though they’re all grown up, and I don’t technically have to raise them anymore, it’s not like they stopped coming to me with their problems. There are 24 hours in a day, so that’s...well, I didn’t go to college, so you tell me the chances of getting a call from one of them at any given moment. Again, I love them all more than anything in the world, but I could use a break. I’ve always believed in God, and the afterlife. My parents didn’t drill it into my brain. They were pretty progressive for the time period. They let me make my own choices, but also showed me my options. I decided that there had to be something else out there than just we lowly humans. There has to be someone with a grand design, or else what’s the point of it all? And there has to be some kind of outcome, otherwise what’s the point of it all for me? I’m not saying people shouldn’t take the cure, or that it’s somehow blasphemy. It’s just not for me, and I’ll thank you to respect my wishes.

This was hard for my children to hear. They lamented the fact that their father passed before the cure became available. They don’t want to go through that again, but the cure didn’t always exist, of course, so they should have wrapped their head around the concept by now. I keep calling it a cure, but that may not be the right word for it. It is no pill, nor even an injection. It’s a man. It’s a man with the power to heal, and if he had come to us with claims of righteous divinity, I might have believed that he was the second coming of Christ. Instead, he told us that he was just a person who had been in the right place at the right time, and would be using his gifts to help as many people as possible. Some worship him anyway, but I prefer to take his word for it. The real Messiah would not say that he’s not. Regardless of who he truly is, the proof is in the results. Unlike the faith healers of yesteryear, Landis Tipton never erected a tent in a field, trying to get a few naïve people here and there. He set up a foundation, and healed famously sick people. Every day, he proved himself worthy of our belief in him, and this only fueled my children’s insistence that I go to him myself. They actually tried to seek some kind of legal avenue to force me to try to extend my life, but there was no precedent for it, and I am in my right mind, so there was nothing they could do. The judge nearly laughed. The Tipton cure was so new back then. I have a terminal disease, and I accepted that years ago when I was first diagnosed. I made peace with God, and I trust in his plan. Again, I don’t mean to say than it’s not other people’s fates to be cured, but I’m not one of those people, and I don’t want him to waste his time with me when there are so many other sick people out there who actually want it. Goodbye.

Microstory 1780: Triangulum

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My parents hate each other, but they claim they can’t get divorced. My little brother is very sensitive, and they don’t think he could handle it. Unfortunately, they can’t stand to even be in the same room as each other, so I don’t think that’s really helping him. They parent him separately, and I’m expected to fill in the gaps. He may be too young to be consciously aware that he never sees the two of them at the same time, but it’s almost certainly affecting him, and eventually, he’s going to grow up. I guess they’re hoping they’ll be able to finally walk away from each other by then. I think it would be far less traumatizing to the kid if they just took care of it now, but they won’t listen to me. I’m just the older brother in the middle. My therapist calls it triangulation. In order to put up a united front for my brother, both of our parents have to agree on whatever decision needs to be made. But since they can’t talk directly to each other, they go through me. My mom sleeps on a pullout couch in her home office, while dad stays in the master bedroom. They coordinate their schedules so they don’t end up in the bathroom at the same time, and mom still needs to keep some closet space up there. Again, I don’t know that their youngest doesn’t notice all of this, but again, I’m actually the one coordinating it for them. I’m responsible for knowing who is going to pick him up from soccer practice, and which is available for the next game. Both of them have pretty flexible schedules, and could theoretically watch him play together, but one will always pretend to be busy, and it’s up to me to decide which, making sure that he doesn’t feel too neglected by either one. It’s such a pain. It’s also not fair. I’m 17 years old, I’m not supposed to be responsible for their relationship. My therapist says I need to stand up for myself, and he wants to have a conversation about that with all three of us, but that is just this side of completely impossible. I gave up on trying to fix them a long time ago.

