Extremus: Year 122

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With Pronastus out of the way, Waldemar has been able to sit in his chair, and get some much-needed work done. It’s smooth, comfortable, and unworn. Past captains have sparingly sat on the bridge. He knows why, but he still doesn’t think it’s right. In the scifi shows of old, the bridge was the happenin’ place to be. It was literally the seat of power for the whole ship, and given the nature of the narratives, usually the focal point of the whole universe. The fictional captains were basically gods. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that in the real world. There are no aliens to fight or negotiate with. There are no spacetime anomalies, or colonies to save. There’s not even anything to see out here. Faster-than-light travel does not streak the stars, or show them endless ionized clouds of hyperspace. It’s just a blinding grayish light. If this bridge had a viewport, they would never be able to open it, except before they left, or once they make it to their destination. Waldemar has changed all that. He had ordered viewscreens to be installed before his chair. The stars they’re seeing aren’t really there, but they alleviate the claustrophobia. And that’s not all they do.

When the tentacled alien character appears on screen, Waldemar chuckles at him. “Lieutenant Xaxblarg. Is your boss on the shitter, or did you finally grow the balls to overthrow him?” His voice is a bit melodramatic, but it’s supposed to be.

“You know that Xaxblergins do not have balls. You insult me, human,” the alien spits back.

“Is he named after his race?” Waldemar’s helmsman whispers to the navigator.

“Stay in character, ensign!” Waldemar orders. He clears his throat, and looks back up at the screen. “Xaxblarg, I don’t care who I’m dealing with. I want your blasted blargship off that planet. You have enslaved the Tukpluckians for way too long, and we’re here to free ‘em. If you don’t go to the devil in five Milky Way minutes, I’m gonna blast a hole in your ship so big, you’ll be fartin’ xentriflux plasma for days.”

Xaxblarg chuckles evilly. “You think you’ve won, human captain, but your sensors have been degaussed. If you look outside, I think you’ll find yourself thoroughly surrounded by my strike penetrators.”

“Strike penetrators?” the science officer complains. “Jesus.”

“That’s two days in the brig, ensign!” Waldemar orders.

“In the real world, it is called hock, sir,” the ensign replies.

“That’s a stupid goddamn word that no one ever used until we started building real starships. I refuse to use it. Three days in the brig.”

“You told me to be historically accurate with my character,” the ensign goes on. “The way you wrote me as the radically honest half-trentlamite, I would push back against your errors. You have never called it the brig before—”

“Your sentence in the brig is four days now. Keep talkin’ and I’ll make it five...years.” Waldemar doesn’t like when people argue with him. It’s ridiculous. He’s in charge here. Whatever he says is right, even if it’s wrong. That’s the whole reason to be the boss. If this asshole wanted the job instead, he should have saved the ship from annihilation several years ago, instead of Waldemar.

“Four days is fine sir. Thank you.” He leaves the bridge using the door. That’s another thing Waldemar changed. Ubiquitous teleporters are too easy. Even the shows that had the technology almost always only used them to transport down to a planet, or back up. They didn’t waste energy jumping from one deck to another. Sure, the visual effects would have cost too much, but that’s no reason to overuse them in real life.

Waldemar takes a breath. “Now. Does anyone else have a problem with my script, or are you ready to get on board? Here’s something you need to understand—and perhaps I was unclear about why we’re doing this—the simulations are not just for fun. We all believe that there are no aliens out here, and we all believe that we’re never slowing down or stopping until we make it to the Extremus planet. But we don’t actually know that. What if we do encounter an alien race of slavedrivers, bent on our destruction? What if we fall into a black hole, and end up in another universe? And what if that universe is the opposite of ours, where I’m evil, and Adolf Hitler was good. We’re doing this to be prepared. I made it fun to keep you engaged and entertained. But I can make it boring if you want. Is that what you want? To be all technical and realistic,” he says with airquotes. 

“No, sir,” they grumble.

“Good. Now someone find me a replacement science officer who isn’t gonna backtalk me, and let’s run it again, from the top! I wanna get through this at least once.”

The next attempt went better. The crew performed admirably, and was able to kill everyone in the Xaxblergin fleet efficiently. He wrote the script himself, but they’re still not taking it seriously enough. Maybe he needs to hire some writers. He can still take credit for it. He doesn’t have to admit that he didn’t come up with the new storylines himself. Maybe his wife will have some thoughts on that. “You have the conn, Lieutenant.” He teleports off the bridge. He’s back in his stateroom now where Audrey is waiting for him, as usual. They have gotten into this habit where she cooks for him. The synthwrights didn’t want to engineer and build them a real kitchen, but they fell in line. They always will, or else.

