Extremus: Year 81

« < » > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3, and by Pixlr AI image editor

Tinaya and Aristotle got Spirit and the rest of the gang up to speed on what happened after they left Verdemus. They made introductions, and integrated themselves into a new society. It’s been four years since their return, and this planet now has a significant population. They actually represent only a small fraction of Verdemusians at this point. Omega made 18,000 drifting clones of himself. The drifting part is important, because while they were all sourced from the same progenitor, their personalities ended up straying at around the same rate as the genetic drift. The 18,000th clone is the least like Omega than the first, and it scales fairly predictably from latter to the former. What would not have been predictable is the responses that they gave when asked whether they wanted to stay on mission for the Ex Wars, or start to live their own lives in peace.

In the end, after giving a choice to all clones 147 at a time, 42% of them chose to reject their mandate entirely, and live the rest of their lives on the surface in peace. But it’s not like it was the back two-fifths, or even the front two-fifths. Their personalities gave rise to sporadic fluctuations, leaving them with a hodge-podge of differing viewpoints. A side effect of this variability was that they didn’t all see it as a binary choice. Only 56% chose to go back into their stasis pods, and await the start of the war. Roughly two percent had other ideas. These were the leaders, and the misfits. Some of them wanted to become part of an elite force, or the executive officers, while others wanted to leave entirely. This was not an easy process. Once Omega and Tinaya started receiving these unforeseen ideas, they realized that they hadn’t asked the right questions for the first several batches. So they were reawakened, and given the new choices. They could stay awake to train at a new Officer’s Academy, or maintain their positions. This resulted in a few hundred of them agreeing to train under the guidance of one Eagan Spurrs. They constructed a campus right on top of the original settlement, allowing the peace-seekers to live separately in the megablock many kilometers away.

But these warriors are not what Tinaya is concerned about at the moment. Precisely 83 drift clones don’t want to be a part of this at all. They don’t want to train as officers, they don’t want to be enlisted hibernators, and they don’t want to live in the megablock. They’re currently staying in the mess hall, because no one knows what to do with them. There is no leaving Verdemus. There are two ships here. The shuttle can make interplanetary trips, and while the Anatol Klugman can travel the stars, it sort of has a different purpose. What they need is something in between, which will allow these independents to escape the star system, and forge their own paths. Omega is not being cooperative. He doesn’t hate them. In fact, that would probably be easier to deal with. The problem is that he has no strong feelings about them, and sees no reason to expend resources to help them. To him, if they don’t want to live in the megablock with the others who don’t want to fight in the war, they can...suck it up, and do it anyway.

“These are your people, Omega,” she argues.

“No, they’ve drifted the most from me, neurologically speaking,” Omega reasons.

“Are you sure about that? Half of them are within a hundred degrees of separation from you. The rest aren’t far behind.” She starts getting sassy. “Why is it your name is Omega? Oh, that’s right, because you were born with a complex that caused you to go AWOL from your own calling, which is what has led us to this in the first place! The independents are probably more like you than any of them.”

Omega doesn’t want to admit that she might be right. “I can...see where you might think that. But I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

“The Klugman, it has shuttles of its own, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re reframe capable?”

“One class of them are. There are only four of that kind.”

“Can twenty-one people fit in each one?” she asks.

“Tinaya, I need those. They’re for advanced recon, resupply missions, and multi-front engagements.”

She sighs, and itches underneath her eye. “Omega, the war is not for a hundred and thirty years. You don’t think you can rebuild them in that amount of time?”

“I see your point.”

“Give them the shuttle stocked with supplies that were grown and manufactured at the megablock, and let them leave.”

“Where the hell are they gonna go?” Omega questions. “There’s nothing out here, except for the Goldilocks Corridor. And I don’t think they want to go there. I sure as hell don’t want them to. What if they alert them to our plans?”

“They don’t know your plans.”

“They know enough. Our only advantage is a surprise attack. It has to be a complete surprise.” He spoke demonstratively with his hands.

She laughs. “You don’t trust...yourself?”

He was ready for this counterpoint. “No, I don’t,” he replies quickly.

Tinaya nods gently, and looks down at the ground. He doesn’t need to trust every single one of them. “I’ll go with them,” she offers. “I’ll make sure they don’t give your plans away, even unintentionally. You can trust me, right?”

“Tinaya, you can’t do that; you have a life,” Omega contends.

“I’ve had many lives. This would be just one more.”

He shakes his head, trying to work through the consequences. “I wanna say that I can’t ask you to do that, but I’m not asking for anything. This is all you. I straight up don’t want you to do it.”

“This planet, it comes with radiation. It does weird things to time powers. It probably made the two explosions worse than they should have been.”

“I heard.”

“Aristotle can’t get us out of here. There is no way back to Extremus. If I can’t see Arqut again, it doesn’t matter where I am. I can do this. I can care for your wayward children. Give us the shuttles.”

Omega looks awkward, like he wants to spill the beans, but he doesn’t want to have to clean them up afterwards.

She can sense his reluctance, but can also tell that it’s important. “What is it?”

They left the Kamala Khan in cislunar space. After rigging up teleporter relays on both the planet, and the moon, they now use the shuttle as a midpoint to allow them to travel freely back and forth. Well, it’s not free, per se. You either have to go to the jump terminal, or have an emergency teleporter on your person, which not everyone does. Not even Tinaya, though that’s more because she doesn’t really need it. Omega places hands around her upper arms, and jumps them to the moon. But they don’t end up in the cloning facility. This place is unfamiliar.

“Where are we?”

“My secret lab,” he answers.

“All of your labs are secret.”

“Yes, but this...is the big one.”

“Bigger than the clone army?” That seems unlikely.

