Microstory 2372: Vacuus, September 29, 2179

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Dear Condor,

Thank you for attaching yours and Pascal’s medical records. That’s really going to help, not only with this one issue, but any other problems that might arise in the future. It’s good to have a full picture of your health. Thank you for being protective of me, but I want you to remember that he’s your father, and I know that he did the best he could with the cards that he was dealt. It was a tough situation that I can’t even begin to imagine. On the ship, the adults had to have a it takes a village mentality, or we never would have survived. I only had one official parent, but I was raised by just about everyone on that tin can way or another. You were just out in the world, where no one really cares about anyone else unless they have some specific reason to. I’m so glad that your father found a way to provide you with the medical care that you needed, despite how shallow it sounds like his pockets were. I would have been heartbroken if mom had told me about you, and when I tried to reach out, I found out that you were dead. We will never meet in person, but at least we get to converse, and that might be thanks to your secret nurse and her laced chicken noodle soup. It’s important to frame it positively. I’m doing fine. I still have symptoms, but it helps to sit still, which is perfect, since that’s how my job works. I do need to get exercise, though, so I walk down the corridors, which Bray helps me with. He still feels guilty, but here’s the way I look at it. Yeah, the STD triggered the epigenetic disease in me, but the doctor says it was better that it happened now, instead of when I’m older. Anything could have caused it to surface, including some age-related conditions, and it would have been much harder for me to recover under those circumstances. I don’t know what the future holds, but he and I are still together. Speaking of which, we have not had any time to get into your open letter to the base. Everyone loved hearing from you. They are aware of how bad things are on Earth, but most of them don’t have any firsthand accounts of what it’s really like. Many of the older people here who left connections behind have found those connections since severed, due to death or outdated information, probably because of the collapse of society. They appreciate hearing from someone, even if it’s not all great. On a personal note, my friend, the garment fabricator, seems to be taking a particular interest in you. Her name is Velia. I’ve attached her contact card in case you want to have a second person to talk to up here. I’m sure she would really love it.

Keeping it light,

Corinthia

Microstory 2158: No Such Thing as Extra

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I did more volunteer work today. After the storm, a bunch of people came together to help with the cleanup effort. This isn’t any sort of official organization. There’s a special social media app that they’re all on, where people can stay connected to each other based on proximity, rather than other reasons, like mutual interests. I only heard about it from my next door neighbor, because I’m not on the app, so I wasn’t a part of it from the beginning. They’ve done this sort of thing before, when there have been other issues. I picked up and broke down a lot of fallen limbs, which was not fun, but I did feel like I was getting a lot of important work done for people who were unable to do it for themselves. Working from home makes it a lot easier for me to just do stuff like this, and not everyone’s life is like that. Like I said, it wasn’t a real charitable organization, so I didn’t think that anyone could sign my community service log. So I just wasn’t going to bother, because I only did it for the one day, and I figured that it was just more of a rounding error. Apparently, that doesn’t matter for people in my position. When you’ve been sentenced to CS, there is no such thing as “extra” until that sentence has been completed, and then you’re free to choose whatever service work you choose, just like you can as a normal person. Don’t worry, though. I didn’t get in any trouble, or anything, but my parole officer is certain that he told me this before, and he’s probably right. That’s the thing about me. If someone claims that I should have known something, or that something happened in the past, I often kind of just have to believe them, because I can’t trust my own memory. Anyway, it’s fine; no harm done. I could never understand the legal ramifications, but essentially, I’m required to record it every time I volunteer my time or effort for anything more than holding the door open for someone. That’s okay. A thousand hours is the minimum, not the maximum. I think that this is all meant to get people used to the practice of giving back to the community, not just to punish them. But far be it for me to explain the judge’s intentions. That’s why they sit in that raised chair, and I’m over here. Ugh, I’m getting too philosophical. All I’m trying to tell you is that you don’t have to have a reason to help other people. You don’t have to be a convicted criminal, or a juvenile delinquent. This world is better for all of us when we all try to be better for it. That’s all I have for you today. Stay frosty, and keep shakin’ that bush.

Microstory 2083: For Free Candy

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Today was pretty much exactly as it was yesterday, except I worked second shift, instead of the first one. We hung out in the greenhouse while the boss stayed in the main building to greet customers. She would call us up whenever she needed help. I could practically copy my post from yesterday, and paste it here, and it would hardly be inaccurate. The weather is still crap, though it’s not as windy or snowy, which is nice. I thought maybe that there would be just a few more customers, but it was the same. We keep track of the number of people who come in, and the number of parties. Somebody smart wrote a computer program that logs this stuff for us using the main entrance security camera. It doesn’t have any facial recognition software built in, so it’s not totally accurate. For instance, if you realized you forgot your wallet, ran back out to get it, and then opened the door again, it would log you twice, because it wouldn’t know that you were the same person. Anyway, that doesn’t happen a whole lot, so we’re not worried about any auditing issues. The total number of visitors today was nearly identical to yesterday. I’m not good with numbers, but I like to explore trends like that, to see if I understand them. It reminds me of how my parents would always log visitors on Halloween. Oh, that’s right. You don’t have that holiday in this world. It involves children going door to door to ask for free candy. I wonder whether they still do that.

Ya know, I don’t think I’ve mentioned my family yet. Bulk travel is a form of time travel, but I’ve not seen them in over 25 years. So if I were to return to a point in their timeline that matches my own personal timeline, they would be in their eighties. They could be gone by now. But again, the timelines don’t match up, so I could also go back, and not a second will have passed. Or I could go back to before I even left, or before I was born, or before they were born. Heh, time, right? Back to the weather, why were the numbers about the same, even though it wasn’t precipitating as hard? It’s because of the roads. I always forget about the roads. It was really bad last night—even worse than it was to drive while it was still happening during the day before—so people did not want to go out after that. All schools in the area were canceled, which is why the high school student who works here picked up an extra shift. I think she’s my favorite out of all the humans I’ve met on this version of Earth. She seems to be the only other person who recognizes how unexciting it is, besides maybe those people who answered my weird ad. Though to be fair, they didn’t appear to have any strong feelings about the nature of the world. They were just behaviorally divergent. Speaking of which, I should probably reach out to them; make sure they’re doing okay.