“Welcome home, honey. How was your day?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Waldemar sits down. “What are we having?”

“This is chicken tetrazzini with cheesy white sauce and oven-roasted cherry tomatoes on top. For the drink, I chose a rosemary-infused sparkling lemonade.”

“I don’t like lemons,” Waldemar counters.

“Oh, you’ll like this. Lemonade is very different. The sugar—”

“I don’t like lemon anything,” he volleys, raising his voice, but still not yelling. “Bring me the milk we had last night.”

“We had turkey chili last night. Milk paired well with that, but it will not pair well with this dish,” she argues.

He swipes the cup off the table, letting it spill and break on the floor, but not shatter. “I’ll decide what pairs well with what.”

Audrey calmly stands up, walks around the table, and raps him on the nose. “No! No! We do not throw things, and we don’t knock them over. No!” She strikes him again.

She is the only person on this ship who can do something like that to him. Anyone else would be six feet under the Attic Forest or floating in the black nothing by now. He flares his nostrils, but doesn’t otherwise react. It’s not easy, holding himself back with her. He can’t just do it. He has to concentrate on it. Most things he tries come easy to him, but not social etiquette. That’s why he usually doesn’t worry about it, because it’s too much work, but she’s worth it. That ass alone...

“Okay.” She lifts her hand and taps on her fingers in the right command sequence. A bot emerges from the floor, and begins to clean up the mess.

“I told you, I don’t like those things. Your job is to keep house, when I’m not here, and when I am. If you’re going to outsource that work, what’s the point?”

“Good question,” Audrey replies as she’s returning to the kitchen. She takes the milk out of the fridge, and starts to pour. “What’s the point of playing house at all? You’re a captain for Christ’s sake.” She sets the glass in front of him. “You don’t have time for domesticity.”

“We all have our roles, dear.” He takes a bite of the chicken pasta. “I didn’t want to be captain, it was my destiny. I was born for this.” He takes a drink of the milk. “Blech,” he exclaims, letting the milk shoot out of his mouth, and land on the cleaning bot, confusing it. For a moment, he’s embarrassed. He looks back up at Audrey. “I guess you were right.” He wipes his lips with his sleeve.

“Oh, you animal,” she utters with a sigh. She sits on the edge of the table, and dabs his face with a napkin. They stare into each other’s eyes. Then she leans down and kisses him passionately. He has little need for most personal connections, but having someone to take care of him like this is nice. He won’t give it up, for the job, or anything.

He takes her hand in his, and kisses it too. “I’m sorry I got mad.”

“It’s okay.” She goes back to the kitchen again, and pours another glass of the lemonade. “It’s like you said, it’s my job to keep house. Unlike 99.98 percent of the population, I know how to cook. That’s just about all I spend my time doing. Trust me.”

Waldemar accepts the drink this time, and tries it. She’s right, as always.

He’s still feeling uncomfortable with the emotion he emulated during dinner, so Waldemar leaves the stateroom afterwards, to go on his rounds. The people know by now that when he’s walking at this pace, with this gait, he is not to be disturbed. If he wants to interact with someone, he will initiate contact, not them. And he’s not there to help anyone either. This is his personal time, which he uses to clear his head, or work through problems. He likes to be seen. He wants to be present, and for the citizens to associate him with every corner of this vessel. His focus is on the bridge, but they should not forget that he can go anywhere, and do anything he wants. He can show up any time, so it’s best not to be whispering about him, or planning some misguided coup. He absolutely detests not knowing what people are discussing or thinking, and while he hasn’t had to explain this out loud, people understand that. When he’s around, they go silent. If he wants them to speak, he’ll unambiguously let them know.

He doesn’t usually pay attention to where he’s going. Again, he has free rein, so he doesn’t have to plan a specific route. He finds himself in the park. Before Tinaya Leithe was even captain, she worked for the Parks Department, and eventually used her power to build the Attic Forest, which takes up the whole upper deck. People love it there, and use it all the time, which is why Waldemar doesn’t go there. He doesn’t care for nature, nor people. The original park is still here. It’s only a fraction of the size, and poorly maintained these days, so regular people have no use for it. He typically only comes here when he wants to be alone, but today, he has more stumbled upon it. Perhaps his subconscious mind is trying to tell him something.

He’s not alone this time. A young girl is sitting by whatever these plants are called. She’s...what is she doing? Is she drawing them? On paper? What a weirdo. He’s intrigued. “It doesn’t have any color.”

The girl doesn’t look up, and doesn’t stop. “Yeah, it’s a sketch. It’s not supposed to have color.”

“What is the point if it’s not going to be accurate?” He catches himself asking that question a lot. He used to ask it even more frequently. Silveon taught him that people notice because he’s questioning things that are obvious to normal people.