He walks over to the wall, and rests his elbow against it, ready to pull a big switch down, the purpose of which she does not yet know. “The time mirrors. They worked fine while they were active, but you can only fit one person through at a time, and they were an annoying drain of power. People who weren’t supposed to know about this operation would have eventually noticed the discrepancies. We actually had to bribe the independent energy auditor with a lifetime of contribution points.”

“Why are you telling me this? I don’t wanna know this.”

“It was a temporary measure while we worked on a permanent way to travel back and forth. And we certainly needed the time.” Omega drops the big switch down. As lights flip on, a set of blast doors open.

More lights illuminate on the other side, revealing something that Tinaya only ever saw once in her life. “A Nexus.”

“That’s right.”

Nexa are a mysterious interstellar transport machine that were invented by an even more mysterious alien race, and placed on an unknown number of inhabited worlds. It could take you tens of thousands of light years in minutes, but there had to be another one on the other side to receive you. What good would this do them?

“I know what you’re thinking. What good is this to us? The Extremus doesn’t have one of its own. We could go back to the Gatewood Collective, or maybe to Earth. But why would we want to?”

“I can think of a few reasons.”

“My mistake. The point is that you would be wrong either way. Extremus does have a Nexus.”

“Since when?”

He steps a little closer, and admires the thing. “It’s not done yet, but Valencia is working on it on her end. I built this one muhself.”

“How do you know what’s happening on Extremus at all?”

“They’re both complete enough for a phone call.” He offers her a hand.

She hesitates for a moment, but takes it. He escorts her down the stairs, and into the machine. The original design apparently comes with four walls, but two of them were excluded from this one, as they were on Gatewood. Each machine must fulfill a strict set of requirements to function properly, but some components are evidently negotiable. They step down into the cavity. “Hey, Opsocor. Can you connect me to the Extremus?” A dim orange light appears from above. “We’re waiting for her to answer. She may not be there. Our scheduled check-in isn’t for another couple of hours.”

Just then, two holograms render in the cavity in front of them. One of them is Omega’s wife, Valencia Strong. The other is Arqut. Arqy!” Tinaya exclaims.

“Teeny Toon!” he shouts back. They almost hug, but don’t try, because they’re not really in the same room together.

“He figured it out,” Valencia explains to Omega with a shrug.

“She didn’t,” Omega replies. “I just thought she oughta know.”

“Finish this,” Tinaya orders, gazing upon her husband. “Get me back to him.”

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 2192: How Frivolous

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2, and by Pixlr AI image editor

This is a very delicate period of time in this process, and I won’t be able to say much as these offers go out. It’s not like I’ll be able to summarize the conversations I’m having with my future staff members (or not, as it were). Luckily, I have something else to tell you about today. Well, two things, actually. You remember my parole officer, Leonard Miazga, right? I didn’t really think that I would see him again, but it seems that we’ll be working together at the jail. He’s been hired by the county to work on that side, so he won’t serve directly under me, but he’ll be in the meetings with us, along with the correctional officer, and the reentry specialist. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t named him on this site. Of course, the government knew who my P.O. was, but reading about him in my blog posts sort of stuck him in their brains, so when they were deciding who to hire, he was the first candidate that they thought of. Don’t worry, it was a fair process, but he ended up being the best for the job. You can guess why; because he’s not just a jerk who feels like he’s suffering through his work every day. He cares about his parolees, and that much was clear both from my anecdotes, and also his interview, as well as his references and résumé, I’m sure. The second announcement is that the lawsuit against me has been officially dropped. The company who sued me on the grounds that I damaged their reputation even though I never told you who they were finally relented. It’s shocking how long it took for them to realize how frivolous their case was. So now that it’s over, I’ll tell you who it was. Lol, psych! I still won’t, because that would be equal parts dumb and mean-spirited. I just want to lock the memory of the ordeal in my past, and leave it there. They’re doing fine, and I’m doing amazing, so there’s nothing left to talk about anymore. That’s all I got. What’s up with you?

Microstory 2166: There is Violence Everywhere

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

This is Nick’s parole officer, Leonard Miazga. Nick has asked me to write up a short post on his behalf. He was badly beaten by other inmates. They were displeased with his claims that the governor might commute his sentence, and allow the warden to hire him for a paid position at the jail instead. If it were to go through, it would be a massive change in dynamic, and that did not sit well with some of them. Nick has refused to name names, partially to protect the guilty, partially because he struggles with memory and recognizing faces, but also because he’s suffered brain damage as a result of his injuries. The attackers also broke three of his ribs, and two of his toes. His left shoulder was dislocated, and he has lacerations all over his body. They also discovered internal bleeding, which is why he’s currently being transported to the hospital for surgery. I’m sure that we will receive further diagnoses when the surgeon and other doctors perform their own examinations. While they’re doing that, I’m going to be in a meeting with the warden and the governor to discuss options. Nothing like this has ever happened before. There is violence everywhere, but this is the worst that this particular facility has ever reported. I will be strongly advocating for his release from his sentence, but either way, he should never be sent back in to this jail as he is no longer safe there. In addition to his prior work with the FBI, Nick is a model jail guest, and a positively contributing member of society. He has been gainfully employed for nearly two months, and has been working hard on this website, which readers have expressed gratitude for, for his ability to show what it’s really like to experience intermittent jail in this universe. I’ll update you tomorrow since I do not see him being well enough to write a post on his own so soon.