Microstory 2044: Nevada

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Even though he hasn’t been to all fifty states, my dad travels a lot too. He is a photojournalist, so he takes pictures for news websites. He works as a freelancer, so he doesn’t just work for one site. He usually stays around where he lives, but he sometimes has to go out to other areas. Actually, the reason that he and my papa met on the train in Kentucky is because he was there to photograph the completion of a new college outside of Louisville, which was partially funded by someone who lived in his part of Virginia. He usually only leaves the state when there’s a connection to the local area, but a few years ago, in the year 2020, he wanted to go to Nevada. Dad also went to college, and met friends. One of his friends was a soldier who lost one of his legs in the war. He lived in Nevada, and wanted to raise awareness for something called veteran healthcare, so he set about to take the longest hike on a single leg. He carried a pack on his back, and only used a cane to support himself. He walked 17 miles all in one day! Isn’t that impressive? I couldn’t even do it with two legs. My dad was there to photograph the whole journey, so he also walked the 17 miles. My papa went on the trip with him, but he didn’t do much hiking. He dropped them off at the beginning of the trail, and then picked them up at the end. I stayed here with my cousins, since I had school.

Microstory 1912: Henhouse, Outhouse, and Doghouse

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Fugitive Agent: Thank you all for coming to this meeting. I promise that we won’t take up too much of your time, but we do have a few questions regarding this recent jailbreak of yours, which is—let’s see—the fourth this year? Whew, that sounds like a lot? Does that sound like a lot to you, Fugitive Agent 2? That sounds like a lot. Let me check the area stats. Yeah, that’s a lot. Okay, so. Who’s to blame here? [...] No takers?

Fugitive Agent 2: I don’t think they heard you.

Fugitive Agent: Didn’t hear me? Is that right, folks? Did you not hear me? Well, if this station hired a bunch of deaf people, maybe we need to run a clean sweep. Do you agr—

Senior Guard: That will not be necessary. We heard you just fine.

Fugitive Agent: It won’t—let’s see—Senior Guard? Are you taking responsibility?

Senior Guard: I didn’t say that.

Fugitive Agent: Well, one of your men was on duty on the night in question, correct?

Senior Guard: He was, but we were understaffed. Street Proctor arrested a fifth detainee, which overbooked our cell in terms of guards.

Fugitive Agent: Proctors can’t make arrests.

Street Proctor: I didn’t arrest anyone. You can check the records. Police Officer 11 is the arresting officer of record.

Police Officer 11: I am? I wasn’t even there. I was off work for the last two days.

Fugitive Agent: Street Proctor, did you falsify records?

Street Proctor: No, I didn’t. Of course, I didn’t. He probably was here. It was probably him who falsified the records. Like you said, I can’t make arrests, and everyone knows that, so even if I tried, the so-called detainee, who I supposably arrested should have refused, but he didn’t even argue against me. I mean, because I didn’t even try, because I can’t arrest people. I don’t even have handcuffs. Look.

Fugitive Agent: Yes, I wanted to ask about the last person who was placed in the jail cell. He claimed to be a parole officer, and even presented a badge? Evidently it was this that he used to escort the other four men out of this building without so much as picking a lock. Senior Parole Officer, care to comment?

Senior Parole Officer: All of my men are accounted for. If this man really was on the job, he was from a different station, and since there aren’t any records of his arrival, I can say nothing more about it.

Fugitive Agent: Thank you, Senior Parole Officer; the only man here whose words I believe to be actually true. Speaking of which, now that we know that it was Street Proctor who tried to arrest this mysterious parole officer, I assume it was you, Senior Proctor, who received him? [...] You may as well be honest; the order of events is pretty obvious here. Lying now isn’t gonna save your job.

Senior Proctor: I received him, yes. I interrogated him for a few minutes, then asked my subordinate to detain him. But I didn’t know that an officer didn’t make the arrest.

Street Proctor: Bullshit! You’re a liar!

Fugitive Agent: Settle down, now. I still have more questions. I wanna know who else knew about it. Senior Police Officer, what was your involvement in this mess?

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: October 29, 2398

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By the time Mateo got himself out of the virtual construct that Ramses created to facilitate communication with the consciousnesses in the Insulator of Life, Aquila was gone. She probably didn’t know that they were about to find out that she stole, and is inhabiting, Bhulan’s body. They gave her an opportunity, and she took it without waiting around to ask any questions. She could not have gone far, but they’re not going to exert any effort chasing after her right now. The plan hasn’t changed. They were going to let Bhulan go. Now they know that they’re actually letting Aquila go. They’ll find her, and give the body back to its rightful owner. Until then, there’s a way to communicate with people inside the Insulator.

Unfortunately, the real Bhulan is being just as cagey as Aquila was. She’s refusing to give them any information about what she’s been up to, what her objectives are, or what other people she knows in this reality. They really want to find Danica, but it seems as though no one is interested in helping them with that. Mateo is starting to worry that she has something against him now, or that something is seriously wrong with her, and she needs him more than ever. Erlendr has been surprisingly quiet. When it comes to a Preston, that usually means that they know they’ve been beat, or they know that they’ve won. Arcadia gave them a little advice on how to get through to him, but it’s not really helping. It’s also not super necessary. As far as they can tell, he has been caught, and Meredarchos has lost the battle, which were the two major things that they were trying to accomplish.

