Microstory 1934: Fifty-Fifty

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Ochivar Captain: What is it, Lieutenant? What did you find?

Ochivar Lieutenant: *crouching* It’s a human.

Ochivar Captain: Threat class?

Ochivar Lieutenant: Presumably Class Zero. It’s dead. There’s a lower lifeform next to it. Can’t tell if it’s dead too. Could be Class Zero-Point-Five. Ochivar 1, the scanner?

Ochivar 2: I have the scanner. Here ya go.

Ochivar Lieutenant: It’s alive, and carrying no known disease. I would like to amend my previous response. Class Zero.

Ochivar 1: I’ve amended the report. Human, dead; Threat Class Unknown; presumably Zero. Animal, alive; Threat Class Zero.

Ochivar Captain: I don’t care about the animal.

Ochivar Lieutenant: Scanning the human now. [...] Bulk residue, Ochivar blood; carrying no known disease.

Ochivar 1: We did this. We killed him.

Ochivar Captain: We don’t know that yet, soldier.

Ochivar Lieutenant: Yeah, we do. *stands back up* Contusions and minor lacerations consistent with circumjacent bulk arrival.

Ochivar 2: We have to return and report.

Ochivar Captain: Now, let’s not be hasty, Ochivar 2. We’ve not run a full autopsy on the individual in question. It could have already been dead. Look around, soldiers. Do you see any signs of civilization? Now look at the body? Do you see any camping supplies, or even clothing designated for outdoor activity?

Ochivar 1: This is the first time I’ve been offworld. I don’t know how humans dress, or how they live in general.

Ochivar Captain: Well, I’ve encountered them before. This is not normal. It was probably lost, or abandoned by an enemy. Even if we did kill it, it would have died out here anyway, and either way, it would have become a threat to our mission, which automatically upgrades it to Threat Class XI.

Ochivar 2: Not everyone believes in that high of an upgrade. There are other teams that can always take up the responsibility. I don’t even personally think it would have turned into a Class X.

Ochivar Captain: That’s why I’m the captain, and you’re a soldier. You do not know how to think for yourself. It’s okay, we’ll always need people like you.

Ochivar Lieutenant: Captain, he’s right. We have to return to the homeworld and report the incident. They will send us back once it’s done, or send another team.

Ochivar Captain: Two of us will not survive that trip, Lieutenant. I was to retire in this universe; a reward for my years of service, and my many missions. The Captain I annihilated coming here was a great man, a great soldier, and in my same position. I cannot risk my retirement. Then he would have sacrificed himself for nothing.

Ochivar 1: Ochivar 2 and I will go, Captain. You’ll stay, and we’ll risk the fifty-fifty.

Ochivar Captain: You know the law better, Lieutenant. Is this acceptable?

Ochivar Lieutenant: It’s a gray area, but I think Command Central will allow it.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: September 2, 2398

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When Leona and Coronel Zacarias disappeared into the Nexus, she was surprised and startled, but okay. That was not the craziest thing she had ever seen in her life. She just didn’t think they would ever get it working. She knows a lot more about these machines than she is letting on. She knows more about a lot of things, for instance that there are only two Nexa in the entire universe in this reality, and they’re both on Earth. The Inventors always install them on celestial bodies of significance. That means populated, visited, or other points of interest. Such places do not exist here, and they never will before the Third Rail collapses into oblivion. She can’t remember the address of the other Nexus, but it’s not just zero. So what could Leona have meant when she yelled out that that’s where they went? Maybe she was trying to say that they pressed zero buttons, but that’s kind of a funky way to word that, right?

She and Bridgette tried to contact the people back in Kansas City, but the Mozambican soldiers wouldn’t let them. They were never granted access to any communication devices in this secret base, and they are not allowed to return to The Olimpia. She understands where they’re coming from. Their leader disappeared without giving them instructions on how to handle his disappearance. Before he did so, he had ordered radio silence, even to their own people back on the mainland, and their only choice now is to continue adhering to these orders. After their failure to get help, the two of them made an attempt to press the zero button on the pad, but it did not work for them. The soldiers figured that they ought to stay out of the control room after that, so they have not gotten any chance to try again. They have been sleeping in the main chamber ever since, in case anything changes.

At the moment, Cheyenne is sitting in the corner, where the stairs and the wraparound ramp meet at the control room door. It’s her turn to keep watch, so she is desperately trying to stay awake, but she’s struggling. This room is fairly far away from the Olimpia, which makes her a little too far away from the Insulator of Life. She doesn’t have to stay right next to it at all times, but she does need to receive frequent recharges, and it’s been too long since her last one. She can’t ask the soldiers to let her get closer to it, because they wouldn’t understand that it’s not about the radio anymore. She would ask Bridgette to take her shift, but she needs to sleep too. Bridgette has already done so much for her when she didn’t have to.

She yawns, and tries to find the strength to slap her cheeks a few times, but she doesn’t get the chance. The machine spontaneously powers up. In her head, she jumps into action, ready to fight against evil, or receive their new friends, whichever one is happening. But even this development isn’t enough to clear the sandman’s sleeping sand from her eyes. Technicolor lights appear from above the Nexus cavity, then flash away.

Four figures are left standing there. One runs over to Bridgette, who too is trying to wake up, while two of them run to Cheyenne. “Are you okay, Shy?” Leona asks.

“I need to get back to the Insulator,” Cheyenne ekes out, hoping that her words are loud enough for human ears to hear.

“Jacinto, can you help?” Leona asks the stranger.

“Of course.”