“It’s art, it doesn’t need to be accurate.” She’s still not looking at him.

He smiles. She has no idea who he is. It’s a relief, really. Yes, of course he wants people to respect him and do as he says, but there’s something intoxicating about the few who refuse to. That’s why he hooked up with Audrey in the first place, because she doesn’t take his shit. She’s almost as strong as he is, and can work at his level. This girl here, whoever she is. She might be even better.

“I’m not much into art. I’m so busy. With my job.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are, Captain.” Oh. So she does know who he is, if only by his voice. But wait, if that’s true, why is she being so casual and distant? Why is she not looking him in the eyes to gain favor, or down at his feet to show her fear and reverence?

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks.

She sighs, and closes her notepad. “If that’s what you’re into.”

He sits rather close to her. “Can I see?”

“Go ahead. I’m not ashamed.”

There are a ton of other drawings in the sketchbook, some also without color, but some with. Many of her subjects can be found around the ship, but others are nowhere near here. Lots of animals. She likes cows. She’s a cowgirl. “These are really good. uh...oh, what’s your name?”

“Sable.”

“Sable?” he echoes. “You’re Admiral Keen’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“Royalty.”

“Huh?”

“Uh.” Why is it so hot in here, and why is he stumbling over his words? She’s pretty, yeah, but she’s so young. It’s...that doesn’t matter at any rate. He can have any woman he wants. Why worry about this one girl? “I meant your art. In the past, you could have sold it for money, and I think they called that royalties.”

“Cool.” God, she’s such a—what word is he looking for?—renegade. Just an untamable, fierce, defiant badass. She smells nice too, and the curve of her neck is so enticing. Who cares how young she is? He must have her. She reminds him of Audrey, back before the, ya know...sagging and wrinkling.

“Have you ever painted a mural before?” He asks her, leaning in a little. She needs to know that he’s interested without it being obvious to someone watching them from the outside.

“Like on a wall? We don’t have the right kind of walls.”

“Say the word, I’ll make one. You can paint anything you want on it. Do we have paint? I’ll get you some paint. If it’s not the right paint, I’ll get you the right paint.”

“Captain, I really appreciate you trying to engage with your people, but this is really not necessary.”

“I just see your talent, and I think everyone else should too.” He places a hand against her back, noting that she doesn’t flinch at his touch.

For the first time ever, she makes eye contact. “Do you really think so?”

He begins to lower his hand. She doesn’t reject this either. “Unequivocally. Let’s talk about this some more.”

“I would like that.”

He moves under her shirt, definitely not only touching her back anymore.

She smiles. She’s so into him.

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Microstory 1747: Little Lion

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I’m a nomadic lion, which means that I don’t belong to a pride. This is not by choice, as it is for most of my kind. I was the runt of the family, so my mother rejected and abandoned me. I should have died in the wild, having never learned how to survive, but I figured it out. I figured out what to eat, and what not to. I taught myself how to hunt, and where to find water. If only my mom could see me now. I’m full-grown, but not much larger than I was before, relatively speaking. You might think that makes it harder on me, but I have found it to be an advantage. Prey animals think of me as a baby, and while they are worried about mama being around here somewhere, they always underestimate me. Yes, it’s harder for me to run and pounce, but I don’t have to when my meal doesn’t consider me too much of a threat, and lets me get close before becoming worried about it. Yes, I’m doing okay, all things considered. I wouldn’t say this is a great life, and I doubt I’ll ever find a suitable mate, but at least I’m alive, and I understand how to keep myself that way. I will say that I’m fairly sick of it, wandering around without the protection or companionship of others. I’ve made a few attempts to join other prides, but they always run me off. They would kill me if, again, they thought I was any real threat. They don’t think I deserve to share in the food we would catch together. They don’t think I can contribute, and that’s not fair. They have no idea what I have to offer. I’ve decided to give up, and focus on being the best version of my lonesome self. If no one else can appreciate me, then I guess I have to work extra hard to make sure I appreciate myself, and maintain my self-esteem. It’s their loss.