It appears that all of their current problems have been solved, which leaves them the space they’ll need to accommodate all of the new problems that are coming their way. They still don’t know how to get their powers and transhumanistic enhancements back permanently, and they don’t know how to get back to the main sequence, but they’re at least safe. Not everyone survived to this point, but nothing is presently threatening the lives and liberties of those alive today. They even got Cheyenne back. She spent two nights in the government wing of a nearby hospital, and is being released today. There was nothing terribly wrong with her, but Andile’s body was on life support until Cheyenne’s consciousness was inserted into it, and it would have been unwise to just let her roam around the world without any medical observation. Kivi and Alyssa are picking her up now. No one’s sure if she’ll come live with them in the hotel suite, or even if anyone will be staying here for much longer.

“There’s something I have to admit to you,” Mateo begins. “It’s been weighing on me, and I would ask you kindly not to get angry at me for the fact that I’m only telling you now because the point is moot anyway.”

“Okay...” Leona says.

“Ram, could you come in here?” He calls.

Ramses comes in from his room. “Yeah?”

“This involves you,” Mateo says to him. “I’m afraid, in order for me to apologize, I’ll have to reveal to her how you helped me.”

“Okay...” Ramses echoes Leona from a second ago.

Mateo looks back at Leona. “You asked him to create a copy of your brain, so that it could be placed in Alt!Mateo’s head, so that when we sent it back to his timeline of origin, you could force that body to die, instead of letting it come back to the Third Rail.”

“I follow you,” Leona says.

“What you didn’t know is that I asked Ramses to use my mind for that instead. Of course it didn’t matter, because the Mateo we found in the Facsimile just did it for us anyway. Still, I think you have a right to know that I went behind your back.”

Leona nods, and looks over at Ramses. She tries to give him an opening, but he doesn’t take it voluntarily. “Is there anything you would like to say now?”

“No. I’m sorry I lied too,” Ramses replies, avoiding the truth.

Leona rolls her eyes, and looks back to her husband. “Ramses didn’t do as you asked. “He made a copy of himself for the suicide inducer. He was never gonna let either of us perform this task. And by the way, it was never a full mind, it was really just code that would have forced the body to let itself be killed. We only used our minds as a foundation for that code, because we trust ourselves. But it all worked out, and I’m not mad. Let’s just move on.”

“Okay...” Mateo agrees tentatively.

There’s a knock at the door. Still feeling awkward, Ramses gets up and tries to answer it. As soon as he opens the door a crack, it comes flying towards his face, knocking him to his back. Three men barge into the suite. Two look like muscle, and the one in the middle looks like he’s in charge. “Good afternoon, folks. I’m looking for an old patient of mine. Ah, there we are. You didn’t give me your real name, you just said that I could call you Arcadia. Then I see you on TV, and discover who you really are.”

“My sister’s not here,” Leona says as Marie is calmly stepping out of her room.

He sighs as he’s speaking, “ahh, you rich people. You always think you can talk your way out of things. Even when you’re outmatched, you believe that you won’t have to pay. I’m here to collect, and I’ll hurt anyone I have to in order to make that happen. Now you never said nothin’ about havin’ a twin, so you can see why I don’t believe that you’re not her, right? Care to fess up before my guys get a hold of ya?”

Marie looks over at Leona. “I’ll take the one on the left.”

“Fine with me.” The two of them attack the goons, and bring them to the floor with hardly any trouble. They severely underestimated who they were dealing with. “Rambo, you okay?” Leona asks.

Ramses is accepting the tissues that Mateo is using to sop up the blood from his face. “I’ll be all right.”

Marie pulls her wallet from her purse. “How much does she owe you?”

The leader guy is too scared to respond, so Leona snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. “Hey! She asked you a question. We have money, so how much do you need?”

“Uhh, she...she doesn’t owe money. She agreed to wipe my record. I’m a doctor you see, but I don’t have one of those, uh...licenses, ya know?”

“What did you do for her?” Leona asks him.

“It’s not my place to say,” he responds.

“Oh, yeah? Where is your place? On your feet...or on your ass?”

“She’s pregnant. I ran some tests, off the books.”

Marie takes out her handheld device. “Very well. What’s your name?”

“I don’t know that I should say.” He’s still so scared.

“How the hell are we gonna erase your record if we don’t know who you are, dipshit? Bonk,” she adds as she’s flicking him in the forehead.

“You can do that?” he asks.

“When Arcadia wants something like that done,” Marie says, “she asks me. So what’s your name?”

“Ernesto. Ernesto Coppola.”

“Two ps?” Marie confirms.

“Yes.”

She finishes tapping out the name, and sends it off to her contact in the Domestic Affairs Authority whose job it is to clean slates for informants and protected witnesses. “By this time tomorrow, no cop in the country will recall your name.”

“Th—thank you.”

“Arcadia has a new doctor now,” Leona explains. “If you ever come near her, us, or any of our associates again, I’ll put you in the ground. Now get the hell out of my hotel, and take your bruisers with ya.”

“It’s a problem that he found us,” Marie says to Leona after the bad guys are gone. “I’m sure Arcadia didn’t just give him this as her home address.”

“That’s my fault,” Leona believes. “I’m famous now, which means that Arcadia is too. His outfit probably has people all over the city, who can spot targets going into hotels and whatnot.”

“You know what you have to do then, don’t ya?” Marie asks, thinking it to be a rhetorical question.

“No.”

“You have to own it. Go back to New York. Take your throne at that political debate show, and build some clout so people can’t hurt you without risking the wrath of your loyalists.”

“The guy I murdered to get control of that show didn’t seem to have any loyalists. No one came after me.”

“That sounds like a him problem, it doesn’t mean you have to do things the same way he did. Do it better. He used the crime hole to justify killing people. Maybe you could...make it a sanctuary for refugees, or battered women?”

“Can I move the crime hole to a different place, say, Kansas City?”