It wasn’t always like this, and even after it started, it wasn’t always this bad. It’s not like they had a meeting at one point, and contrived this plan to triangulate their fourteen-year-old son. It started out small. They would fight about the baby, and one of them would sleep on the couch that night, but then they would work it out, and come back together. This happened more and more until they realized that they sometimes hadn’t spoken for two straight days. I was brought in to relay their messages, but if that got to be too complicated, they would step in, and finish the conversation themselves. But then they stopped doing that altogether, I guess because I got better at anticipating their responses, lessening the amount of back and forth necessary. I became half my father, and half my mother, so that I could act on each one’s behalf to the other without actually speaking to them about what they would choose to say under normal circumstances. It was too late before I noticed that I had lost my whole self in that chaos. I’ve been trying to get the real me back for a year, but it can’t be done unless we break the triangle. So that’s why I’m here today, Your Honor. I know it will be a long process, but it must be done, and I was advised by my counsel to begin now. I turn 18 in six months, and when that happens, I need to have full custody of my brother, so I can take him out of that toxic environment. Our parents are not going to like it, but I’m confident that I will prove myself to be the most mature person in the family. I have filled out all of the requisite paperwork, and I’m ready to plead my case, whenever you are.

Microstory 1728: Jim Crow

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Your Honor, my name is Jim Crow. My first name is not James or Jacob, or anything like that. It’s actually Jim. My parents were named Beckett Crowley, and Geraldine Devlin. When they got married, instead of my mother taking my father’s last name, they decided to shorten it to Crow. When they had me in 1984, they named me Jim. Believe me when I tell you that this was no accident, nor coincidence. My parents are two of the most racist people I know, and they knew exactly what they were doing. They believe in white supremacy, and they believe in segregation. They may even believe that all black people should be exterminated. They’ve hinted at such evil thoughts on more than one occasion. I literally witnessed them spitting on a young black girl just because her family wasn’t around, and no one could stop them. When I was a child, my mother told me a story she made up, about how the people of Africa so displeased the Lord that he glued dirt to their skin, and forced them to live in filth from then on. Their skin isn’t black, it’s that there is actual grime all over their bodies. I never bought into it, obviously. Had I grown up during the actual time of segregation, I might have seen no other choice, but I developed my sense of right and wrong during the 1980s. My relatively small city in Maryland was not at all without its racism, but I had something that some people in the past did not. I had Star Trek. I remember seeing Whoopi Goldberg on The Next Generation. Here was this black woman who had standing on the ship...who people trusted, listened to, and cared about. That very night, as young as I was, I thought long and hard about who my parents are, and what they were trying to teach me. I made a conscious decision to reject their hatred, and come to my own conclusions. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of informing my parents of my intentions.

They started to punish me. They withheld dessert, and when that didn’t work, they took away my dinner, and when that wasn’t enough, they stopped letting me have water. They eventually realized I was going to die if they didn’t do something, so they changed tactics. They developed their own Jim Crow laws. I was allowed to eat, but I had to make it myself, and I had to find somewhere else to do it. An old lady lived next door, so she let me use her kitchen. I did try to explain to her what was happening, but she was senile, so she barely understood, and never remembered. She introduced herself to me every day. She wasn’t abusive, but about as racist as my parents, so I didn’t want to spend much time over there. Still, she had a bathroom I could use too, which was nice, because I wasn’t allowed to use mine anymore. Basically what my parents did was show me what it was like to experience segregation. I can imagine the non-racist parents of a racist child doing the same thing to teach them a lesson, but my parents didn’t see it that way. They figured I would grow tired of the restrictions, and finally admit that it was both easier, and better, to be white. Of course, their methods only enforced my conviction that they were completely wrong about everything. When I was seventeen, they started to see that they were losing me, so they maneuvered the legal system, and had me declared unfit for independence. I was a ward of the state for the last twenty years under false pretenses, and it has taken me this long to get out. That, Your Honor, is why I’m only now getting around—as you put it—to changing my name. I haven’t been allowed to until now. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to grant me this.