One day, I’m walking over the grasslands, trying to pick up the scent of a sounder of warthogs. They’re pretty mean and rowdy, but they’re smaller than giraffes, so they’re kind of all I can handle on my own. My nose picks up something. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s not a warthog. I keep going, and pretty quickly realize it to be the blood of my own kind. Another lion is hurt nearby, and I feel compelled to go investigate. I really shouldn’t. It’s none of my business, I don’t know how I could help them, and it’s not like they would try if our roles were reversed. I can’t help it, though. I have to find out what happened. Perhaps some super predator has shown up, and I’m in danger here. That is a good enough reason for me to follow the trail, right? As I draw nearer, I imagine the horrific crime scene I’m about to encounter. Blood and guts everywhere, I don’t know which parts connect to which other parts. Vultures feasting on the remains. But that’s not what it is. It’s a female, probably around my age. She’s injured enough to not be able to move on her own, but she’s not drenched in her own blood. I instinctively begin to lick her wounds. When the vultures actually do come, I scare them off with my pathetic excuse for a roar. It wouldn’t be good enough to impress another lion, but the birds are sufficiently disturbed. I continue to watch over the lioness as her cuts heal on their own. She won’t tell me what happened to her, but I get the impression that she too had some kind of falling out with her pride. Once she’s well enough, we walk together to a safer location, where I can leave her to hunt. I drag carcasses back to our den to keep her fed. It’s a lot of work for a little guy like me, but I make it work. One day, she runs off without even a thank you, and I figure that I’ll never see her again. But then she comes back with a carcass of her own as what she calls the thank you. Then we start our family.

Microstory 1742: Sea Serpent

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I don’t move at first. I have no idea whether you’re supposed to run away from a serpent, or stand still. Maybe she can’t see me if I stand still? I try to reach for my phone, but that seems to freak her out. She darts her head towards my hand, so I pull back. She relaxes a bit. I try to take one slow step backwards, but she doesn’t like that either. She seems to feel most comfortable with me where I am, and her where she is. I don’t get the impression that she plans on hurting me, but she considers any movement to be a sign of aggression. I notice something a little funny about her, since all I can do now is watch, and pray I don’t become the prey. I’m no serpent expert, obviously, but I’ve never seen one with such a flat tail. I can’t imagine that she can slither very well with that thing. Perhaps it’s meant to brush leaves and grass out of the way? No, that doesn’t make any sense. She’s already passed over any obstacle by then. Maybe it’s there to hide her tracks from predators. This sounds like a decent evolutionary advantage, though I would hardly call her worthy of being anyone’s meal. She perked up when I had to clear my throat. I doubt anything could sneak up on her, whether they were following tracks or not. I look around, careful to move my head as little as possible, and sniff the air. You know what, I think we’re pretty close to Danaid Inlet. Oh, that must be what that flat tail is for. She’s not a land serpent, but a sea serpent. That’s also probably why she’s so on edge, because she’s not close enough to water. I couldn’t say how long she can stay on land, so it could be indefinite. Or she’ll eventually die, and I’ll be able to walk away. No, I don’t want that. She’s not doing anything wrong. I want to save her.

I look up to get my bearings. I’m a little lost, but I know the direction of the ocean. The inlet is to the Northwest of here. Hoping the serpent doesn’t decide to just attack me on the spot, I move a little towards the water. She moves to match me. She doesn’t get closer, or farther away. I move more, she mirrors me again. I keep going, always keeping my eye on her as she follows. The trek is rough. I’m sure the trail will eventually get us there, but who knows how long that would take? I just want to get to the water as fast as possible so this girl can get back to her life. I’ll find my way home after that, once I’m finally safe. She continues to slither next to me as I’m trudging through the brush, and over the rocks. I would be embarrassed, but the serpent seems just as awkward on land as I am. Also, she’s an animal, so I don’t think she has the capacity to judge others. But what do I know? She appears to be following me to the inlet, like she knows she can trust me to lead her there. After a few hours, we’re on the beach. I did it. I can’t believe I actually did it. Now she can go off to where she belongs. She doesn’t move, though. She just sits there, staring at the water like she’s enjoying the beautiful view as much as I am. I step closer, she matches, just like she has been. I take a few more steps. She slithers again. I’m starting to think she thinks I’m her mother, and we’re supposed to go in together. All right, fine. I’m already cold and tired; how is getting wet gonna make things worse? I wade in, and she gleefully slithers in next to me. Only then does she seem to realize she knows how to take it from here. After a splash—which my headcanon has decided to categorize as a sea serpent’s way of saying thank you—she swims away. I step out of the water, and sit on the sand to watch the sunset. I fall asleep there, dreaming of serpentine friends. I awaken with a little unexpected new perspective.

Microstory 1364: Budge

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Co-Anchor: Thank you for tuning in this morning. I hope you’re already having a great day. Our first guest lives just outside of Hillside, and she has a special treat for us. Why don’t you introduce yourself, and your little friend?

Budgie Owner: Hello, I’m Budgie Owner, and this is my budgie, Kaleidoscope. I call him Kale for short, though. Say good morning, Kale!

Kale: [...]

Co-Anchor: Aww, is he shy?

Budgie Owner: I guess he is. I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this. Say hi, Kale!

Kale: Hi, Kale!