Marie laughs. “It’s like an Embassy, which turns the soil under the property into a foreign state. Could you move it? Yeah, you could build a new one somewhere else, but that would be a whole legal thing. I don’t know the square dimensions of the zone, but you can go as vertical as you want. You might have to move to New York for a while, though, to make any of it work.”

Leona looks over at Mateo, who looks back with only a slight frown. “We’ve been apart before. I’ll know where you are. Go be, like, the president of a country.”

She faces Marie again. “Arcadia obviously felt like she hadn’t signed up for a government health plan. Would you make sure that she and her baby get the care they need from the best doctors available?”

“Of course,” Marie replies. “I wish I had known.”

Leona leaves for New York that night. Marie and Cheyenne decide to go with her.

Microstory 1883: Air Band

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I was just playing around at a college party once. Somebody put on a record with a song that, in my day, we called my jam. I started pretending I was playing a guitar to the music, and since I knew the track so well, people got really into it. Pretty soon I was up on the coffee table, entertaining everybody. I, by no means, invented the air guitar. I did, however, do it my first time without having seen anyone else do it before, nor even having heard of it. Either way, I had no intention of turning it into a career. It was just for fun. I suppose it snowballed into it when I found myself at party after party, being asked to do it. I started having to bring my own records, so I would be better prepared to make it look real good. Not long after that, I was practicing in my apartment; all for the chance to please a few kids who would laugh about it while it was happening, and then go back home to not give it much thought anymore. During one of my weird and fun performances, a guy jumped up on the counter next to me, and started lip-syncing the vocals. It was a particularly voice-heavy song, which was my bad, so I was relieved he went up there to keep the energy up while the guitar wasn’t going. I would normally just keep dancing on my own, but it felt great to have a partner. After we were done, we left the party together to talk. He told me about his life, and I told him about mine. We both loved music, and were enamored by rockstars, but we weren’t musicians. Like, we were both really bad, there was no hope for us. Or rather there was, because as it turned out, there’s money to be made in pretending to play an instrument on stage. No joke.

This story does not involve a down-on-his-luck talent agent who discovers us at one of our not quite impromptu gigs, and decides to take us under his wing, even though his contemporaries laugh at him for it, but he believes in us, or truthfully, he believes in the cash that’ll be coming to him if he plays this right, so he gets so greedy that it nearly destroys us, but we come back stronger than ever, and go down in history as legends, and eventually end up in a sensationalized documentary. No, none of that happened. But we did start a band. We found ourselves a drummer—who was an actual, real drummer, by the way, so we never totally understood why he walked this path with us when he could have joined a legit band. We even got someone to pretend to play bass. It was my job to dance around and look pretty, while he always stayed lowkey. It sounds kind of stupid, but we made it work, and he was a pretty big draw for some of our crowds. And we did have crowds. Our rise to fame was shockingly parallel to what real bands go through. We started with small audiences, which grew bigger and bigger, until we were nationally famous, and then internationally so. Big in Japan, as my air vocalist liked to say. It still amazes me that any of this went anywhere. I guess it happened during the perfect time period. It was late enough for rock to be loud and showy, but before internet video, which might have saturated the market too much for us to make a name for ourselves. I don’t think we had much of a hand in developing the art form. Plenty of others were doing the same thing as us, though mostly as solo acts. We were just kind of this niche act that only made us enough money to keep doing it, but not do anything else with our lives, at least for as long as it lasted. The novelty wore off within a decade, and we each had to find real jobs. We remained good friends, though, and even played a final reunion gig a year ago before our bassist died. Yep. It was a wild life.

Microstory 1766: Pisces

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I’m the best scuba diver in the world, which is saying a lot, because I was afraid of it when I was a kid, and I come from a family of masters. I’ve since surpassed all others in skills and experience. I can venture to the deepest parts of the ocean that are humanly possible to survive. I can use any kind of tank, and complete any task. Today, I’m about to set the record for the deepest dive ever, and cement myself as one of the absolute best in history. I’ve already passed the last record, but I’m not satisfied with that. I have to get to 600 meters. No one will try that depth after me without a submarine. I check my watch. I had to have it specially made to survive these pressures too, and so far, it’s done me well. I’m at 570 meters, and so pleased with myself. No one has ever seen what I’m seeing right now. Of course, like I said, submarines can descend this far, but they haven’t, not around here. My cousins are going to be so jealous, I can’t wait to run it in their faces. None of them thought that I would make it, and I’ve yet to prove them wrong. It’s not really the deepest dive if I die down here, is it? Maybe they’ll still count it, and sing songs of my brave and tragic end. I keep going: 580, 590, and...600 meters! I reached my goal. If I stay too long, I really will die, though, so I immediately prepare to ascend. Then something catches my eye. It’s a fish. No, it’s two fish. Wow, it’s an entire school. There’s something strange about this species, but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh, yeah, they’re swimming in pairs.

These fish are exhibiting behavior that I’ve never heard of. I’m no ichthyologist, but I know what species live around here, and this ain’t one of them. Every single fish is paired up with another, face to tail. They’re swimming in circles around each other, or more appropriately, around some mutual barycenter between them. Since they’re not going straight, the only reason they go anywhere is because the spin isn’t constant. They nudge themselves in one direction, like propellers. Why the heck are they doing that? Is there some sort of evolutionary advantage to spinning? Perhaps it has more to do with the pairs, and less to do with the way that they swim. I obviously have to take photographs and video of this phenomenon. If I’ve discovered a new species, it will only make me more famous, which is kind of what I’m going for here. I don’t even have to survive. The footage is being automatically beamed back up to the boat. There’s no way for me to communicate with them directly, but I can.imagine my mother urging me to begin the ascension process. It’s going to take an extremely long time, and the extra tanks they left hanging for me at my stop intervals won’t be enough if I don’t maintain my schedule, not to mention the risk of getting bent. I’m about to let it go, and save myself when the fish change behaviors. They stay in their paired circles, but also begin to circle me. They’re aware of me, but probably aren’t sure if I’m a predator. I’m amazed but frightened, but the latter grows faster once they start biting at my equipment. They tear off the straps, and cut the breathing tubes. Welp, I guess I really am gonna die. Except I don’t. I suddenly stop feeling the intense pressure, the freezing cold, and the need to breathe. They’ve somehow transformed me into one of them, and once I realize what an amazing gift this is, I all but forget about my past life as a human, and together...we dive deeper.