Cheyenne feels herself being lifted into the air, but no arms are under her.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 26, 2398

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This was originally planned as a six-man operation. Well, actually, it was only going to be five men, but they lucked into finding Mateo, and decided that he would be a good sacrifice. It’s going to be a dangerous mission, but if Mateo doesn’t help, the rogue veterans say that they’ll out him as a fake Dominus. So Leona, Ramses, and Heath agreed to participate as well, so he wouldn’t have to do it alone. The military guys were hesitant, because they don’t understand that this is not at all the first mission they’ve been on. It’s just the first one they can talk about with these people. Heath is the least experienced, though, so he was assigned to stay with The Olimpia to provide air support, along with Captain Tarboda Hobson. They have lucked into having a fancy flying carboat submarine too. Perhaps it is the once-immortal time travelers who should be leading this superhero team-up adventure. Ah, yes, that’s the new plan.

Here’s the mission. A cargo ship is headed for the states, carrying perfectly normal goods, and also a bunch of innocent women and children to be sold into sex slavery. This is the consequence the country faces when it comes to religious freedoms. Slavery is not legal, but there are ways around getting caught by declaring privacy, exploiting loopholes, and executing well-coordinated timing. If they travel from the right port, and arrive at the right port, at the right time, they’ll be able to unload the trafficked people, and erase all evidence that they were there. The rogue vets intend to intercept this ship in international waters. This will be illegal, because it’s considered a form of privacy, and there’s no explaining that away. It’s this whole thing. That’s why they’re doing it, because if teams like them don’t, no one will.

The superempathy that Ramses built into their new bodies—which is still, for whatever reason, strongest in Mateo—allows them to sense each other’s feelings. That’s what it was designed to do, so they can at least communicate as much amongst the team members without anyone else noticing or knowing about it. To a certain degree, this also gives them a heightened sense of general empathy, which works on anyone they meet who happens to have a soul. It’s not perfect, but it gives them a pretty good idea when someone is lying. According to Mateo’s readings, the rogues are telling the truth about the mission, and their convictions. They’re not saints, but they believe that what they’re doing is right, and Mateo does not believe that the people running the ship don’t deserve what’s coming to them. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.

Here’s the plan as they drew it up after three more people signed on. Seven of the nine members of the taskforce are meant to sneak onto the ship from below, and break off into two teams. Technically, three of the soldiers are on one team, and two of the travelers are on another, but they’ll be moving throughout the vessel together. While Mateo and Ebraim go up to commandeer the bridge, the rescue team will head for the shipping containers of abductees. The strike team, lead by Goran, will protect both the rescuers, and the refugees that they find. Any help they might need from the outside will be provided by Heath and Tarboda on the fourth team.

It’s not safe, and it’s not guaranteed they’ll win, but the biggest issue with this plan is that people will most likely die. It might not be any of them, or even any of the refugees, but Team Matic is not fully okay with that. For various reasons, they’ve had to kill occasionally, but it’s never been something they’ve planned. Well, there was that one time Leona conscripted an alternate version of Reaver to stab Ulinthra with a dagger that erases her from time. And when she murdered Erlendr Preston in the afterlife simulation, it was pretty premeditated. But other than that, killing has been a last resort. This is so calculated, so intentional, and therefore so...wrong. So that’s not what they’re going to do. Instead, the time travelers manage to lock all of the soldiers in the galley, and steer their boat as far away from the intercept point as possible. They get free, but Ramses teleports away at the last second. When he arrives back on the Olimpia, the real mission begins.

They do sneak onto the cargo ship, and they do rescue the refugees, but they don’t kill anyone, and they don’t make a mess of things. They escort them all onto a lifeboat, drop it into the water, and distract all the guards and whatnot with a small explosion in the engine room, using explosives they stole from the rogues. The secret plan goes off without a hitch, and no one is the wiser.

The rogues are pissed when they break down the door, and make it back to the location of The Olimpia, having missed out on all the action. But they’ll get over it, and besides, it’s not like there’s no more work for them to do. It will be their responsibility to tow the lifeboat to safety. Do they have to go back to Santo Domingo? Will the U.S. take them in for asylum? Will another country? These are questions that Team Matic can’t answer, but there is one question that they can respond to quite swiftly.

“You will get those people to safety, wherever that might be. You will not return to the cargo ship to kill all those criminals, or harm them in any way. They are dead in the water, so you will contact the authorities anonymously, and let them do whatever it is they do. You will not tell anyone about what you know of Mateo’s situation, or even that you met any of us at all. If this is not clear, then I will kindly point out that we managed to achieve everything you wanted on our own, without any of them seeing our faces, or being able to tell you how we did it. I don’t know what you’ll take from that, but if I were you, I would start to think that I underestimated us at first. There is no telling what else we can do when properly motivated. Is any of this not making sense?” Leona Matic understands astrophysics and technology. She knows main sequence film history through the year 2028. But goddammit if delivering threats isn’t her best feature. The men all nod silently, now sufficiently afraid to do anything to anger her. This is where they leave it.

While the soldiers drive off to finish the mission without further supervision, the Olimpia heads farther out, to the exact center of the mysterious Bermuda Triangle. They were dubious that they would find anything out here, which is why Mateo and Leona chose to check it off the list of special temporal locations while getting a short vacation out of it. The fact that they can teleport in this region, just as they could near the site of The Constant, is interesting to say the least.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 24, 2398

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Mateo wakes up woozy, tied up and rocking on the metal floor. It was the heat that woke him, frying him from above, and scorching him from below. It’s probably the hottest part of the day, and he can’t move to find shelter. He immediately finds that he’s tied up, his hands together, and tightly bound to a railing of some kind. A salty breeze slips in between the bars, enough to burn his eyes, but not enough to cool him down. He’s on a boat. He pulls himself into a sitting position, but he can’t hold it for long. Whoever did this didn’t care how hard it would be for him to get comfortable, didn’t realize, or did it on purpose.