Microstory 1619: Adversity Overcoming

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If you hear about the Maramon, you may think that they’re all evil. The truth is that they’re just as diverse as any significant population. Some are good, some are bad, and the only reason they appear to be so averse to humans is jealousy. Everyone else was born to a large universe with plenty of breathing room, but Ansutah was made small, limited, and constricting. Still, there were factions and camps, and two of these opposing groups ended up in the same section of The Crossover together when the explosion occurred. I couldn’t tell you why exactly they were there, because the outer bulkverse is hazy for me, but I can tell you the consequences. The original Crossover had different sections that served different purposes, as you might imagine. One of them allowed access to multiple pocket dimensions, which effectively undecupled the amount of space that they had available. But it was actually a different section that generated and maintained the stability of these pockets, and this was where the two opposing sides were at the time of cataclysm. They flew off into the bulk, and only survived because the dimensional generator received an enormous burst of bulk energy. It was enough to create an entirely new universe from scratch, and it was here that these two groups would come to call home. Obviously what I’m setting up here is that they had different ideas of what that home should look like. One sided wanted to form a Maramon empire, where they would rebuild the Crossover, and use it to conquer the humans. The other wanted to construct a new version of Earth, and populate it with humans, who they saw as gods. The second group won at first, but then the first group took over, and warped the world to their needs. Their leader was named Azazil Aj-lishdefil, and he earned his woxa of Adversary when he led a coup against the true leader, Alaha ‘Almighty’ Adonai. Adversary didn’t just start killing all the humans. No, he pretended to be their creator, and let his religions spread around the globe, and throughout time. Millennia later, with the number of believers at its apex, he used his followers to build an army. It was his intention to send the witless slaves out into the bulkverse, so they could do all the heavy lifting, and realize his dreams of total domination on his behalf. Of course, Alaha and her own people couldn’t let that happen without a fight. A resistance grew out of the survivors, and they did everything they could do to stop Adversary and his demons at every turn. They were smart, better organized than Adversary thought they could possibly be, and scrappy. I won’t tell you how it ends, or who wins. I just want you to know the situation, so you don’t rush to judgment if you ever encounter a Maramon.

Glisnia: Body Politics (Part XII)

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Hogarth Pudeyonavic was sitting alone in the Judgment Room. Glisnia was designed to be a perfect democracy, or at least as perfect as was possible. Literally everyone had an equal say, or at least it was supposed to be like that. Mekiolenkidasola and Crimson Clover misrepresented how the system worked, leading Hogarth to make decisions that maybe not everyone would have wanted. There was absolutely no law against her and Hilde being human, and no reason that she couldn’t help them if she was. Best guess, Lenkida spun her that lie to get her on the hook. She needed to be told something that would cause her to believe that he somehow spoke for the Glisnians, and was responsible for securing their interests in this matter. The truth was that he probably operated within some rebel faction, which opposed the greater good in some way. She didn’t have all the facts, though, so she needed to be patient. Right now, the Glisnians were here to gather her side of the story, so they could figure out what to do about this mess.

“State your designation, for the record.” It was a dermal mech who was talking to her, but she was channeling the will of everyone. The surface data of literally every single person in this matrioshka brain was being sent to her for processing, except for the opinions of the defendants. When enough of them had a question to ask, she was obligated to ask for them. When even more of them agreed upon a decision, that was the decision they would make, and it would be carried out by individuals like this mech. That was how the government worked, and that was what Lenkida purposefully kept from her. The judge’s name was a hex code as laid out in a fractal pattern, but for the sake of the non-mechs, like Hogarth, she went by Avalhana.

“Hogarth Meridia Pudeyonavic.”

“World of origin.”

“Earth, November 21, 1994.”

“Please only answer the question as it is posed, with no flourishes or extraneous information.”

“Understood.”

“The record will show that the third question was answered, but unasked. Remove the line from the database.”

“Removed,” came a symphony of voices from the aether.

“At what point did you first arrive in Gliese 832 space? Please note that Gliese 832 space refers to the boundary—” Avalhana tried to begin.