Microstory 1741: The Clock

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I hate this clock. It reminds me of the worst years of my life. When I was a child, my foster parents would time everything I did. Homework, chores, umm...well, I guess there isn’t a third thing on that list, because those were the only things I did. I suppose showering isn’t a chore, but that was timed as well. They said they were getting me ready for the real world. Apparently, in their jobs, every task they completed was measured and recorded, and that was how they got paid. I asked them a few times, did they get paid more for more complicated tasks, but they said no. The rate didn’t change at all. The point was to keep track of when they were working, and when they weren’t, such as when they were walking to the location of the next task, or using the restroom. They were expected to be at work for ten hours a day, but they only get paid for their recorded time. They were so proud of themselves. Other workers recorded an average of eight and a half hours of actual work, which meant an hour for lunch, and another half hour for the in between times. My foster parents, however, averaged nine hours and forty-five minutes. They said they organized tasks so that it was easier to switch from one to the other, they literally ran when they had to, and they...well, let’s just say they weren’t too careful when it came to their bathroom breaks. They sometimes saw that as an opportunity, because even though janitorial services weren’t technically in either of their job descriptions, they could still get paid for cleaning the facilities. The word diaper was thrown around once or twice too. They actually acted like I should aspire to be as hard-working as them one day. I never bought into it. I don’t worship the clock.

My parents are dead now. They left this world with nothing, and not just to spite me. They worked so hard in their jobs that the company didn’t want to promote them, and they didn’t want to be promoted either. A promotion would mean a salary, and more freedom than they could have handled. They hated their bosses, who didn’t work hard enough, and focused too much on their personal lives. My parents didn’t have lives of their own. They were too exhausted when they got home that they ate their dinner, read something boring, then went to bed. After I came into their lives, they had to squeeze in a lot of strict overbearing criticism, so they couldn’t read as much anymore. When they were too old to work, since they didn’t have any hobbies, they had absolutely nothing to do. You can ask the professionals what killed them, and they’ll give you a scientific answer, but I contend that they died from the realization that their lives were always pointless. The company where they worked for forty-five years closed shortly before the deaths, because they too were old-fashioned, and ultimately meaningless in a world that moved on without them. So here I am with virtually nothing. My parents were in so much debt that the bank had to repossess nearly everything they owned. Fortunately, it seems to have covered it, so I won’t have to make up the difference. They even managed to leave me with one thing: this damn clock. It represents the futility in work for work’s sake. It spins around in circles, and never goes anywhere. Yeah, I hate this clock, but I also need it. For as much as it pains me to see every day, it’s also a consistent reminder of what I don’t want to be, and how I don’t want to raise my own baby boy, who’s scheduled to make his debut in three months. It shows me that time only means anything when we use it to enjoy doing the things we love, with the people we love.

Microstory 1411: Harken Back

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Paul Harken was happy to go along with the plan to observe the first town on Durus from a distance, but he didn’t agree with Escher and Rothko on how exactly they would go about doing that. He wanted to use technology they had accumulated over time to protect the town from the monsters. He also figured they would eventually reveal themselves, and explain to them the best they could what had happened. Escher and Rothko, on the other hand, were kind of acting like they were never going to become involved. This was no big surprise. Escher had been there for twenty-six years already, which was the majority of his life. Rothko had been there for sixteen, which was about half his life. Hark had spent less time there thus far, and had the most experience in the real world. He knew how to deal with people, and how to learn to trust them. The other two were just too far gone, so they stormed off in a huff, leaving Hark alone in his mansion. They never planned on separating from each other for good, but that was what ended up happening. Shortly after Springfield fully integrated itself on Durus, a dyad came upon Hark’s door. Most of the townsfolk stayed behind, trying to figure out how to survive the monsters that descended upon them almost immediately after they arrived. Hogarth Pudeyonavic and Hilde Unger, however, separated themselves from the group, and traveled a new path. They weren’t scared or disillusioned with the town. They were out looking for something when they saw Hark’s abode. Hogarth was ultimately branded the cause of the Deathfall, but that was not entirely accurate. She was what saved Springfield from certain death. Had she not built her machine, the last of the town would have still fallen into the portal, but it would not have survived the trip, just like almost none of it had before. Still, she felt responsible for this mess, and went off to search for a way to repair the machine she had invented, and get her people back home. When they found Hark, they asked him what he had been up to, and he altered the truth a little to protect the rest of The Trident. He chose to keep Escher and Rothko a secret, under the assumption that the truth would come out reasonably soon. Using a machine of his own that he had constructed over the course of many years, he attempted to transport Hogarth, Hilde, and himself back into town, so they could compile the supplies they would need to return to Earth. Unfortunately, he was no scientist, and the machine ended up sending them all years into the future. Much had changed about the world in that time. A society formed, founded on poor values, and unfair living disparities. He saw Escher and Rothko here again, though not for long before they were both sent back to Earth, and only them, for reasons he was not told right away. That was fine, though. Hark was not yet finished with this planet. There was still so much work left to do, to make its inhabitants’ lives easier. He was not alone in his efforts, but he was a more important force for good than the historical records depicted him. They didn’t portray him as bad, but they definitely downplayed his contribution. He was fine with that too, though. Because he died much later, knowing that humanity’s second home was better off with him having been part of it.

Microstory 1397: Evidence

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

Psychiatrist [on audio recording]: Mr. Stern, what are you talking about?