Two feet approach him, which are presumably attached to a body, but he can barely see above the ankle. He just can’t turn his head enough to get a good look, and even so, the sun would probably blind him. He hears two claps, and then the feet walk away, only to be replaced with two new feet. A voice he recognizes says, “afternoon, soldier.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Mateo groans back. It’s hard to talk, he’s so thirsty.

“Oh, we know,” Ebraim replies.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Mateo asks him. “It’s okay if you are. It wouldn’t be the first time I died. I always manage to come back, I’m sure I’ll figure it out again.”

Ebraim gets on his hands and knees to cut the zip ties. He clears his throat authoritatively as he’s pulling Mateo up and over into a more tenable sitting position. “The way you say that, you almost sound like one of us.” He nods and breathes loudly through his nose, looking over toward the other side of the boat. “Every man here has died at least once.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Mateo begins, “but I am a fighter.”

He coughs involuntarily. “I believe you. That’s why you’re here.”

Mateo looks around. “It’s why I’m where, and doing what?”

“We’re presently in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, traveling at eleven knots, bearing Southeast deeper into the middle of nowhere, and you’re with us, because our mission happens to be a six man operation, and until you came along, we only numbered five.”

“But you know that I’m not one of you.” Mateo is still struggling to enunciate.

“We don’t need you to have any experience,” Ebraim explains. “We just need another warm body.”

“You mean you need a human sacrifice,” Mateo guesses.

Ebraim chuckles. “You’re so smart, why are you lying about who you are?”

He adjusts his position a little, and smacks his lips. “Water.”

Ebraim doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts his left hand, and snaps his fingers twice. A man Mateo doesn’t know yet places a bottle in it, which he transfers to Mateo.

“I just needed a new life.” When in doubt, be honest, but maybe not too honest. He does not intend to throw the forger under the bus, or say one word about his own team. It just needs to be believable, and only moderately close to the truth. He also shouldn’t add too many details. “I needed a new identity. The forger asked me if I wanted military credentials. I was in a pretty bad way at the time, and it seemed like an all right idea. I didn’t really think through the consequences. He gave me this little card that said I’m blah, blah, blah. I tucked it away, and didn’t worry about it. I didn’t think it would actually come up, because what I didn’t realize is that he also put my name in the system. It actually looks like I bear rank, and have a record. It’s only recently come back to bite me in the ass, I’m really sorry.”

Ebraim laughs again. “Ah, hell, we don’t give a shit about that. Way I see it, if the military doesn’t kill you, it screws up your life. The only way out is to lie, steal, and cheat. I’d be a hypocrite if I thought only people like me deserved to break the rules. I’m not a good man, but I’m not a hypocrite.”

“This isn’t a sanctioned mission?”

He helps Mateo to his feat, and starts to lead him into the inside part of the boat, whatever it’s called. “It’s sanctioned by the five of us. I suppose that’ll hafta be good enough. You don’t mind, do ya?”

“Why are you talking differently now?”

“My mama’s southern side comes out every now and then,” Ebraim replies. “I don’t work as hard to suppress it among friends.”

Now Mateo laughs. “I reckon we ain’t friends.”

Ebraim smiles. “Well, we’ll see. Let’s start small. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the team.”

Microstory 1500: Introduction to Poems

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I’m not much of a poet. I wrote several of them in college for my Tumblr, and I can only hope that they were taken down at some point, because I lost my account information, no longer have the email address that was attached to it, and don’t even remember the web address. For as much as I call this a short fiction website, it is a creative writing website. I use a variety of formats, many of which one might call experimental. I’ve done all perspectives, most tenses, blocked dialog, nonfiction, fables, adapted dreams, and even fake news stories. A lot of my work can’t even be considered stories. They’re more anecdotal, where I give a run-down of the things that happened, while avoiding a beginning, middle, and end. Some are part of a series, while others stand alone. I have an ongoing series that I’ve posted pretty much every Sunday since 2015, and associated longer-form multiseries and single series that run on Saturdays. I’ve done everything else that fits in a blog format, so of course I have to do poetry. I don’t know how this is going to go, and I’m really nervous about it. If someone doesn’t like my regular fiction, I can generally take the criticism. When they say the flow is choppy, or the climax was anticlimactic, I can see where they’re coming from. But I don’t know what a good poem looks like, and I certainly don’t know how to replicate that magic. I’ve been through a lot of crap in my life—mostly when it comes to education and employment—but I’ve always had food on the table, a good family, and I’ve never experienced true emotional trauma. I also have shockingly bad memory, annoyingly so.

Several months ago, my dad was telling me about some bullies I had in middle school. I knew they existed, but I don’t really remember the things that they did to me; and not because my fragile mind blocked them out, but because that was all two decades ago, and it’s not important anymore. So if I don’t feel so much pain and strife—if I’ve never been a starving artist, or a soldier, or a victim, or a survivor, what can I say? I can absolutely put my feelings into words, but that’s not what poetry is, is it? Poetry is twisting those words until they become new words on the other side, so when someone tries to translate them back, they become less obvious, and more up to interpretation. How can I hope to move you with the poetry of my life if I don’t even think my own life moves me? Well, if everyone felt like Emily Dickinson, or Edgar Allan Poe, then I suppose everyone would be a poet. The only people who do poetry are probably the only people who should be doing it. So where does that leave me? With the compulsion to do it anyway, even if I don’t belong in this world. But again, how could I possibly accomplish this when I don’t really even have anything to say? I’ve realized that I’ve never had much to say before, but that hasn’t stopped me yet. A lot of writers use fiction to express their ideas, but I usually go a different direction. I use fiction to express other people’s ideas, to tell other people’s stories. I don’t see any reason I can’t do that here too. So as you’re reading this poetry, be gentle with your criticisms, because I’m a newbie, and none of these is from my true self anyway.