Microstory 2126: Called it Hustling

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

Orientation didn’t do a very good job of preparing me for what jail was going to be like for the rest of the weekends that I’m going to have to go through it. For one, I didn’t have a cellmate before. I knew that I would this time, but I had forgotten what it was like to live with someone else in such close quarters, and in fact, they’ve never been that close for me anyway. I don’t want to say anything bad about the guy, but I have trouble getting along with other people. That’s just a general rule when it comes to my personality. I don’t see the world in a normal way, and that gets on people’s nerves. He didn’t try to hurt me or exploit me, but I don’t think we’re going to be lifelong friends either. I ran into even more personality clashing once I got out into the common area. There are people in there from all walks of life. While individual cells are not co-ed, the facility is as a whole, which I prefer, but as woke as I am, I worry about women being around men a lot more than I would have to in a perfect world. I found myself watching them to make sure they weren’t about to be harassed, which probably only served to make me look like a perverted creeper. That’s not the image that I want to give off to people. They already have a bad impression of me. Word had spread about my special situation. Some of the things that they heard are true, and some of them are not, so I spent a lot of time fielding questions, and clarifying inaccuracies. Even the people who understood what happened weren’t happy with me.

Some thought that I got off easy, and should have been sent to prison, or received some other harsher sentence. Others called me a narc for helping the FBI catch the teenage girl’s abductors, even if they agreed on principle that kidnapping toddlers is wrong. Some were specifically bothered that I was given such special treatment, like the hotel room that the government paid for, or the legal assistance that I got from an employer that I worked for as nothing more than a janitor for a couple of weeks. Most of them, I would say, don’t like that I run this here website, feeling that I’m exploiting them for money, and misrepresenting the justice system. I try to tell them that I’ve not been doing that, but only speaking my truth; and being clear that this is what I have been experiencing, but they don’t see it that way. Some of them have read some of it, and some only heard about it, so they all have their own impressions that I don’t think I can change. I’m pretty sure I’m the most famous person in there, which did not even occur to me. Yes, the number of daily visitors for my site has been increasing, but this service provider doesn’t tell me where these people are, and it certainly doesn’t show who they are, so I didn’t go into jail thinking that I may have to worry about my reputation. There were a few proponents of mine, if you can believe it. They acknowledged that there was nothing wrong with keeping a blog, and that I’m not the only one in the world to do it. A few popular video bloggers have similar stories to share, though usually after the fact, rather than while it’s happening. My advocates called it hustling, and encouraged others not to criticize me for trying to make a buck, which is the most common reason for anyone to be locked up in a place like that, so they should all be able to relate to leaning into one’s strengths. That makes some sense, and I appreciate the sentiment.

I was hoping to just keep my head down, and serve my time without making trouble, but it’s always going to find me. I’m going to be doing this for the next 20 weeks until I’m finished with my thousand hour jail time. It could get better as they get used to me, or it could get worse. Hell, just writing these words right now could just piss people off even more, including those who were kind of on my side before. But either way, I’m not going to stop, because this is part of my rehabilitation. It’s a form of accountability that the courts are exploring for future use. For my part, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’m sure different people would have a different perspective, but taking a lighter sentence in exchange of keeping an accountability blog? That has to be better, right? I should sure think so. Even if you’re not a good writer, that’s got to be preferable. There could be minimums for word count, or something, maybe, but hopefully no limits on grammar mistakes, or requirements for flow. That last sentence didn’t flow well. It shouldn’t be a form of forced education. Some people hate school, myself included. I dunno, maybe nothing will come of it. I should really just focus on my own progress right now. Here are a few updates in that regard. I found a therapist, and will be meeting with her on Tuesdays and Thursday. I’ll also probably be signing up for group sessions on weekends, but I’m not ready to start those just yet. I have regular meetings with my parole officer on Wednesdays, and he’ll work with my work schedule once that’s all figured out. I’ve narrowed it down to two jobs, but by the time you read this, I will have probably decided, so I’ll go over that later this week when we all finalize the decision. I just need a few questions answered before I feel comfortable choosing one over the other.

Microstory 2125: Is Forever

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

Today was the day that I finally met my parole officer. Now, if you’re reading this from my Earth, which you would only be able to do if my alternate self decided to copy my story onto his own version of the blog, you might be confused. There’s a chance that he’s doing that, I don’t know. If he can still see me in this universe, I still can’t see him, so he wouldn’t be able to get me a message. But if he is doing this, and that’s where you are, then you may be wondering why I have a parole officer. Parole officers are meant to be assigned after someone has gone to prison, and gotten out early. Well, you see, technically that’s exactly what I did. Legally speaking, I was sentenced to three months of prison time. I’m not talking about intermittent jail here. This was a real prison where I should have served time without getting out until I was up for parole. It just so happened that my parole came up immediately, so I didn’t have to actually spend any time in the building. It’s a technicality. Though I never stepped one foot inside, on paper, I was sent to prison, so I’m still entitled to—and am indeed required to meet with—a parole officer while I complete the rest of my sentence, which includes weekend jail. Yes, there was a reason for this. The record shows that I was sent through processing, and had all the paperwork filled out, to inhabit a facility somewhere down south in Missouri. This all comes from a bunch of legal complexities that my attorneys handled for me, but it boils down to minimum sentences, and loopholes that allowed me to subvert those minimums. The reason they did this for me is that, not only did I aid in the recovery of a kidnap victim, but my actions eventually led to the arrest of the suspects. I didn’t know that last part before. They talked about it behind closed doors due to the sensitivity of the case. So you can all rest, assured that the ID makers who committed that crime are being served justice as we speak. All I know is that it’s a federal case, because the girl originated from a state other than Iowa, so someone had to cross a border at some point.