“I understand what it means,” Hogarth interrupted. “Just because I’m human, doesn’t mean I’m a total moron. It was 2245.”

“Please refrain from interrupting, and from flourishes and commentary.”

“Look, like I said, you’re talkin’ to a human, which means you’re gonna have to be more flexible. Go on and tell your little mechs that we don’t process data the way you do, and I’m not going to roboticize my speech for the sake of efficiency. We’re all immortal here, who gives a shit how long this takes?”

Avalhana did not respond for a good few minutes, which could be centuries from her perspective. “We will...attempt to reach your level of communication.”

That was needlessly condescending, but okay. “Okay. Next question.”

“When did you first learn that you had the power to spontaneously fabricate multi-solar system-sized objects with little but your own strength and will?” Avalhana asked.

“About a month ago.”

This disturbed her.

“I don’t have an exact timeline for you. As you are well aware, organic beings store associative memory, rather than categorical memory. It is...less efficient, but more beautiful, and I stand by it.”

“Very well. Where did you learn this skill?”

“I didn’t learn it so much as I was accidentally imbued with the power when I absorbed the force of a blast that sent my entire town to a planet that was about one-point-seven-eight light years from Earth.”

She paused again. “There is no planet at such distance.”

“It was a rogue world. It has since moved on.”

“Understood. And you survived on this planet using your, umm...?”

They did not say umm very often, because they were not surprised or stumped very often. “Powers? No, not mine, other people’s. I don’t have the details.”

“There are others like you?”

Now Hogarth was the one to pause, but she knew she had to answer. It was the 25th century, and this wasn’t the first case that suggested that temporal manipulation would be revealed to the rest of the vonearthans sometime in this time period. Many time travelers claimed to have seen it in the future, and many more deliberately avoided traveling this far forward in the timeline, so as not to be caught in some time war. There would not likely be any war, but that didn’t make it perfectly safe. Others didn’t necessarily believe the rumors, but they exercised caution just the same, because people finding out about them was probably ultimately inevitable. “Yes, and before you ask, I don’t know how many, and I don’t know where they all are. We are not a monolith. They can travel through time, and I believe that they are mostly not..in this time, because of people..like you...who threaten..their secrets.”

“Are you at liberty to discuss these matters with us?”

“Who’s to say? There’s a prison for people who spill the beans, but I am about fifty percent sure that this time period is beyond their jurisdiction, for reasons I could not tell you.”

“Understood.” These answers probably altered Avalhana’s questions greatly, so she took a moment to reassess with the population. “Who asked you to build this—as it’s been called—the matrioshka body?”

“Mekiolenkidasola.”

“Was he your only point of contact for this project?”

“There was another, named Crimson Clover. I know that Lenkida lied to me about how much influence he had over this system, but I’m not clear on Crimson’s involvement. He may be almost completely innocent. He didn’t tell me how your government works, but perhaps it simply never came up.”

“We are not cognizant of the truth about him either.” She moved on, “have you ever heard of The Iunta?”

“I have not. Would you be able to explain?”

“They are a small faction within our population that seeks to form a hierarchy of control. We believe that Mekiolenkidasola is a member, and are attempting to ascertain if Crimson is as well, and whether you are.”

“I’m not lying, I’ve never heard that word before. I assume it’s a new formation of junta?”

“Yes.

“I’m sorry to have been involved with them, but I promise you that I was not cognizant of Lenkida’s affiliations, or his group’s existence, let alone their motivations.”

“It if exists, your ignorance would have been established by design.”

“My ignorance does exist.”

She nodded. “Please tell us about your other associates, and whether anyone is missing from this list. Hilde Unger, Ethesh Beridze, Holly Blue, Jupiter Rosa, and another man whose only name here is Richardson.”

“Ambrose Richardson,” Hogarth added. “There are others, but I am not at liberty to discuss them. We have formed a council of sorts called The Shortlist. We determine whether a technological advancement that involves temporal manipulation is safe enough to be developed.”