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

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

Detective: That was the last recording from your psychiatrist. We couldn’t find a local copy on her computer, so I bet you erased it without realizing her sessions are automatically uploaded to the cloud so her assistant can transcribe them for her later.

Fiore Stern: Why are you playing this audio for me? If you want me to sue the psychiatric practice for breaching my privacy, then okay, I’m in.

Detective: That’s not why you’re here, and you know it. Madam Psychiatrist was killed two days ago. Her assistant happily supplied us with this evidence, because it appears to suggest you killed her to cover up whatever it is you shut off the recording to prevent anyone from finding out about.

Fiore Stern: Well, play the rest of it.

Detective: There is no rest of it. That was it.

Fiore Stern: Oh? So you don’t actually have any evidence that I killed her. All you’ve heard is that my psychiatrist didn’t want me touching her crystal awards, and then some kind of technical malfunction ended the recording.

Detective: You literally ask her to stop recording, and then your voice becomes slightly louder, which suggests you approached the microphone. You’re not going to get me to believe you didn’t turn it off. Now all I have to do is prove that you killed her. And honestly, I don’t really care why you did it; just that you go down for it.

Fiore Stern: This  is exactly what’s wrong with this country. You’re so eager to punish whoever you find first, you end up letting a lot of guilty people walk away unscathed.

Detective: You didn’t seem to hate the authorities very much when you were praising how well they handled your case with that bomb-making organization you worked for.

Fiore Stern: I was playing nice for the cameras, but the truth is that company wasn’t even on anyone’s radar. Hell, the Financial Regulation Commision didn’t even suspect there was something wrong with their books. I only needed the authorities, because I’m not allowed to arrest people. You’re completely incompetent, and totally pointless without people like me.

Detective: I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t have a job if killers like you didn’t exist.

Fiore Stern: That’s not what I was talking about—I mean, that’s not what I meant, because I’m not a killer, and you have nothing on me.

Detective: I have an adjudicator working on a warrant for your apartment as we speak.

Fiore Stern: Great, I’m happy for ya. All they’ll find is a stack of dishes I wasn’t able to clean before you so rudely forced me to come down to the station, and a bunch of requests for book deals to tell the world my story. When you don’t find anything illegal, I’ll have even more material for a tell-all book. It’ll be a scathing indictment of Usonian Law EnFARCEment.

Detective: The warrant’s just for safety. We didn’t need one to search your greenhouse.

Fiore Stern: What?

Detective: Yeah, we had probable cause. One of our officers saw some splatter on the glass that looked a little like blood.

Fiore Stern: It was paint. I use some of those plants to make art supplies.

Detective: No matter. We couldn’t know for sure. The only way we could run a test to see whether that was true was if we went in, and procured a sample.

Fiore Stern: This will never hold up in court. A little red on the window isn’t enough for probable cause. Besides, I built that greenhouse with my own two hands in the middle of the woods, which means there aren’t any public records of a property, so you couldn’t have known about it unless you broke the law to peek at my GPS history.

Detective: We didn’t need that. Your mother told us where to find it.

Fiore Stern: She doesn’t know anything.

Detective: She’s seen you go out there. She’s worried about you, Mr. Stern. You’ve always been a dark person with a frightening fascination with deadly plants.

Fiore Stern: You can go to hell.

Detective: We have you, Mr. Stern. You don’t have to tell us anything. Everything will come out in court, but you can help your situation if you talk to us now. Start by telling me how your colleagues from the garden team died.

Microstory 1392: Fertilizer

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Fertilizer Developer: Mr. Fiore, thanks for coming in.

Fiore Stern: No, thank you. I’ve been having a hell of a time getting interviews. I had honestly forgotten about this posting. It’s been a couple months.

Fertilizer Developer: I bet you have, and yes it has. We like to be...particular.

Fiore Stern: Oh, okay. That makes sense, and I guess that’s a good sign.

Fertilizer Developer: It is. Now. It says here you graduated with honors from Hillside University?

Fiore Stern: That’s right. Go Wild Turkeys!

Fertilizer Developer: Right. Well, we do things a little differently here. The first time we run a background check on someone we’re interested in comes before the interview, using a system called Generiport. It quickly verifies certain key information. I’m talkin’ minutes. We know where you went to high school and college, if you’re a citizen, whether you have a criminal history, and a few other bits of info. It doesn’t get too deep, but it gets us just enough information to see if we want to pursue you.

Fiore Stern: Oh. I understand, I’ll go.

Fertilizer Developer: No, don’t do that.

Fiore Stern: Well, you’re obviously about to tell me you know I have a criminal record, and that I didn’t go to college at all.

Fertilizer Developer: That was indeed what I was going to say, but I wasn’t going to tell you it would be a problem. You see, here at Hemming Fertilizer, we look for candidates just like you. We’re about more than just fertilizing gardens. We help the country by keeping its citizens in line. Some don’t like it, but it is our sacred duty, and people like you are vital to that mission.

Fiore Stern: Really? Are you trying to tell me that you regularly hire criminals, and not as part of a public service program, but to use the skills they possess as criminals?

Fertilizer Developer: [...] That’s exactly what I’m telling you.

Fiore Stern: I don’t know what to say.

Fertilizer Developer: I told you about the quick report we ran, but what I didn’t tell you is that your résumé triggered a more comprehensive report, which involves one of our people going through your entire history with a fine-toothed comb. We know about the things you’ve done, and the things done to you. We know the reason you didn’t go to Hillside U is because they wouldn’t take someone who had—give me a second—and I quote, a peculiar and unsettling preoccupation with poisonous plants, and the body decomposition process. Apparently you were caught trying to use the school library?

Fiore Stern: The library never said it was for students only. They just didn’t like what I wanted to research.

Fertilizer Developer: I don’t doubt it.