These are all the things that my parole officer explained to me at lunch. I always thought it was weird that I was getting a parole officer, instead of a probation officer, but I don’t know all that much about law and order on any world. He is as cool as I imagined he would be. He’s not one of those types who thinks that anyone who has ever committed a crime is a lifelong criminal, and should be locked up for the duration of that identification. He takes each of his parolees on a case-by-case basis, and says that he modifies his attitude to whatever he thinks will work best for each. He’s even told me that I’m free to reveal to the public what his name is. So here it goes. I’m about to say it. He’s watching me write this, and I’m sure he’ll watch me post it too, so I’m giving him ample opportunity to change his mind. No? In three, two, one. Just a second, he twitched. No, it was a coincidence. Okay, here it is. Leonard Miazga. He has had a long and storied history so far, but I won’t get into all that today, partially because I don’t remember all of it. He smiled and left, and I can’t recall everything he told me about himself. This also means that he won’t be able to stop me from telling you his name anymore. Hopefully he doesn’t change his mind after it posts, because the internet is forever. As for the lunch itself, it was really good. I’m pretty sure he paid for it out of his own pocket, and it’s not something that he can bill to the state. If we ever dine again on another day, I’ll pick up the tab. I got one job offer while we were at the table. If nothing else comes in, I’ll definitely take it, and I may even if all of the other potential employers respond positively. We’ll just have to see. I’m going to try to not make any big life decisions at the end of the week because of the whole jail thing. Tuesdays. Tuesdays are a good day, particularly for me. You don’t ever want to deal with such things at the end or the beginning of a given time period, and Tuesdays are just random enough to work. Anyway, I’m going to take a shower, and get ready to go back inside. Leonard will come back in an hour and a half to drive me down there. I’ll see you Monday, but only if you comment below, and even then, not really. Don’t you hate when TV hosts say that? “We’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s, like...no you won’t. That’s not how TV works. Maybe that’s just me.

Microstory 2124: Suppose Makes Me Sexist

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

Therapy time. Part of my sentence requires that I participate in regular psychological treatment with an approved provider. Interestingly enough, while it’s fine for them to dictate the pool of therapists that I am allowed to choose from, it’s not legal for the court to determine the length of treatment. They can’t tell me how long the sessions should be, or how often they should be, or even how long I have to keep doing it. It seems weird, since the only thing stopping me from only meeting someone once can be found in other sections of the sentence, like the part that discusses making significant and quantifiable improvement in behavior. I could theoretically only go the once, and then just work on myself on my own, but that’s harder to demonstrate, so continued participation is the easiest way to measure progress, for everyone. The therapist doesn’t even have to sign anything to prove that I’m going regularly, or submit reports to the court. It’s basically on the honor system, though my parole officer will be able to give anecdotal evidence one way or another. I’ve spent all day narrowing the list of providers online to see who I might want to speak with, reading their bios, and taking note of their specialties. I immediately ignored all the male therapists, which has made this go a lot faster. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. I just feel more comfortable around women, I always have, especially when it comes to medical professionals. It’s not even a sexual thing, as I’m also attracted to men. I’ve just always found women to generally be more patient, compassionate, and understanding. And also less violent, though that doesn’t mean any professional has ever attacked me, or anything. I just have a preference, which I suppose makes me sexist, but I think it’s okay. The problem with sexism is that it leads to discrimination, and in my case, my feelings are never really to the detriment of others. I’ve never been in charge of hiring anyone, or firing them. If I were, I would easily be able to set this all aside, because it’s really just about how comfortable I am around them. I rarely go out of my way to make myself comfortable, and I recognize that there’s a difference between that and competence, intelligence, or social or professional fitness. Anyway, as per usual, I won’t give you any names, but once I find the right person, I’ll tell you a little bit about her, and will probably be mentioning our work periodically as I continue telling my story.

Microstory 2123: Still Weighing My Options

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

All of my interviews today went pretty well. Most of the interviewers went into it under the assumption that everything on my blog is true, and I am indeed from another universe, allowing me to answer questions about my past experiences in the workforce that didn’t take place in this particular force. They even let me bring up things that I know about my alternate self, who has gone on to have new experiences since we diverged from each other. A few of them were clearly not a good fit for me. I don’t have the skills or education relevant to do the work effectively. I’ll say this, even though it’s a little mean, one of them was obviously confused about what the word “remote” means. No, I can’t go into the office twice a week. That is called a hybrid schedule, and it’s only for local workers. They’re in Utah. I’m not flying down to Utah just so I can remind you that my body extends beyond the lower portion of my chest. I don’t want to go to Utah for any reason. He couldn’t really explain why he ever wanted me to be there in person. They never can—not even just in terms of these interviews, but in general. Companies are losing money on office space by letting people work from home, so to get a better return on their investment, they artificially limit the practice, but they can’t admit that it’s because of that, so they sort of waffle, and come up with bogus reasons about it being better for productivity. Unless you’re in sales (or maybe even if you are) being at work in person for a job that’s performed exclusively on the computer is simply not necessary. Most of the interviewers seemed to understand that, and are eager to draw from a pool of talent outside of a reasonable driving distance. I can’t tell you any specifics about who I spoke with, or who I’m leaning towards. I never will.

All but one of the people I talked to who were still interested after we got past some of these other miscommunications understood that I’m never going to stop blogging. If I end up taking their job, they’ll let me say whatever I want as long as I don’t name names, or place any of their customers or clients in any sort of risk. They’ve all seen that I’ve never done that before. Honest hour? As honest as I am on this thing, I sometimes adjust details to protect the innocent, or even the guilty. I’ve been known to spend hours coming up with a fictional company that I mention only once in a story just to avoid using a brand name. That policy has extended into writing about myself. I’m not making any commitments yet, I’m still weighing my options. Two interviewers had to schedule for tomorrow, and another one had to reschedule for tomorrow, so I still have three more companies to consider, and who still need to consider me. Once those are done, I’ll use my pros and cons charts to organize my choices from most preferred to least interested, and go from there. There’s a chance that the search could go into next week, but I hope to have at least one good offer by then. They were all pretty certain that they would be ready to get started quickly, so I’m figuring only a couple of weeks before I clock in for the first time. One last thing, I’m scheduled to meet my parole officer on Friday. He or she will escort me to the jail for the first time since orientation, not because they don’t trust me, but because it’s procedure for them to personally inspect the facility for the safety of those in their care. They’re either still deciding who will be assigned my case, or they’re just not ready to tell me yet. I’ll let you know how that all goes too.