“Why does this particular group form the council, and why not others?”

“We are the ones capable of these advancements. When we encounter someone else with such knowledge, comprehension, or ability, we place them on the council with us. I hope you understand that I will tell you all you want to know about time powers, but I will do so using generalities, and anecdotes; not specifics, and targeting language.”

“We believe that we can accept that,” Avalhana said. “We recognize the importance of discretion, and unlike humans, we do not possess an entitlement to know the truth about everything. The only question I’m hearing now is...are you a threat to us?”

Hogarth didn’t know the answer, not with any stable level of confidence.

“You may specify, if necessary. Are you, as an individual, a threat to us? Is this Shortlist? Is the greater population of your subspecies?”

“I, personally, am not,” Hogarth began. “Nor is the Shortlist. Like any population, however, there are those who would seek to destroy, improve, control, or otherwise impact that which they encounter. You are something that can be encountered, and I cannot guarantee that no one will attempt to insert themselves into your society, for whatever reasons they have. This is true of anyone, however, and I implore you not to attack any potential threat without diplomacy first, and a clear violation of your rights. I think we all know what the humans fear about your potential. Earthan entertainment is riddled with cautionary tales about fictional artificial intelligences who rise against their creators. I can tell you, however, that I will do everything I can to protect you, just as I would protect others from you.”

“This is a fair analysis,” Avalhana, and the collective, decided. “We will not depend on your protection. We would, however, appreciate your guidance in matters of temporal manipulation, and ask that you remain on Glisnia in order to serve as our liaison to anyone with the same, or similar, abilities.”

“That’s...not what I thought you would say.”

“You were expecting to be exiled or extinguished?”

“I was.”

“That is not how we do things. Had Mekiolenkidasola been honest with you, you would have known that about us.”

“What will happen to him, and Crimson, and my friends who are still here?”

“Your friends will be allowed to stay with you, should they choose. My collective is eager to make you aware that you are not obligated to remain either. You act on our behalf upon your own volition, and you are under no contract to maintain your position for any specified period of time. We do ask, however, that while you are in this position, you endeavor to protect Glisnian interests, and develop a strong enough sense of loyalty in pursuit of this condition.”

Hogarth smiled at the formality. “I can do that. And of Crimson?”

“He will be judged shortly, as you have been.”

“I have one request.”

She extended her hand to offer Hogarth the privilege of continuing. “Lenkida and Crimson are aware of certain details about me and my people, which I would rather remain unknown to all others.”

Avalhana waited to respond as she listened to the collective opinion. “It is our understanding that you possess reasonable technical skills, and would be able to use these skills in order to delete targeted memories from a mechanical entity?”

“Umm...I’m not totally comfortable with that. Can’t you just conduct a preliminary hearing to determine their guilt, and then erase the sensitive memories afterwards? Does every judgment have to include the entire Glisnian collective? I’m all right if one or two other people know some stuff about me, just not everybody.”

They discussed her proposal. “We agree to your terms. We will adjourn for one standard Earthan hour to develop a new plan, and to give the humans time to rest.”

“Thank you.”

Avalhana nodded slightly, but said nothing further.

Hilde was waiting for her in the other room. She was noticeably shaking.

“Hey, hey,” Hogarth said calmingly. “Everything’s fine. We were lied to, but the mechs are not unreasonable people. Nothing’s gonna happen to us.”

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?” Hilde questioned.

“Does that sound like me?”

“No, but—”

“No more butts. We already got two; we don’t need any more. I assure you that we’re good. We can stay here. They even wanna give me a job.”

“You’re joking.”

“Really. I told them about time travel. They’re worried someone else with powers is gonna come along, and they won’t know how to handle it.”

“We are not staying here, Hogarth.”

“You don’t want this for me?”

“There are billions of mechs on this world—station—brain, whatever you call it, and they’re probably going to replicate themselves exponentially to fill out the body that you built them. We can’t be the only humans here, it’s just not safe.”