Fiore Stern: So that quote. The security guard wrote that, and kept my name on file, even though I wasn’t a student, and wasn’t arrested?

Fertilizer Developer: He did, but don’t worry. We took care of it.

Fiore Stern: What do you mean?

Fertilizer Developer: I mean, if someone were to look you up in campus security records, they wouldn’t find anything about you. We couldn’t clear your criminal record—or the time you spent in prison because of what you did—but we got rid of all the evidence that put you there.

Fiore Stern: It sounds like you got me in your debt.

Fertilizer Developer: We don’t like to look at it that way. We see this as an opportunity for you to contribute to society in a way you never knew was possible. Let’s go talk to the clearance department.

Microstory 629: Fruit of Peace

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As mentioned before, our galaxy is not without its conflicts. When you bring together such a diverse group of people, and put them in one place, it’s no surprise that some friction arises. All of these skirmishes, however, pale in comparison to The Dodulko War. This was the first, and longest-lasting war of Fostea, having been going on for nearly an entire millennium. There are short times of peace throughout history, but only when both sides deplete their resources so far that neither one can survive even one more battle. While most hostilities are fought over territory, capital, or religion, the Dodulko War started very simply. The Dodulko was one of the last exodus ships to arrive from Earth, carrying with it the least valuable of our population at the time. No one on this vessel was capable of affording luxury cabins, or priority transport. As a result, the passengers were frustrated and restless, often lashing out at each other with little provocation. One such of these disagreements seemed rather innocuous from the outside, but gradually began to grow. People took sides, ultimately stealing resources from each other just to survive. Historical records contradict each other regarding the exact nature of the original grievance, but one thing we know is that both of these first two people were killed in freak accidents before the ship even arrived in the galaxy. These deaths angered their loved ones and supporters, sparking further violence. These battles began to escalate year by year, as each side retaliated against the other for some unprecedented attack. And it has been going on ever since, developing into a full-fledged war within the first four years. This war is of little concern to most other residents of Fostea, and financially beneficial to others. The battles take place in unpopulated areas, or in their own respective territories, none of which are desirable by anyone else. People in certain industries do profit from the war, though, namely those who sell munitions, rations, medicine, miscellaneous technologies, and other assets. Still, many wish to see the conflict end, if only to find out what the galaxy looks like without it. As with others, the Book of Light’s taikon passage on the Fruit of Peace leaves some up for interpretation, but is clear that this particular conflict must end. In an unprecedented move, both sides of the Dodulko War agreed to begin peace negotiations with each other, under the guidance of the replacement for Eido Feivel, Agantai Bauriter. Though on its own unnecessary, and not her responsibility, this will be Bauriter’s first act as a new Fostean eido. It is immaterial how it eventually turns out, however, seeing as the taikon predicting this event has already been reached simply by commencing.

Second Stage of Something Started: Wind (Part XI)

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Vearden discovered after watching him disappear in a literal flash that Sargent’s first name was Adolphe. It was rather ironic, but almost certainly done on purpose by the powers that be. Even more strange was the fact that, upon joining the salmon battalion, he was arbitrarily assigned the rank of Sergeant. Shaking it off, Vearden instinctively stepped into a tent and ushered Saga in. After letting the flap close behind them, they walked back through it to find themselves in a different camp altogether. Everyone on the campgrounds was running around, somehow both chaotically and systematically. Saga recognized a few of them as salmon, and the others held themselves in a similar fashion. This was another major time travel undertaking. A woman was standing under a canopy behind a folding table, barking orders to the others in a sexy Louisiana accent. They were all wearing what looked like Canadian military uniforms.

The two new-comers approached her with haste, knowing that they needed to start there. “Who are you?” she asked of them.

“Saga and Vearden.”

“What do you do?”

“We’re the door-walkers. We travel through portals, assisting others on an as-needed basis.”

She jerked her head around, upset about not having been given all the information. “Are you salmon or choosers.”

“Oh, sorry,” Saga apologized. “We’re just salmon.”

She slid her fingers down a list that was taped to the table. There was a second list to its left, probably containing the names of choosers who were helping them. “Saga and Vearden...I don’t have you on my list. Who told you to come here?”

“We are rarely told anything,” Vearden said. “We walk through openings, and appear somewhere new. We don’t always know when, and we never know where.”

She nodded as he was talking, still perturbed by how long the two of them would take to explain things. “If you’re—Glaston!” she screamed, interrupting herself.

They looked over to see a man on the boundary point between two locations. A section of the ocean had been pulled into the area. He had his arms out to balance himself between solid ground on his right and the deep, cold water on his left.

The leader woman continued to scream, “quit screwin’ around! I need you to merge southern Saigon with New Brunswick!”

Glaston just stared at her like a kindergarten refusing to participate in naptime.

“Now, Glaston! You have your orders!”

He just flipped her off.

She dropped her volume down so that only those in the canopy could hear her. “I guess we know why you two were brought here. You’ll be replacing him.” She turned her chin partially towards the man on her right, but didn’t look directly at him. “Mister Kolby, please send The Merger to Beaver Haven.”

Kolby lifted a very odd looking gun towards the dissident, and pressed it against the side of his stomach. He quickly pulled the trigger, hitting his mark expertly. Glaston slammed his palms on his chest where the bullet had hit. As small amounts of electricity surged throughout his body, he started to yell, “Yippee ki-yay, mother fffffuuuuuuuuuuu...!” Before he was able to finish his expletive, he shuddered and disappeared. Saga and Vearden widened their eyes and looked back towards the leader woman.

“Don’t worry,” she assured them, “he’s not dead. Kolby’s gun just expels people to a special prison. I’m not here to babysit.” She took a deep breath and released it. “This is Operation Second Wind. Starting today—April 30, 1975, by the way—the United States will execute a contingency plan to evacuate soldiers and civilians from the city now known as Saigon, South Vietnam. Due to extenuating circumstances, fixed-wing aircraft cannot be used, so dozens of helicopters will be flying back and forth between the embassy and an armada of ships in the South China Sea.”