Microstory 2018: Texas

< > Table of Contents

After my papa was finished with his education at the Naval academy, he didn’t go back home. He was stationed in Corpus Christi, Texas. He couldn’t tell me exactly what he did while he was there, because the military keeps all of that secret, so this is going to be another really short slide. He was able to say that he lived there for only a year before he was moved somewhere else, which he said was unusual in the Navy. I don’t think that he was always on a submarine. I think that maybe he spent a lot of time carrying out missions on dry land. I even think they sometimes sent him out of the country, but he hadn’t met his husband yet, so he didn’t have to lie to anyone about it, since his parents still lived in Idaho anyway.

Microstory 2017: Rhode Island

< > Table of Contents

After my papa was finished with college, instead of going out to get a job, he decided to attend a place called Watch Hill Naval Academy. He had to take more classes in order to learn how to be an officer in the Navy and work in a submarine. From the records that my dad found, papa first took a 3 month course to teach him what it’s like to be a military officer. After that, he spent another 6 months learning about nuclear power, which sounds really scary and cool. Then after that, he spent another 6 months using what he learned working at an actual nuclear power plant. Finally, after all that, he got on a sub to learn to operate it with a crew of other officers. Submarines are really dangerous, and hard to use. That’s why he had to spend so much time learning these skills, because if someone messes up on a submarine, it could mean everyone on it dying all at once. Unlike the way it is on a ship, if something goes wrong in a sub, you can’t jump off and swim away. Not only can you not breathe underwater, but the water is really heavy, and it hurts for it to be on top of you when you go deeper and deeper. My papa was really smart, and he also cared about people, which is why he wanted to use his engineering degree to protect this country, and make the world a better place. I’m so proud of him, and I wish I had known all of this about him before. The military is a noble and difficult profession. Probably no one in our class will join the military, but if it turns out to be true, it will only probably be one of us, according to the math.

Microstory 1986: Resident Xenopsychologist

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image AI software

Dr. Klement: Oh, wow. You weren’t kidding, there are a lot of cells down here. Please tell me we have far more of them than aliens to fill them.

Sasho: We only have a handful of Ochivari. This place wasn’t built for them specifically.

Dr. Klement: It’s been remodeled for them, though, right?

Sasho: Yeah. While I was on probation for the last couple of months, they took my suggestions to heart, and made modifications.

Dr. Klement: Do you want to talk about that some more?

Sasho: I thought my required therapy was over.

Dr. Klement: That doesn’t mean we can’t talk anymore. I’m still practicing; just doing double duty with this xenopsychological study they’re wanting me to start.

Sasho: You’re our resident psychologist?

Dr. Klement: One of two, actually. The department is only going to grow from here, and there is no precedent for the effects of an alien presence on the human psyche.

Sasho: So the government is worried that one of us is gonna have a nervous breakdown, and shoot up the place?

Dr. Klement: That’s one possible outcome, but it doesn’t have to get that bad to warrant my position here.

Sasho: No, that wasn’t—I didn’t mean...

Dr. Klement: It’s all right, Officer Dreyer.

Sasho: I can’t get used to that title.

Dr. Klement: You’ve earned it. You’re running an entirely new kind of jail, for an entirely foreign species. Guard just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Sasho: *nods*

Dr. Klement: So, they’re coming today?

Sasho: *consults watch* They should be on the road as we speak. I’ll be heading up to the garage to escort the prisoners here. Once that happens, I’ll be responsible for them. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be my ass...again.

Dr. Klement: I’m sure you’ll do fine, but if you’re ever feeling anxious, you can always talk to me. It doesn’t even have to be a formal session. If I’m free, we can just have a little chat. It’s not like you’re paying me directly.

Sasho: The money isn’t the issue. Nor do I take issue with the concept of therapy, or advice. When I’m talking to you, I start to feel like I’m placing a burden on you. I’m on thin ice with everyone else here. They basically went on strike, and I couldn’t be there with them. I wasn’t able to prove that I’m one of them. They still see me as a traitor.

Dr. Klement: They know that you were never a traitor; that Sergeant Sachs fooled you as much as any of them. If they didn’t understand that before, they know now. You wouldn’t be allowed to keep working here if you were a threat. They’ll see that.

Sasho: Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll keep you in mind, I promise.

Dr. Klement: Good. *looks down from the mezzanine for a bit* What’s that section over there? It’s still messy with construction stuff.

Sasho: Oh, the jail isn’t done yet. They’re trying to design a communal section that still doesn’t allow the prisoners to use their magical powers to travel the multiverse.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: April 23, 2414

« < » > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image AI software

Mateo was the one to donate his blood to Karla, so she could start skipping time, and remain on the same pattern as their daughter. This was intentionally a temporary fix, just in case she changed her mind later. It made sense on paper to stay this way forever, but she may decide that it would be best for her to always be waiting for little Romana to return to the timestream. She had about a week to decide, and if she still wasn’t sure, they could always give her a second dose of the temporary pattern-sharing serum, instead of the permanent one. Perhaps they would just keep doing it like that. Neither Cassidy nor Mateo had a problem with this eventuality.

She was a very special little baby. Generally speaking, the first time a person travels through time—and usually to a lesser degree for every subsequent trip—it’s a jarring experience. It can come with sometimes very nasty side effects, such as nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, or diarrhea, among other possibilities. These symptoms can come on in the moments leading up to the jump, and last for minutes or hours afterwards. For Romana, she seemed to have no issue at all. As midnight central approached, she giggled, as if it were a pleasurable experience for her. It probably was. It wasn’t the first time she did it; just the first time after she was born. The truth was that it had happened to her about 270 times before this. It was part of who she was, in a deeper sense than most time travelers, including her own father. Meliora Rutherford, the daughter of this building’s namescape, was likely the only person with some understanding of what Romana’s is going through right now. They couldn’t wait until she was verbal.