Budgie Owner: There we go. Good bird, Kale. Here, have a treat.

Kale: Thank you!

Co-Anchor: Aw, that’s adorable. Now, I understand that Kale does a lot more than just say a few words, right?

Budgie Owner: That’s right. I’m a retired engineer, and I rigged my house with a bunch of pulleys, levers, and other simple machines. The mechanisms are really sensitive, and easy to maneuver, so Kale here can actually do a lot of things for me. He can open doors, and crack the window. He can turn off the lights, and even start the coffee before I wake up.

Co-Anchor: And does he? Does he do that unprompted?

Budgie Owner: He has his own little alarm clock next to where he sleeps that chirps at him. It gives him enough time to start my coffee, yes. Don’t worry, though. He’s not my slave. He’s my best friend. I don’t make him do anything that’s too hard for him, or that he doesn’t like.

Co-Anchor: That’s lovely. So, he doesn’t live in a cage?

Budgie Owner: Oh no, birds aren’t meant to live in cages. He flies freely in and out of the house.

Co-Anchor: He always comes back, though, right?

Budgie Owner: Well, when I say he flies out of the house, I really just mean around the house. He doesn’t go exploring in the woods, or anything. There are a lot of predators out there, so neither of us wants him going too far. He just likes to feel the sun in his face sometimes. He always waits for me to open the door for him, and makes sure to stay in my line of sight.

Co-Anchor: I imagine clean up is quite a bit of work, if he can do his business wherever, instead of in a cage.

Budgie Owner: He has a special area for that. I’ve trained him to return to what I call his throne when he needs to do that. He’s very intelligent, as all parakeets are.

Co-Anchor: Are parakeets and budgies the same thing?

Budgie Owner: They are, it’s just a different name. I use them interchangeably.

Co-Anchor: Great. So, you have a demonstration for us?

Budgie Owner: Yes, the station has been kind enough to recreate the bare bones of my living room, and I’m gonna have Kale do a few tricks for you.

Co-Anchor: That’s wonderful. Whenever you’re ready.

Budgie Owner: Okay. I’m setting you down now, Kale. Go ahead. Breezy. Kale, breezy! Breezy!

Co-Anchor: And that’s a codeword?

Budgie Owner: Yes, that’s supposed to prompt him to open the window, to let some air in.

Co-Anchor: Perhaps he knows this isn’t really his house.

Budgie Owner: Oh, he definitely does, but we were just practicing before you went on the air. I’m not sure what’s made him so shy. He loves to perform, even for strangers. I just can’t get him to budge.

Co-Anchor: Ah, budge. I get it. Well, we’re going to go to a commercial break, and when we come back, I’m sure Kale will be more than ready to show us what he’s made of.

Microstory 1293: The Predators and Their Spoils

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A tiger, a wolverine, a hyena, and a black bear once became a hunting party. They decided to join forces, so no prey would be able to escape their grasp. The tiger was sort of considered their leader, even though the team-up was more or less the wolverine’s idea. The tiger was the largest, and this was her territory, so she determined which animals they were going to go after, and what strategy they would use to catch them. Though they were hunting together, they were not eating together. The general rule was that each predator still got to keep for themselves whatever they caught, just as it would be if they were operating separately. They really just stuck together to instill more fear in their targets, so it would be easier to take them down. This seemed to have a side effect, however, when they eventually found that the animals figured out how to steer clear of this fearsome four. They learned how the the predator group hunted, and more importantly, how to avoid them. This quite nearly caused the group to disband, and head their separate ways, but the black bear had an idea. All they needed to do was travel north, to a land where the animals knew nothing about them. They needed to regain their element of surprise. This seemed like a good idea, so they packed up, and moved out. What the black bear failed to mention, however, was that there were fewer animals in the north, because it was always sparsely populated. They continued to struggle to find food, until one day when the hyena was able to run down a moose who had been drinking by a stream. It was quite large, but it was also alone, so if they followed their own rules, only the hyena would get to eat. “We can change the rules,” the tiger said after a long pause in the argument about it. “We are the ones that made them up, after all! We shall divide the moose into four equal parts; one for each of us.” And so they did, and it was fair, and they were full.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Lion’s Share.