“It is safe, and you know that it is, because I’m telling you that it is. If something goes wrong, I can jump us out of here at a moment’s notice.”

“You mean you can explode us?”

“I can exploport us.”

Hilde rolled her eyes. That term was not catching on.

Ethesh rolled up. “Yo, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Hogarth replied. “You can stay here, if you want.”

“Cool,” he said casually.

“Good answer,” Hogarth told him, then switched her attention back to Hilde. “Your turn to try.”

Hilde inhaled and exhaled melodramatically. “I will approximate an acceptance of the situation.”

“Close enough, we’ll get there.”

“What are we gonna do now?” Ethesh asked.

“I have a few ideas,” Hogarth said with a smirk. “We could do with another sun to make it work, though. I’m thinkin’ a yellow dwarf this time.”

“Oh, no.”

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Microstory 1386: Marriage Counseling

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Marriage Counselor: Welcome, you both, to marriage counseling. Before we begin, it’s important that you understand that this is a safe space. There will be no judgments here; not from me, and not from either of you. This is not just a guideline, but a rule, and I will be enforcing it strictly.

Husband: I understand, and agree to your terms.

Wife: As do I.

Marriage Counselor: So, what seems to be the problem?

Wife: I cheated on him, and he doesn’t care.

Marriage Counselor: Is that true, Mr. Husband?

Husband: I suppose it is, yes. I would love to say that I simply didn’t react the way she would have wanted, but I see where she’s coming from, and I honestly can’t explain it.

Marriage Counselor: Walk me through it. What happened, and how did Husband react? Mrs. Wife, you go first.

Wife: I’ve been feeling a little neglected, and spending a lot of time on my own. I didn’t go out seeking a second partner, but I often found myself at the rec center, even when I didn’t have a fitness class to get to. I met this woman there who’s kind of going through the same thing with her girlfriend. At first, we were just talking, but then things escalated. It just so happened that Husband walked in on us during the one time it went too far.

Marriage Counselor: Let’s switch perspectives before you proceed. What were you doing that led up to this, Mr. Husband?

Husband: I’ve been pretty busy at work, but that’s not the whole story. I could get it all done on time, but I’ve slowly lost the motivation to do so. The work is overwhelming, and it’s also total nonsense. I used to get really frustrated about it, but now I’m just indifferent. It’s not like the work slows down just because I don’t do it with so much haste, so it builds up even more, and I end up having to stay late just to catch up. One day, I finally just said screw it, and left for home at the time I’m supposed to. Like she said, I walked in on her.

Marriage Counselor: How did you react?

Husband: I barely did at all. My first instinct was that I was pissed; not that I was actually anger, but that I ought to be. As I stood there, looking at them in our marital bed, though, I realized it didn’t bother me. I felt like, if that’s what she wants, she should have it, because I obviously can’t provide for her.

Marriage Counselor: Did it excite you, or just not bother you?

Husband: I felt nothing. I feel nothing. I’m completely numb. I don’t feel joy or jealousy anymore, or anything else, for that matter. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to be like this. I wish I had gotten angry at her, because then we could have worked through it. But she’s just sitting here in this marriage, and neither of us is happy, but she’s the only one who’s trying anymore. I think I might have become a sociopath.

Wife: I don’t think that.

Marriage Counselor: Me neither. You would not have become a sociopath, Mr. Husband. It’s something you’re born with, or possibly develop at a very early age. And even if you hadn’t realized what you were until now, just from my first impression of you, I doubt it would be a good diagnosis. You obviously still care about her, if only in a lesser sense than you used to. Sociopaths aren’t capable of even that. You seem to be having trouble manifesting emotions, but I don’t think they’re not there at all. Are you taking any medication?

Wife: He’s not taking anything.

Marriage Counselor: Well, he’s mimicking some of the symptoms of certain antidepressants, so if it’s not that, then there’s some other imbalance in the brain. Mr. Husband, you mentioned your work. I believe that may be at the heart of what’s causing all this. Let’s dive deeper into that.

Husband: Okay.