It was April 23, 2414 on Dardius right now. The Dardieti toyed with their own calendar for a while before deciding to conform to that of Earth’s. A dying man was sent back in time about two millennia to let his final act alive be setting the flag of Dardius in the North Pole. His remains were discovered beside the now-buried remnants of that flag in recent days. His fusion-powered solar watch was still ticking, allowing them to accept the calendar as real. Of course, this was but a symbolic gesture. There was no real reason why they couldn’t simply deliberately have declared what year it was without technically starting at zero, but it made it a little easier to believe in.

Leona was sitting on the huge penthouse balcony, watching the sun rise. The arch that the Isaac Skybridge created was facing north and south, so the sun came up over Lincoln Tower, and set over Rutherford Tower. It was beautiful up here. There was no rule that LIR Towers had to be the tallest structure in the city, but it was. In fact, it remained the tallest one in the world. They were pretty lucky to live here now, and hopefully it would last. Leona being the cynic of the group, was not so convinced, but she wasn’t about to let that on to anyone else. It wasn’t helpful. So she was regarding the sky, and appreciating the time that they did have in this wondrous place. As she sat there, she started to feel a pull behind her. It was Ramses, calling to her from the Dante using their empathetic bond. She stood up, and teleported to the shuttle.

Ramses was in his laboratory pocket dimension, hunched over his table, studying something with his ocular loupes. “I’m hoping not to have disturbed you. It did not feel as if you were asleep.”

“I did not sleep,” Leona clarified. “None of us but Mateo did. Did you see the bed they designed for him and Karla?”

Ramses looks up from his work. “No? This sounds juicy.”

She laughed. “It’s a giant king-plus sized bed with a bassinet installed in the center, so co-parents can sleep on either side of the baby.”

He chuckled. “Cute.”

“I should say, I don’t think the concept was inspired by them. I believe it’s a normal product that anyone can order, but this one was custom-made as a gift from a friend of the family, or maybe just a fan.”

“Who knows, this planet is weird.”

“What are you working on there?”

“The rosary.” He lifted it up with a pair of tweezers. “I’ve been trying to get it to work. So far, I’ve been able to guess at its function, but not actually trigger its power.”

She looked upon it. “I forgot about this thing. It definitely works. I’ve seen it used. You, or someone who looks very much like you, used it at The Edge meeting. And someone who looked very much like you popped in and out of the timeline while I was gone to take things from the team.” It could be that the real version of him was never destined to use it. Ramses was in possession of it now, and Future!Leona will have it at some point later. It pretty much had to be in that order, because Ramses took it directly from Arcadia in another brane, but that was the extent of their understanding of the thing. It didn’t mean he would ever figure out how to operate it. “What does it do?”

“I think...it counteracts time.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you said that this other Ramses—maybe Future!Me, maybe always Future!Leona—would squeeze it and disappear. That sounds like your average time travel or teleportation. But if that’s the case, why is it so coveted? Why does it matter? Plenty of people can do that on their own, there’s no real reason for anyone else to want it, especially not Future!Leona. She can do a ton of things. My best guess is that when someone uses it, they separate themselves from whatever time is doing to them in that moment. If they’re moving forward in time at typical speed, maybe they move backwards, or maybe just slower. If true, it could be reapplied to other temporal manipulations, such as breaking out of a time bubble, or undoing illusions, like invisibility.”

Leona looked away to think. “Or time jump patterns.”

He nodded solemnly. “It could...cure us. That is, if you look at it as a disease, which I personally don’t. After all, I did this to myself on purpose.”

She nodded back, just as solemnly. “But it could cure Romana. She could be a normal little girl.”

“That’s not my call, and like I said, I can’t turn it on.” He stood up, and walked over to a locker. “But that’s not all I wanted to show you this morning. Unlike the rosary, Dante 2.0 is complete.”

“Two-point-oh?” Leona questioned.

He smiled as he took what looked like a parachute pack out, and held it open. “Well, come on and put it on.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you.”

He shook the pack, and then started helping her arms through the straps. “We’re five hundred meters up in the air, my dear. You could throw me quite far.” He came around and closed the waist buckle and chest buckle for her. “Looks good on ya.

“A parachute’s not gonna fit in here.”

He laughed. “It’s not a parachute.” He turned around so they were facing the same direction, and shook his hands accordingly. “Left is open, right is closed. I’m working on a special function that happens when you pull them at the same time, but that’s not ready yet. For now, that will just do nothing.”

“You’ve still not yet said what either one of the other cords does.”

He smiled knowingly, and pulled the right cord for her. Everything around them started to collapse in on itself, and become sucked into the pack as it shrank. In seconds, the whole Dante was gone, and they were standing in the open air on the top of the Isaac Skybridge.

“Oh. That makes sense. It’s just like the Phoenix.”

“It was already designed to potentially be collapsed into an uninhabitable pocket dimension of its own. All I had to do was reprogram it to collapse into this thing, instead of the suitcase that the rest of the capital ship goes into. The only thing is, if this shuttle were ever to be reunited with the Phoenix, I’m not sure whether it would function correctly or safely. It may go ahead and fall into the suitcase along with everything else, or it’ll be vaporized.” He grimaced at the thought.

She shook her head. “We’re never getting the Phoenix back. The people from the afterlife simulation need it more than we ever could.”

Suddenly, guardsmen from both towers rushed onto the bridge, and pointed their weapons in strategic directions. “Is everything okay, sirs?” one of them asked. “Your shuttle disappeared!”

“Everything’s fine!” Leona assured them. I just...put it in my bag!”