Microstory 1299: The Soldiers and the Ceasefire

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If you’ve never heard of the Christmas Ceasefire, I’ll bring you up to speed. Starting on Christmas Eve in 1914, hostilities between British and German soldiers during the Great War (what you may know as World War I) halted temporarily. Opposing forces not only allowed each other to bury dead and repair trenches, but even came together to observe the holiday. They sang songs and played games in the area between their two sides—generally known as no-man’s land. I’ve heard this story told a million times, and in case you’re wondering, it’s not a fable. It really happened, and it happened as it’s been told. According to sources, I’ve never heard any embellishments or alterations, probably because the original story seems so beautiful on its own that it doesn’t need to be changed to teach the lesson. But what exactly is the lesson? Well, if everyone who has ever told it is to be believed, the magical Christmas truce is meant to teach us that we’re all human. We all have red blood, and we want the same things, and we don’t have to fight each other to get them. Those things are true, more or less—though I would contend that I don’t give a crap what species you are, or what color your blood is; I’m not going to hate you for who you are anyway. The problem is that the Christmas Ceasefire story is an absolutely dreadful means of teaching this lesson. Why? Well, because the British and Germans were killing each other on and before the 23rd, and they continued to kill each other well after the 26th. The war raged on, and did not end until November of 1918. It was also not exactly the last war ever.

There’s this Latin phrase people like to say: si vis pacem, para bellum. It translates to if you want peace, prepare for war. People hear phrases like this, and they’re so short and concise that they don’t really question whether they’re true or not. It’s another example of an aphoroid, which I mentioned in the introduction to this series. In this case, people believe the phrase to be true only because history is littered with war. That’s all we seem to know, but guess what? When I was three, I didn’t know that two plus two was four. I had to learn it later. I recognize that sounds reductive, but I feel the analogy stands. We can learn to live in a world without war. We can achieve peace without it, and we can maintain that peace without the threat of it. The world has been changing ever since it coalesced, and I see no reason for it to stagnate just because we’re here. So I don’t really have a revised version of the Christmas Ceasefire story, because I don’t believe the problem lies in the story itself, but what people have taken from it. It’s great that the soldiers took a break from killing each other for a couple days, and it’s great that it wasn’t an isolated incident. What’s terrible is that these nations felt the need to fight in the first place. Ceasefires should be rare, because war should be rare, if not completely a thing of the past. The human race was built on a foundation of violence and hate, but the thing about foundations is that they are not immutable. All we have to do is tear it all down...and build a better foundation in its place.

Microstory 1208: Adolphe Sargent

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Adolphe Sargent was not a leader during the Franco-Prussian War. He was just a regular soldier who was trying to do his part for a cause he believed in. After a near death experience on the battlefield, with an enemy combatant who would come to be known as The Warrior, Adolphe was conscripted by the powers that be into a group of fighters from all over time and space called the salmon battalion. He was not meant to be a leader here, but was arbitrarily assigned the rank of Sergeant, theoretically just to be funny. There were a few hundred other members of the battalion, who were sent to various wars throughout time to alter their results. They usually didn’t impact the culminating outcomes, but they did change the course of history in less dramatic—but still very important—ways. Over time, Adolphe proved himself to be a great leader, so he was given more responsibility. Since the battalion didn’t answer to some sort of higher institution, like a national government, the hierarchy was a lot less established, and far more fluid. His title never changed, though his scope expanded. Eventually, he was running the entire group, getting missions directly via the battalion’s resident psychic, and handling the schedule. He made sure that this schedule was fair, and that no one was overworked, like he was. This was not the life he would have chosen, but it was the one he had, and he knew that he wasn’t picked for no reason at all. He joined the military of his own accord, and these were the consequences, as outrageous as they might be. The truth was—and maybe he would never admit this—he didn’t want to do any of this, but he just didn’t quite understand at the time what he was getting himself into. Perhaps he was just too young to see what it would do to him. He never thought he would turn into a psychopathic killer, but he figured his patriotism would carry him through. He was by no means a pacifist, but he also didn’t care much for war, and he certainly didn’t belong with the salmon battalion. The powers never let him go, though. They just kept feeding him mission after mission, and he continued to accept them without question. As he grew older, his body started failing him, which was something that time did to everyone, even a time traveler. The greatest, and only, gift the powers that be gave him was the persistence of his mortality. They could have quite easily turned him into an immortal, and though he could have never been killed, he could have become worn. He was never fully replaced, but as his physical well-being diminished, he delegated more responsibilities to others, and led his people more from the sidelines. He was granted retirement, but it was but a year from his death, from the perspective of his personal timeline. The battalion did not live on without him. Since they were time travelers all, and the powers could see all of time and space from beyond it, every mission that ever needed to be executed was already taken care of. Adolphe Sargent was the salmon battalion, and no one could have argued against this truth. His legacy as a leader, a fighter, and a good man, rings through eternity, and can never be silenced.