Microstory 1292: The Coney and Her Ears

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A lion was trying to eat the meat of a goat he had captured when the goat’s horns scratched his face up. One of them nearly took out his eye when he leaned over, and this angered the lion greatly. Not wanting to risk anything like this happening again, the lion stood on top of his proclamation rock, and proclaimed that all animals with horns of any kind will be banished from the lands. Anyone fitting the description was required to leave within one day. Now, of course the coney did not have horns, but she did have long ears on top of her head, which the lion might take offense to. She could not sleep that night for fear of the lion becoming angry with her for staying. He did say that anyone with horns of any kind should leave; perhaps her tall ears were close enough. When she stepped out of her hole the following morning, the sun’s light fell upon her head, and cast a long shadow on the ground before her, making her ears look even larger than they normally did. She even convinced herself that they were horn-like. Now she was certain that it wasn’t worth the risk to stick around. She was so upset about having to move, but she did not want to suffer the lion’s wrath. He was such a fearsome creature, and she was such a little thing. “Goodbye,” she said to all her friends. “I do not want to go, but I have no other choice.”

“Good for you,” said the badger.

“How is this good?” the coney asked.

“Why, all the horned animals are looking at this development the wrong way,” the badger tried to explain. “Sure, you have to move, but you should be happier than anyone. After all, you’re not supposed to want to be eaten by a predator. It is the rest of us who must continue to live in fear.”

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Hare and His Ears.

Microstory 1287: The Father and the Snake

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A father and his son were coming back from the market one day when the son accidentally stepped on a pile of eggs. The father examined the remains, and discovered that they belonged to a snake. The son was upset about what he had done, but his father assured him that these things happen. He was also afraid the mother would return, and be stricken with sadness for what happened, but the father also knew that this variety of snake always abandons her eggs, and would move on with her life, never knowing something had happened. Unfortunately, he was wrong. This particular mother snake was a little different. For whatever reason she felt the urge to return to her nest, and check on her babies. She was horrified by what she found there, and even though it was not in her nature, felt compelled to seek revenge on whoever killed her young. She sniffed around, and picked up the scent. Then she slithered off to hunt for the culprit. She found him, and bit the boy in the ankle. The boy nearly died, but the father acted quickly, and got him medical attention. He was angry, though, so he hunted the mother snake right back, and cut off her tail with a shovel. Now even angrier, the snake returned to the father’s home, and bit several of his cows. She bit each one of them many times, in the dead of night, so he would not be able to tend to them in time. Angrier too, the father went out to get his revenge again, but this time, he was determined to kill her, and just be done with it. But the son did not want this to happen. While he was still recovering, he struggled out of bed, and followed his father to the woods. He finally caught up with him just as they were coming upon the snake. She was prepared for a fight, and so was the father. “No,” the son declared. “You will not do this. No good can come of it.” He continued his speech, trying desperately to dissuade them from their bloodlust. The cycle of violence had to end, and both of them knew it. Neither believed the other should concede first. It was just that each worried the other wouldn’t take kindly to a truce, and that it might make things worse. But someone had to risk it. The boy’s words were enough to change them both for the better. The father apologized for the snake’s young, and the snake apologized for his cattle. She tried to apologize for the boy, but the boy insisted that all was forgiven on his end. The father and the snake did not become friends that day, but they were no longer enemies.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called The Man and the Serpent.

Microstory 1286: The Turtle and Her Home

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It came to pass in the very early days of creation that the god of the animals, and the god of the plants, decided to marry each other. They wanted to better blend all life in the world, and manage them together. Only then did they think life would thrive, and multiply. All the animals living at the time were invited to the wedding, and nearly all of them showed up. Notably absent, however, was the turtle. No one knew why she wasn’t there to honor the god who created her, but they were worried that something terrible had happened to her. After the ceremony was over, they came to learn that the turtle was perfectly safe, and that she had simply chosen to not attend. The others said it was rude and inconsiderate, but if they were being honest with themselves, perhaps they would realize that they were mostly upset because they had felt obligated to come. She wasn’t afraid to make her own decisions, like they were. It was only the two gods that were willing to listen to her explanation. “My house is not much,” she explained, “but it is mine, and I love it, and it is where I feel the safest. You invited the sharks and the seabirds, and though you placed a temporary truce on us, I was too afraid that my predators would not honor it.” And so the two gods thought over her concerns, and decided to make things better. They wanted her to feel safe all the time, even though they knew that she would forever remain part of the circle of life, just as everyone else was. The best idea they could come up with was to allow the turtle to carry her home with her wherever she went. So the turtle was happy.

This story was inspired by, and revised from, an Aesop Fable called Zeus and the Tortoise, though I can’t seem to find the source that I drew from, and I don’t feel that it would be right to link to some other version of it that uses different wording.