They were still on high alert. “Are you quite certain? We can protect you from anything!” the leader from Rutherford Tower added.

“Really, it’s fine! We didn’t mean to alarm you. Um...” She switched to false bravado. “Return to your posts, please. I think I’m going to..take it out of the bag again!”

The guardsmen retreated into their respective towers, except for one. He was just a kid, surely no older than nineteen. He held his gun at the low ready position. He was trying to avoid eye contact like he was really trying to avoid being noticed.

“You may go, soldier!” Ramses encouraged.

“I was actually hoping to, um...see it?”

“From outside, or in?” Ramses asked him.

The young man thought about it. “Both!”

Leona removed the Dante pack, and handed it to Ramses. She approached the soldier. “What’s your name, son?”

“Mercari, sir. Officer Mercari. This is my first week.”

“Are you related to Andromeda Mercari?”

“Distantly, sir. I...I can’t remember the family tree.”

“You don’t have to call me sir. I’m just a person. Why don’t you set that gun down? I don’t like weapons.”

Officer Mercari switched the safety on, and set the rifle down against the wall.

“We’ll start out here. Go ahead and do it!” she called over to Ramses.

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 1913: Special Investigations

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Canva text-to-image AI software

Special Investigator: I appreciate you coming to me, I just couldn’t get away from the office today. It’s a madhouse. Unrelated.

Fugitive Agent: That’s all right, I don’t mind. Is this about my current case?

Special Investigator: It’s about one of the escapees. We don’t care about the others.

Fugitive Agent: Let me guess, it’s this mysterious so-called parole officer that no one knows anything about.

Special Investigator: We are very interested in who he is, and how he got here.

Fugitive Agent: Does the Office of Special Investigations think that he’s some kind of major threat to national security?

Special Investigator: Perhaps, perhaps not. I’m going to show you something that pertains specifically to your case, and then I’m going to show you something that may have nothing to do with it, or it may mean everything.

Fugitive Agent: Okay, go ahead.

Special Investigator: Watch both monitors closely. This camera is showing the lobby of the hotel. This other one is showing the exterior. Wait for it... Wait for it...there.

Fugitive Agent: Hm. That’s weird. Are you sure these are synced up correctly?

Special Investigator: Absolutely certain. Your man walks out of the hotel without ever actually being in the hotel. He appears out of nowhere, and it doesn’t seem to faze him one bit. To him this is normal.

Fugitive Agent: No, there has to be a logical explanation. A glitch, erased footage...

Special Investigator: That what I would guess if I were in your shoes, but then again, I haven’t shown you the other footage yet.

Fugitive Agent: Can I see this one one more time?

Special Investigator: Certainly.

Fugitive Agent: [...] Wow, that looks so real. The door doesn’t open from the inside. It really looks like it’s just two different scenes spliced together.

Special Investigator: It’s not. Look at that newspaper blowing in the wind on the sidewalk. You can see it on both cameras.

Fugitive Agent: You’re right. I don’t understand it.

Special Investigator: Then you definitely won’t understand this.

Fugitive Agent: *peering at the screen* What the hell is that thing?

Special Investigator: We’re still figuring that out.

Fugitive Agent: It looks like a giant...dragonfly, or maybe a cicada.

Special Investigator: It won’t speak, but it clearly understands English. It reacts predictably to verbal threats. It showed up six months ago. We’ve been studying it.

Fugitive Agent: Fascinating, but forgive me, what does it have to do with my guy?

Special Investigator: This...thing showed up on camera too. A meteorologist happened to be doing some kind of weather research nearby at the time of its arrival. It presented very unusual readings, so we’ve been secretly installing sensors all over the country, including near enough where the parole officer showed up.

Fugitive Agent: He set off the sensors, didn’t he? What do you want me to do?

Special Investigator: We want you to do what you were doing. Find him. For us.

Microstory 1910: Detained

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Canva text-to-image AI software

Street Proctor: Here you are, boys, fresh meat! And look, he’s a cop! Have fun!

Detainee 1: Is that true? Were you a cop?

Leonard: I was—I am—a parole officer. It was my job to keep guys like you out of jail after you left. I’m trying to get back to that life.

Detainee 1: I see. *stands up*

Leonard: Look, I’m not here to fight.

Detainee 1: Me neither. My parole officer kept me out for ten years before she was murdered. I’m in here because I found the dirty cop who did her in, and put him in the ground. I just wanna shake your hand.

Detainee 2: Heh. They probably thought that we would kill you for wearing that badge.

Detainee 3: They’re proctors. Proctors are morons. All they do is observe and report.

Leonard: Observe and report? He arrested me when I told him that I was homeless.

Detainee 2: Yeah, he’s technically not allowed to do that.

Detainee 1: Cops are cops. Since when do they care what the law says? Present company excluded, of course.

Leonard: I’ve barely been here an hour, and I already don’t understand this world.

Detainee 2: What’s to understand? Everyone’s corrupt. That’s all you need to know.

Leonard: *whispering to himself* I gotta get outta here.

Detainee 3: I’m in.

Leonard: Huh? I don’t mean out of jail. I can’t break any more laws. I just mean this area. I’m far from home, and I want to get back to my family.

Detainee 1: It’s not illegal to break out of jail.

Leonard: It’s not? These laws really are weird.

Detainee 1: The only catch is if you get caught, you’ll go back to jail to await trial, and they will probably use your attempted escape against you. Though it will not technically be a charge, the judge will rule based on his personal feelings on the matter. Obviously most of them frown upon it, so if we’re doing this, let’s not get caught.

Detainee 3: Oh, but if you physically harm someone in the process, that can be an added charge. The good news is, as you’ve already seen, the police at this particular station are incredibly incompetent...easily embarrassed. We should be able to slip past.