Microstory 1140: Anatol Klugman

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The Franco-Prussian War began in 1870, following years of complicated tension between the French Empire, and the Kingdom of Prussia. It involved a letter from Spain, border disputes, and as per usual, Russia. Anatol Klugman didn’t care about any of this, though. To him, his kingdom was calling for him to fight for his people, so he answered it. He became a musketeer, and fought with passion and relentlessness. It was on the battlefield that he met Adolphe Sargent, who was as passionate about his own home as he was about Prussia. They fought for several minutes before Anatol gained the upper hand, but before he could deliver the final blow, one of Adolphe’s fellow soldiers appeared out of nowhere, and turned the tables. But those tables just kept turning when the Sword of Assimilation appeared shortly thereafter, just in time to save Anatol’s life. The man who had come to Adolphe’s aid happened to be a time traveler, who was uncontrollably drawn to important events in his family’s history. The sword allowed his powers to be transferred into Anatol’s system permanently. But instead of being drawn to his family, he found himself traveling to other wars that involved Prussia in the past. He felt compelled to continue fighting for his people, but once he was finished with the last one, he was finally free from this pattern. He gained a reputation in the choosing one underworld as a ruthless killer. To temper these rumors, he chose to only steal powers from bad people, and only kill them when it couldn’t be helped. He didn’t enjoy it, but thought it was necessary. He wasn’t simply trying to gain powers for himself, but remove them from people who he felt didn’t deserve them. Once they were in him, they could not be given back, or given to someone else. After years of this, from his perspective, he procured the ability to travel through time in various ways, teleport, and alter people’s memories, among other things. But he was not the only one to survive that first battle, and continue on in the world of temporal manipulators. Adolphe went on to become a major force in the salmon battalion, which traveled throughout time, turning the tide of many wars, for reasons only the powers that be who controlled them could understand. Suddenly, the two of them met once more, and had to decide for themselves how they were going to react. They had both been through a lot since they tried to kill each other. They even discovered that, although they jumped back and forth throughout the timestream, the same amount of time had passed for each of them, so they had that much in common. They had both seen the future, and recognized that their differences from before were a little ridiculous now. They never became great friends, who could trust each other with anything, but they did come to an understanding, and even fought alongside each other, against some truly awful foes.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: October 24, 2231

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Everything seemed to have worked out great for the human Ansutahan refugees. At least, for most of them. By the time everyone on Comron was evacuated through the universe bridge, some of the Maramon warriors who were near the border of the temporal bubble when it was established were able to break through. There were a few casualties, but this was not an unexpected development, so they were quickly contained. Once everyone was through who could get through, two military contingencies of volunteers were called into action. First, a defense force maintained an extremely strong presence around the entrance of the bridge, to prevent any Maramon from crossing over. A rescue force was sent out to retrieve as many human prisoners of war as possible, if not all of them. Technology was fairly advanced at this point in the universe’s history, so there were indeed means of gathering intelligence, but it could never be perfect. It was impossible to know if everyone was saved.

On the day of Mateo and Serif’s return to the timestream, one last mission was dispatched before the universe bridge would be closed forever. They returned with an unusual group. Some of the people they rescued were human, but some were Maramon. The rescue team was seeking guidance from the small group in charge of Gatewood, as opposed to the Ansutahan human leadership, which didn’t really hold that much power on the cylinders. They convened in an instructional room in the library on Eden Island, not far from the bridge. Kestral and Ishida were the ones in charge here, since they were primarily responsible for the Gatewood cylinders. Ramses and Goswin had devised the initial system of government. They couldn’t just rely on what the Ansutahan humans had made, because this was an entirely new environment, of which they knew nothing. Greer and Weaver were part of the discussion as well, in a more limited capacity. Serif was there as a highly respected individual, whose minimal exposure to the timestream was the only thing keeping her from being elected King of the World. Mateo and Cassidy were invited as a courtesy, but were expected to stay quiet.

One point five hundred Maramon—as Ram liked to call it—sat in the auditorium seats, awaiting judgment. Kestral stood at the podium and studied their faces while they waited for her to speak. “My name is Kestral McBride,” she announced to the crowd. “Who speaks for the Maramon?”

They all looked to one man, sitting in the front row center. They weren’t called white monsters for nothing. Their skin was a powdery white, but his was noticeably darker. He somewhat reluctantly stood up, and approached the stage. “I am Brahim Beytilsedivm. I’m also known as Begetter. I can speak for the group...for now.”

“Why were you imprisoned by the other Maramon?” Kestral asked him.

“We are human sympathizers,” he explained. “We’ve always known what humans really are; that you are not gods, nor enemies. We did not agree with our people’s attempts at taking over other universes, and tried to stop them.”

“Forgive me,” Kestral began, “but there are billions of Maramon on this planet, yet a hundred and fifty dissenters? It’s hard to believe there are any, but even harder to believe there are so few.”

Brahim cleared his throat and leaned in to the microphone. “There are a hundred and fifty of us...left alive. Across time, there have been millions of active opposing voices. Many more opposed in silence.”

Kestral thought about what he just said. “Do you expect to integrate into the society we’re building here?”

Brahim took a beat. “We expect nothing. We believe that everything we’ve done in the name of humans has gotten you here. We protected the last applied brane cosmologist, so that he could build the bridge that saved you. What you do with us is your choice. If you would like to keen us back in Ansutah, we are prepared to accept that without contention.”