Microstory 899: Tragic Magic

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A long time ago, before motor vehicles were invented, the pathways between buildings were narrow. The people of the time could not conceive of the need for wider roads. A couple individuals needed to be able to pass each other going opposite directions, but not much else. As technology progressed, the city of London grew larger, as did its streets. But the city center was still the same as it ever was, leaving little room for practical living. But the buildings were old, and made as beautiful architecture. Londoners did not want to destroy them, and build anew, so city officials struck a deal. Witches were commissioned to widen the streets with magic, by adding an extra dimension of space in between the space that we perceive. Normal people cannot detect this higher dimension, so we interpret it as nothing but emptiness. Over time, the memory of this act faded from people’s minds. Those who were around when it happened died off, and their descendants did not believe the stories. Eventually, even the stories stopped being told, and we were left with a normal city that only a few surviving believers were aware was actually held together by magic. Now in modern day, those original wonderful buildings have been upgraded, dismantled, and replaced, but the magic remains. Even amongst those who know the truth, only one family is aware of what happened to the witches. Some believed them to be immortal, and to still be living up to today. Others thought their descendants now protected the city. Both are right. Both are wrong. The witches have been passing their souls down their own generational lines all this time. Out of each family, three children are born. Two must live on, and live full lives. The other must relinquish their body, and agree to be supplanted by one of their own parents, sometime after adulthood, but before age-related fertility problems threaten the cycle. But of course, this has led to diminishing returns, and the last full-powered witch died yesterday.

It has always been my family’s responsibility to care for the remaining powered witches, but there is only so much we can do. With no equal mate, the last witch was incapable of conceiving any children who could bear the burden of her power. She married a nice man, and raised three lovely children, but they could not possess magic. So when she finally passed on, the London spell automatically dissipated, as did all other magical spells. The central buildings were suddenly sent hurtling towards each other. A great many people were killed or hurt in this, but most of the buildings themselves remained intact; if only closer together. Two buildings, however, were not so lucky. I met my wife three dozen stories up in the air, above the street. For whatever reason, the architect responsible for both of our respective buildings decided later to construct extensions from both of the penthouses, so they were only a few meters apart from each other. This allowed us to carry on conversations from opposite buildings. I was attending to the last witch’s body when magic turned off. The penthouse extensions crashed into each other. My father and wife, who were chatting up there, were quite nearly killed. But this was not the only spell affected. The last witch used magic to cure my wife of her cancer, as a sort of profoundly beautiful gift, but her illness returned upon the end of magic. A toy tiger that had been passed down the family, and presently belonged to my son, turned out to be a real tiger. We still don’t know which witch transformed it, when exactly, or why. As my father and his daughter-in-law were trying to make their way off the extensions, the tiger ran across it, and tried to attack them. My father was forced to pull it off the edge, sending both of them falling towards their deaths. But there was one more gift the witches bequested to us before their end. I had with me a secret reserve of magic that I was told would be good for one further spell. I used it to save my father’s life, as well as the tiger’s, landing them both safely on either side of a fence in the nearby zoo. But a second spell cast itself, completely out of my control. It turned my son into a new witch. And it was he who put the buildings back to where they belonged, repaired all the injuries and deaths caused by the temporary loss in magic, and erased everyone’s memories of the whole thing. But we don’t know what to do next.

Microstory 898: Gerrafy and Nanomouse

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Research log, July 31. A lot of people know that only one species of giraffa exists in modern day, but what I’m the only one who knows is that that is not true. There is another, extremely rare, but very much alive species that I have named the gerrafy. The few I’ve encountered were seven meters tall, but they were all female, and—based on giraffe sexual dimorphism—I believe they can reach upwards of eight and a half meters. I discovered the first specimen living in the depths of none other than the Amazon rainforest. If ever you were going to find an animal no one knew existed, it would be there, so I was not surprised. What I was surprised to find was a second hitherto unheard of species of mouse that I believe to now hold the record for the smallest in the world. The African pygmy mouse comes in at a length of only a few centimeters, but the shipayan nanomouse is barely one centimeter long, and I do not currently possess a scale sensitive enough to measure its weight. Even more interesting, these two phenomenal species seem to enjoy a symbiotic relationship between them. The gerrafy protects the nanomouse from predators, while the mouse rids the gerrafy’s fur of parasites, and other pests, which seem to be particularly fond of the oils its skin excretes. I’ve by now found a couple dozen specimens of gerrafy, and I’ve yet to find one that does not keep a nanomouse with her at all times. I’ve also never seen one of the mice away from its gerrafy companion. One would think there would be a population discrepancy between them, but I have not seen evidence of that yet. I will continue to study these beautiful creatures. I’ve taken one pair of them to the abandoned Museum Salinas, which was the only location I could find large enough to accommodate the beast. They have broken free of their cage, and are racing down the hallways. I believe they have made their way into my colleague’s truck. I will update tomorrow.