Detainee 2: Yeah, and they won’t want to open an investigation, or initiate a pursuit, because that makes them look bad. They’re liable to wipe us from the system, and hope that no one else finds out.

Detainee 3: Plus his badge.

Detainee 2: Oh yeah, you have that badge. I don’t recognize it, but if you’re clever, they won’t notice. We’ll just wanna wait until a shift change, so no one will recognize you.

Detainee 1: So how about it, paroler? You wanna break out of here?

Detainee 4: I got somethin’ to say.

Detainee 3: Detainee 4, you’re awake.

Detainee 4: I heard every word, and I have one question. What do we do about him?

Jail Guard: I hate proctors too. Anyway, I need some more coffee. Don’t you go breakin’ out while I’m gone, ya hear? It’ll probably take me about an hour.

Microstory 1909: An Officer Arrested

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Canva text-to-image AI software

Senior Proctor: Street Proctor, why did you arrest that man in there?

Street Proctor: He told me that he was homeless. My hands were tied. Ha, now his hands are tied.

Senior Proctor: Did you happen to search his person before you brought him in?

Street Proctor: Of course I did.

Senior Proctor: So you noticed that he was carrying this badge?

Street Proctor: I...of course I did. I didn’t think anything of it. It looks fake. I don’t recognize that design.

Senior Proctor: I don’t either, but feel how heavy it is.

Street Proctor: That doesn’t make it real.

Senior Proctor: I think it’s real to him, and I’m interested to find out where he got it, and why he has it. Don’t you? He didn’t identify himself as a parole officer, did he? Why do you think that is? It may have saved him some trouble.

Street Proctor: I have no idea. I probably would have left him alone if he had.

Senior Proctor: Let’s go in there and have a chat.

Street Proctor: His biometric results aren’t in yet.

Senior Proctor: I have a feeling they’re not going to find him in the system. *Opens door* Good evening. My name is Senior Proctor. Can you tell me what your name is?

Parole Officer: Miazga. Leonard Miazga.

Senior Proctor: It’s nice to meet you, Officer Miazga. You are an officer, correct?

Leonard Miazga: I am. I work for the Kansas City Metro Corps Department of Corrections as a parole officer for non-violent crimes.

Senior Proctor: Wow, that’s a mouthful. If you have steady work, why do you not have a permanent residential address?

Leonard: I choose to exercise my right to remain silent.

Senior Proctor: *laughs* What? Your right to remain silent? Never heard of it. Have you, Street Proctor?

Street Proctor: Can’t say that I have, boss.

Senior Proctor: I’ve never heard of the Kansas City Metro Corps either.

Street Proctor: Me neither.

Senior Proctor: Look, I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to pull here with this piece of junk badge, and your made up stories about being an officer of the court—

Street Proctor: I don’t either.

Senior Proctor: That’s enough, Street Proctor. Anyway, Mr. Miazga, my subordinate was right when he told you that he had no choice but to arrest you. If you have nowhere to live, you live in a jail cell. That’s the law. Understand?

Leonard: I understand.

Senior Proctor: Good.

Leonard: I understand that this country created no laws protecting suspected law-breakers, nor any meant to promote a sense of due process or fairness in justice.

Senior Proctor: Get him out of here. Pin that badge on him, and threaten his life if he tries to take it off. Let the other criminals in there decide how they feel about it.

Microstory 1908: Proctor, Proctor, Help Me, Help Me

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Canva text-to-image AI software

My Parole Officer: Hello, hi. I’m glad I found you. I seem to be lost. Could you point me in the direction of Kansas City?

Street Proctor: Never heard of it.

Parole Officer: Oh. What is the city we’re in called?

Proctor: Kansas City, Missouri.

Parole Officer: That’s what I said.

Proctor: No. You just said Kansas City. There is no such thing. It would be like calling this country America when it’s the United States of America.

Parole Officer: Okay, well, it’s not the same thing. People call it that all the time, and there’s not usually any ambiguity. You should have assumed what I meant.

Proctor: You’re already here in Kansas City Missouri. Why would you ask to go somewhere when you’re already there? I figured you were trying to talk about something else. It would be like asking for a glass of water while you’re holding a glass of water.

Parole Officer: Umm...

Proctor: If you’ll excuse me, I’m on patrol.

Parole Officer: You’re not moving.

Proctor: That’s why I always get myself assigned a corner. I can see my entire day’s jurisdiction without having to move.

Parole Officer: Something’s wrong here. Who is the President of the United States?

Proctor: The president? There is no such thing. You can have a president of a neighborhood, maybe, but perhaps you mean the National Commander?

Parole Officer: Yeah, sure. Who is the National Commander?

Proctor: Commander Apostle Virtue.

Parole Officer: Apostle Virtue. That’s their real name?

Proctor: Of course it is. Why?

Parole Officer: Yeah, this is definitely the wrong world.

Proctor: What was that?

Parole Officer: Nothing. Never mind. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’m homeless, and I don’t have any money. Is there perhaps a shelter nearby, or somewhere else I could stay to get out of the elements.

Proctor: Is that a joke? Please tell me that you’re joking.

Parole Officer: I wish I was, but I’m afraid I’m not where I should be, and I need some help. I know the law, I shouldn’t sleep out on the streets, but I don’t know where I can go. I’m obviously very unfamiliar with this area. I’ve traveled from far away.

Proctor: Oh my God. Why did it have to be my corner? Months without incident, and then you show up to make things more complicated. The paperwork, the paperwork...

Parole Officer: I don’t think that’s necessary. Just tell me where I can go. I’ll get there myself, even if it’s far. I don’t mind walking.

Proctor: No, I have to arrest you.

Parole Officer: What? Hey, watch it! Why exactly are you handcuffing me?

Proctor: Homelessness is illegal. You could have gotten away with it, and stayed hidden, but you went and confessed to me. Now I have no choice. Don’t resist.