Kestral thought some more, and this time, for a long time. “I need a list. Give me the name of everyone in this room. First, last, and any woxa.” Woxa in Maramon was best translated to nickname. It was given to a Maramon upon being raised to a special social class called the notables. Basically, one had to be famous, or have contributed greatly on a personal level to historical developments in the universe. They were always English words, always alliterative with their natural names, and not necessarily positive, or positive in everyone’s eyes. “I also need to know what they did to get locked up,” she continued. “Do not lie.”

The outcast Maramon stayed in the classroom to compile the requested information, while most of the Gatewooders retreated to the attached office to discuss options further. Greer and Weaver stayed back to supervise the Maramon. Mateo and Cassidy decided there was nothing they could do. Before they left, though, he heard Ishida say something about someone named Margerie.

About an hour later, Weaver knocked on Cassidy’s door. Cassidy had been given a place to sleep in the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, but the ship was presently the most dangerous place on the cylinder, so everyone was staying in other units. “I could use your help,” Weaver said.

“With what?” he asked as they were following her up to the train platform.

“They’ve decided what they’re doing with the Maramon,” Weaver answered.

“They’re not keeping them in that awful world, are they?” Cassidy asked.

“No,” Weaver promised, “but they can’t come here either. No matter how woke the few of us are, they’ll make the refugees feel uncomfortably.”

“They’re also refugees,” Mateo pointed out.

“I know,” Weaver agreed, “and they’ll have to remain that way for a little bit longer.”

“We’re exiling them, aren’t we?” Mateo guessed.

“We’re giving them a home,” Weaver reasoned. “That home just happens to be...far from here.”

“I can’t endorse that, nor help with it.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Weaver assured him. “We know we can’t send them back to the mainland of Ansutah, and all intel about humans left in that universe has dried up. It’s time to close the bridge, and it’s a two-person job.”

“There are three of us,” Mateo said. “Which two do you mean?”

“It’s a three-person job, actually. We need a lookout, and maybe a little muscle.”

“You’re lying,” Mateo realized. “Why are you lying?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What did they really decide in that meeting?” Cassidy questioned.

Weaver sighed. “They are keeping them there. It didn’t take them long to decide that, even before they Begetter gave him his list.”

“What did the list say?”

“There are a lot of violent people in that auditorium. They had to be. Some call them terrorists, but they were revolutionaries, and they shouldn’t be punished for that.”

“Who’s Margerie?” Mateo asked her. “Can she help?”

“That’s not a person; it’s a colony ship,” Cassidy told him. “The way Kestral and Ishida told it, it just showed up in the system one day, as if it were trying to deliver colonists to Gatewood. It was empty, though.”

Weaver continued the explanation, “the weird thing about it is the dimensions. It’s larger than most colony ships, which are all designed about the same. Even the individual sleeping-slash-escape pods are bigger. They’re big enough for Maramon. I very much believe it was sent here for the Maramon.”

“Who would do that?” Mateo wondered.

“I don’t know, but I know what it’s like to be in a world where I don’t belong. The Dardieti felt it necessary to save me anyway, and I’m here to pay it forward. Will you help me with that, or not?”

“Of course,” Mateo pledged.

Cassidy just nodded.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when the Gatewooders learn the bridge can’t be reopened, but every human, and every outcast Maramon, is coming over here for good.”

“How are you going to get everyone back to this side of the bridge, including all those soldiers?” Mateo asked.

“Same way they got here before, with the Muster Lighter. One of you is going to have to light up in Velox Park. It’s not too far away, but far enough that no one will be able to rush back and undo my work before it’s complete.”

“I can do that,” Cassidy volunteered. “You need him to protect you from anyone who doesn’t want you to do what you’re about to do.”

“Thank you.”

Cassidy shook her head. “No, thank you. You helped me understand what I am, and gave me purpose. I can become a genius just by shaking your hand.”

Weaver smiled.

No one was guarding the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, which served as the exit point for the universe bridge. They stole the Muster Lighter from the safe on the bottom level of the ship, and sent Cassidy on her way. Then they snuck into the other universe, and into the control room. Mateo kept his head on a swivel, while Weaver did whatever it was she was doing on the command console. Just after she determined she was ready, they got the call from Cassidy that she was in place.

“All right. I’ve set the parameters,” Weaver spoke into her communication device. “It’s programmed to take every human and Maramon on Eden Island, except for Mateo and me. Flick the lighter on my count. Three..two..one..now!”

Nothing happened from their perspective. A few second later, Cassidy came back on comms, “they’re here. They’re confused.”

“Okay, teleport back to your room,” Weaver ordered. “We’ll be there in a second.”

“I’m afraid not.” A Maramon they didn’t know cooly walked into the room, along with a handful of other humans, of varying ages.

“How did you survive the Muster Lighter?” Weaver asked.

“By the grace of the primary gods,” the Maramon said. “We happened to be close enough to the two of you. Otherwise, everything would have been ruined. Get in place,” he ordered the humans.

They assembled into a single-file line in front of the stairs to the bridge.

“What are you doing?”

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “We just need to borrow this right quick. You can destroy it when we’re done.”

“I’m not gonna let you through that bridge,” Mateo argued.

He scoffed, and effortlessly knocked Mateo to his ass. He then pushed Weaver out of the way, so he could insert some kind of device into a port on the console.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Weaver cried.

The Maramon pushed a button. The image of the AOC on the other side of the bridge shuttered, and changed. It was now showing what appeared to be a mountaintop. “Cain, go!” After the guy named Cain ran through, the Maramon pushed the button again. City streets this time. “Abel, go!” Abel left, and the scene changed to a rooftop. “Seth, go!” A boat. “Luluwa, go!” The forest. “Awan, go!” A laboratory, maybe. “Azura, go!” A cave. “Lilith, go!”