Microstory 792: Sharp Top

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The sharptop prairie bear is one of the rarest animals in the world. To most people’s knowledge, the prairie bear is not a bear at all, but a subspecies of the rhinoceros family. And like other rhinoceroses, it has been hunted vehemently for its horn. Unlike other rhinos, however, it is distinguished by a thick coat of fur, reminiscent of the prehistoric woolly rhino. While other conservationists are championing the protection of the other types of rhinos, few are concerned with the sharptop’s plight, and with not illogical reason. Sharptops are powerful and violent beasts, known for raiding nonthreatening camps, and rampaging against safari vehicles. They are a relative outlier in the animal kingdom in that they will attack totally unprovoked. Evolutionary biologists believe that this actually serves a purpose for survival. Though now apex predators, they were believed to have once been hunted by the giant firetigers that once roamed their lands. In order to survive, sharptops adapted their digestive system so they could consume both plants, and other animals. At some point in their development, they decided to stop eating plants, and are the only carnivorous rhino alive today. Still, the giant firetiger was spry and cunning, and continued to stalk their prey relentlessly, so the sharptop had to change again by maintaining a constant state of acute stress response. Basically, they are hyperaware of their environment, and can be set off by the slightest movement. Though their horns are relatively small, they are unique, and prized amongst poachers for how dangerous and difficult it is to procure one. And so they are an endangered species, but one that is left largely unaided by the nonprofit community. Seeing this as wrong, Algerian conservationist and veterinary pathologist, Narimane Kateb has devoted her life to curing the sharptop prairie bear’s perpetual tension. Her goal is to sway public opinion on the animal, and gather funding to improve the species’ population. And she’s almost done it.

Microstory 696: An Irreverent Man Commits

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This is a callback to the very first taikon; the one that started us all down the path of true enlightenment. We spoke little of Dedebe Seirsen, and exactly what inspired him to change his ways, but perhaps this is a good time, for today he makes it official. Seirsen was born on a moon called Junvos that orbits a gas giant so closely that relatively little sunlight reaches its surface for extended periods of time over the year. Though Junvos contributes to the interstellar economy, it does so rather unimpressively, dominating no sector of any market. Seirsen grew up living an unspectacular life, but managed to snag a modicum of fame when a microblogging post of his made its way onto a Lightseed broadcast. He is quoted as saying, Lightseed is known for accepting all acolytes willing to sacrifice their individuality. Their goal is not to spread truth, but simply grow their army of averlets. For any who don’t know, an averlet is a small rodent indigenous to the planet Istamas. Averlets are infamous for instinctively following any larger creature moving slow enough for it to maintain pace. It evolved this trait by using these larger animals as sometimes unwitting protection against predators. This trait survived in their species even despite the fact that an averlet will gladly, and foolishly, accompany these predators as well, if faced with one. The most common predator is an animal called the serrated roan. Seirsen’s remark, after being absolutely demolished in a debate amongst Lightseed guests on the program, skyrocketed his notoriety overnight. He began receiving death threats, and was even physically attacked a few times, but he also amassed support. Seeing this as an opportunity, he formed a coalition of atheists who called themselves the Soldiers of Roan, placing their namesake on their flag, and adopting bestial qualities. They would regularly show up at Lightseed reverie services, mimicking the taunting and snapping behavior that real serrated roans exhibit to force their prey into the freezing acute stress response. To this day, Seirsen refuses to explain how and why now he suddenly saw the Light of Truth for what it is. Or maybe he doesn’t really know. While the later taikon were taking place, he was studying and practicing the faith harder than most. He’s been accruing a new group of followers, and has garnered enough support to propel him to a position of leadership within the Lightseed establishment. Wielding this new purpose, he was able to convince the Highlightseers to send him to Earth where he will be Primary Lightguide for the newly formed Pangalactic Fleet Against the Thuriaman Threat.

Microstory 60: What the Birds Are Saying

Marinko: Hey! Sara!

Sara: Yeah!?

Marinko: Let’s propagate the species!

Sara: Well, let me see your wing!

Marinko: [shows wing]

Sara: Oh, that’s a nice wing!

Samuel: Hey, I also got a wing!

Sara: Let me see your wing!

Samuel: [shows wing]

Sara: Oh, that’s a nice wing too!

Marinko: This is my territory!

Samuel: No, this territory is mine!

Marinko: It’s my territory!

Samuel: That over there is my brother!

Carter: I’m your brother!

Samuel: You’re my brother!

Marinko: Is that a predator?!

Samuel: [...]

Carter: [...]

Marinko: [...]

Samuel: Where did Sara go?

Marinko: She was killed by the predator!

Samuel: There’s her sister!

Carter: I’m your brother

Samuel: I’m your brother!

Marinko: Hey! Laurel!

Laurel: Yeah!?

Marinko: Let’s propagate the species!

Laurel: Show me your wing!

Carter: There’s some food over there!