“Yes,” Vearden said. “I remember this from history class.”

Yeah, they should definitely not interrupt this woman. “Yes, well unfortunately, not everyone makes it out. Not everyone can. If we evacuate the entirety of Saigon—which we’re fully capable of—we’ll be too exposed. 1975 is just too close to the invention of the internet for us to brush it off and bury it to history. But we are going to take who we can and sprinkle them throughout the world twenty minutes into the future, primarily in Canada.”

“So, we’re going to southern Saigon.”

She ignored them for a second. “Kingmaker! Kingmaker! What are you doing here?”

The Kingmaker threw up his arms. “Trang wasn’t there!” He drew nearer.

She started itching all over her face from the stress. “Okay, we must have the dates mixed up. But we gotta get that kid and his family to Indonesia. Tai Trang is too important to the future!”

“If the powers that be don’t take me there, I can’t get there,” he said, in full agreeance with her.

She continued to itch herself, but seemed to be getting better. “Okay, okay, okay.” She pointed over to another canopy where an elderly man was consulting one out of hundreds of books sprawled out around him. “Go speak with The Historian again.” As the Kingmaker was walking away, she yelled up to crowd, “and somebody find me The fucking Emissary! I’m sick of being jerked around by the powers!” She pushed the air away from her face, “okay, who are you people again?”

“We’re the—”

She cut Saga off, “the door-walkers, right. Southern Saigon. Kolby, please find me Glaston’s mission files. Hopefully he didn’t throw them to Jupiter or some nonsense like that.”

Kolby pulled them to the side so that the leader woman could move on with her very important work. “I’m not going to hunt for those files, that is not my job. He very likely could have left them on Jupiter.” He pointed to a tent next to the Historian’s. “The Archivist lives there. Tell him that you’ve been given the Merger’s assignment.”

“Understood,” Vearden said.

“Hey, how are Mateo and Leona?”

Saga shook her head. “We’ve not seen Leona lately, but we left Mateo over a hundred years from now. They’re not great.”

He nodded. “Give them my best if you ever see them again. I believe they refer to me as Guard Number Two.” He smiled warmly, but briefly.

“We will.”

They walked briskly over to the Archivist, dodging fake soldiers running through their path. They hesitated at the tent, not wanting to just walk in without first warning him. But there was no way to knock. “Umm...Mister Archivist, sir?”

They heard the sound of glass dropping, but not breaking. “What?” He did not sound well.

“We’re looking for, uh...the..the Merger’s mission files.”

“What do you want with that?”

“We’re replacing him. We, uh...we’re the door-walkers?”

“The Freelancers,” Vearden added in a quiet voice.

“The Freelancers,” Saga repeated so that the Archivist could hear.

They could hear him cough and scramble up, sticking his head through the opening. “Saga and Vearden, as I poorly keep track of records and breathe.” He tried to worm his hand through the opening as well, presumably to greet them. “Uhh...I need pants. Half a moment.” He pulled his head back in too quickly. The flaps separated just enough to reveal his member as he was turning around to look for clothes. He awkwardly laughed from inside. “If I managed my pants the way I manage my files then...well, then nothing would be different. I’m not very good at my job. I’m the fourth one, and this isn’t even my time period.” He reopened the flaps so that they could walk in. He hurriedly tried to clean up the bottles of cliché all over the place, but there was really nothing that could be done. “Sorry for the mess. I’m just the Historian’s red-headed stepchild, so no one visits me.” He took a swig of mouthwash but swallowed it quickly.

“It’s quite all right,” Saga lied.

He spoke rapidly. “Now, you’re looking for Glaston’s files—hold on, do you want something to drink? No, of course you don’t. You’re on duty. I have water, though. No, I don’t, I don’t know why I said that. I can find water. No, you don’t need water, you’re in a hurry. Of course, Glaston’s files.” He turned towards a metal filing cabinet. “You wanna see something cool? You’ve probably seen it on TV, but this one is real.” He smirked and released the catch on the top drawer. It started rolling open at a medium rate. The drawer was much longer than could fit in the cabinet. Had they no experience with spacetime manipulation, they would have looked behind the cabinet to find out what was going on.

The drawer continued through the flaps, and apparently hit someone walking outside. “Ow!” she yelled.

The Archivist warped his face, only playfully concerned about the woman’s safety. “Whoopsidoodles.” He clapped his hands together in preparation, and then started to run his fingers through the folders. “Chooser Kayetan Glaston, also known as the Merger, born June 25, 1982. Keeps mostly to the 20th and 21st centuries on Earth. He’s a total dick, and nobody likes him. And he...” he trailed off while looking through one of the folders.

“What is it?” Vearden asked.

The Archivist looked up at them then clumsily put the file away. In a clear attempt to downplay whatever it was that he had read, he said, “that’s from an alternate timeline, don’t worry about it. What you need is the mission file from today.” Without looking, he smugly reached over and pulled a fairly full accordion folder. “Here ya go. Don’t spend it all in one place.” He winked.

“Thanks,” Saga replied with almost a curtsy that she hoped she managed to hide well enough.

“Did you just curtsy?” Vearden asked after they left the tent through a portal to southern Saigon.

“Shut up.”

They spent the rest of the day, and part of the next, extracting South Vietnamese and third country nationals from Saigon, some to their respective homes, others to nearby ports, and yet others to random points in Canada. They had to give these refugees specific instructions to, of course, never mention to anyone exactly how they survived. Glaston’s mission files included packets of false stories that the refugees were asked to memorize so that they would have a credible explanation for getting out of the war zone. It seemed to work, because no one in the future suspected that anything unnatural had happened during Operation Frequent Wind. The question they had now was who wrote all those falsified documents, and how many other historical events had happened differently than the world knew?

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