Bang!

The Maramon fell over, blood leaking from the wound in his head. Serif was the one holding the gun. “Weaver! Get us back to our universe.”

Weaver was just staring at the Maramon’s body.

“Weaver! Now!”

She snapped out of it, and started desperately pushing buttons. “I...I...I don’t know how to work this thing now!” The scene kept changing to what were presumably various other universes, until Weaver seemed to figure something out. She was now switching them to other points in time and space in their own universe. Mateo recognized some of the other people.

Young versions of Horace and Paige made one appearance. “Protect this thing!” he shouted at them. Then he threw some small object at them, but before it made it through the bridge, the scene changed once more.

Leona was in another. “Mateo!”

“Leona!” He ran up to get her, but the scene changed again.

“Get her back!” He screamed at Weaver.

“I can’t,” Weaver said.

“Get her back!”

“The system is overloading,” she warned them. “We need to get out of here.”

“Open anywhere,” Serif ordered her. “Stabilize the bridge long enough to get through, and then just go!”

“What about you?”

“Go!”

Weaver did what she was told. They ran through as fast as they could. Before Mateo could look back to see what happened to Serif, the bridge was closed, theoretically forever.

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Microstory 838: Man of War

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The galaxy is a big place, but we have mapped every single star, and conquered nearly all of them. Along the way, we discovered a few alien races, but life is so much rarer than even the most skeptical of scientists predicted. Most of our neighbors were technologically inferior to us, so when we declare a star system to be ours, there is little use for them to fight us on it. There are enough habitable planets here to satisfy the needs of every family, and though people tend to cluster together, it remains an option. Still, we set aside certain worlds for specific purposes, treating each one like our ancestors used blocks in a city. There’s one for giant immersive theme parks, and another for escape scenarios and scavenger hunts. I was on my way to a water world known for the best surfing in the quadrant when our ship suffered a cataclysmic failure, and I was forced to jettison myself in an emergency pod. I waited amongst the debris for two days, waiting to either be rescued, or at least make contact with other survivors, but I was running out of rations, and had to find the nearest system. Pods can’t last forever on the power they store—really just enough to make it a few light years, so I place myself in hibernation—and set course.

As my pod approaches, the computer wakes me up, and alerts me that the only planet with a satisfactory atmosphere is marked classified, and that I’m not allowed to land. That won’t be a problem, because I just need to hang out in orbit around the sun for a few hours, then I can make my way to the next system over. It’s tedious, and I may not find civilization for years, but it’s better than dying. The planet seems to have other plans for me, however. A message comes through, with the voice of an angry military man, scolding me for deserting the war. Obviously I’ve done no such thing, but some computer down there is programmed to react to a vessel in a certain way, and I’ve somehow triggered that action. I try to get out of its way, but it won’t leave me be. I try to explain myself, but it wasn’t programmed to recognize my responses. After some digging, I discover this to be an abandoned military training planet, built after the Bot Wars of the 22nd century, in preparation for a second uprising that never came. The messages continue, with the General telling me that my unit is counting on me, along with hundreds of thousands of other soldiers. Despite my best efforts, the training computer has designated me a soldier with an obligation, so it takes control of my pod, and drags me down to the surface. It lands me in the middle of a bunch of debris, proving that others have crashed before me. Once I’ve learned that there’s no way to fix my pod from inside of it, the exercise begins automatically, sending millions of robots to attack me, unaware that I am literally the only human even here, except for a bunch of corpses scattered around. From what I remember, I realize this must be a reenactment of the Battle of Kanapthes, which no human survived. I don’t know why they’re using real weapons, but I do know I have to get the hell out of here. I quickly learn that none of the other ships will work either, though, so my only hope is to reach the core processor of this training program, and shut this whole thing down. It’s only a few kilometers away, so I can make it if I’m smart about it. I peek over a ridge to inspect my surroundings, and a robot shoots me in the head. I roll down the hill, and die next to the other poor schmucks who probably had the same idea.

Microstory 795: Honor Spotter

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The Bicker Institute formed in the 19th century out of fear that some great cataclysm could fall upon the Earth, and destroy civilization. Wanting to insulate the human species from complete annihilation, they start monitoring genetically diverse individuals in secret. Should the need arise, they were to be taken to hidden bunkers to protect them from whatever would happen to the rest of the world. They would not be alone in these bunkers, because who knows what they would do if left to their own devices? So certain peoples are recruited before the theoretical end, according to their education and experience. They need a leader, someone who is a true believer in the cause, and understands exactly what it is they’re fighting for. Of course, they need a doctor to tend to residents’ medical issues; an engineer, a mechanic, and an electrician, to maintain the facility itself; a gardner to care for the microponics equipment; and a logistician to keep track of their inventory. But the genetically select inheritors, and the management team are not the only two groups to be protected. They want the people to be able to choose for themselves; to developed policies and procedures that they feel are best. But inheritors are chosen when they’re children, long before they know what they want to do with their lives. Theoretically, every one of them could grow up to be a clown, for all anyone knows. And so seven people extra people from each of the three qualifying generations are chosen as supplementary bunker residents. These are known as...the wild cards, but are sometimes referred to as the honor residents.

Wild cards are destined to be breeders, and represent a fraction of their population that the Institute knows little about, medically speaking. This is done to better simulate the real world, which is based on more natural genetic inheritance. No algorithm can effectively control for every possible scionic outcome, nor should they strive for one. The fourteen wild cards are there to make it as random as possible. They are chosen, however, based on their education and experience, much like the management staff. Not all bunkers are alike, but the roughly have the same variety of backgrounds. There will likely be two military veterans; one of high ranking, and one of low ranking. There will be four law enforcement officers; one in a command position, one rookie, one experienced detective, and one new detective. There might be one registered nurse, a licensed practical nurse, a paramedic, an EMT, a midwife, and a doula. Lastly, it might be nice to have someone with culinary chops, and someone who is a natural born leader; perhaps an uncorrupted politician (if you can find one) or a company executive. Youngest generation wild cards are chosen by proximity to a bunker. While inheritors are closely protected by sentinels, wild card honor residents are only loosely kept track of by a group of headhunters known as the Honor Spotters. They keep a list of everyone they deem worthy of being taken to the bunkers, but add or remove honors, as new information suggests adjustment. Some in the Institute oppose these tactic, thinking that they would just be asking for something to go wrong when there are so many people they don’t know much about. Their worst resident, though, turned out to not be a wild card at all, but one of their most promising inheritors. And it would be up to the honor residents, and their honor spotter, to deal with him.

Microstory 753: Triadamant

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One to die. One to fight. One to run. Walk under moonlight, stop at the sun. If danger comes for you, remember this pledge. It’s written in blood drawn from your own edge. Protect not each other; that is not your role. Saving the sovereign is your only goal. So it says in the first part of the Pledge of the Resolute. There is a galaxy where this credo codifies the military force that formed upon the beginning of the war with an enemy galaxy. The organization is built in threes. There are three major branches of the military: aidsmanship, defense, and assault. Each soldier carries with them three primary weapons: their gun, their blade, and their body. And each unit is composed of three warriors. They study together at the academy, and train together after full conscription. They eat at the same table, sleep in one bed, and travel together on missions. To see one member of any given triadamant apart from the other two means something is wrong. The idea of maintaining groups of three is an old one, and was not done to protect the group itself. If attacked, hopefully one of them will die before the other two. The survivors do not both start fighting back against the enemy. Instead, one of them will draw upon all their might, fueled by an adrenaline rush—a technique every soldier learns allows this to happen inorganically, if necessary—and keep the enemy distracted. The third will run off and return to the nearest friendly stronghold to warn them of the assault. Of course, this approach was more effective in the days before aerial and orbital battles, when fighting on the ground was the only thing that ever happened. And of course, it was never thought to be totally perfect either. It was always entirely possible for all three members of a triadamant to die before one of them can run away. And it was also possible for an outpost to be attacked by a larger consistency all at once, as opposed to minor ambushes. Yet the sentiment was kept through the centuries as technology advanced warfare. Soldiers still operate within an internally democratic triadamant. And they still use the first line of the Pledge of the Resolute as a battlecry: one to die! One to fight! One to run!

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: 2121 – 2123

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Just before hitting the water in 2121, the scene changed, and Mateo Matic found himself in the middle of a city. He was just standing there on the sidewalk, as if he had been there for the last few minutes. After a second, though, he realized that he wasn’t in a city as he remembered them. Before him stood a gargantuan structure, larger than anything he had ever seen in his life. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie, which made sense considering that this was the early 22nd century. While he was trying to admire the beauty in the architecture, he heard a faint scream. High up above, someone was falling towards their death, like Mateo had many times before. He watched along with the crowd, but then started to feel dry mouth. Suddenly, he was no longer on the ground, but in the air with the falling man. He instinctively took the man in an embrace and teleported back to safety on the ground. They were now standing a few kilometers away from the massive structure, in the middle of the woods. Only then could he see the structure’s true glory.

“How did you do that?” the man asked.

“I don’t know, I just work here.”

A dark-skinned woman teleported herself in, and immediately started clapping. “And a great job you did.” She directed her attention towards the man. “You may go now.” She waved her hand and apported him away.

Mateo outstretched his hand, but assumed this woman would already know who he was. “Hi, I’m Mateo Matic.”

“Nice to meet you, Mateo. My name is Sabra. Are you the newest Savior?”

“Oh. Um...I guess I am,” he answered.

“Great, well, you can call me by my name, but I also go by Memphis.”

“Are you from Tennessee?”

She laughed. “No. The other Memphis. I’m very old. In fact, I’m one of the first.” She seemed a little perturbed when Mateo didn’t ask for details. She was probably used to people asking just how old she really was.

Mateo was already over it.

She awkwardly moved on. “Okay. Do you understand what’s being asked of you? Do you know what a Savior does?”

“Not specifically, but as I understand it, we teleport around saving people’s lives.”

“Yes, but you are no superhero. You won’t be hanging around to flirt with the pretty girl, or tell everyone that it’s—” and she threw up airquotes for this— “all in a day’s work. Literally as soon as everyone is safe, you’ll move on to the next assignment. It will probably last a few seconds, and then you’ll move on to the next. And then the next. And so on and so on. Now, Saviors normally get breaks, but I’m afraid that you don’t have that luxury. We have to squeeze an entire year into the span of twenty-four hours.” She looked at her bare wrist. “We’ve already lost several minutes just talking about it.” She handed him something that kind of looked like a gun, but clearly wasn’t. “Inject yourself with these whenever you start feeling tired. The doses will keep you going for three days straight. You’ll crash and feel like shit afterwards, but apparently you chose this?”

“Well...” Mateo had bargained with Arcadia when the true Savior, Xearea was mortally wounded. He asked Arcadia to tear her out of time, which was the only way to save her life. A consequence of this was that others would have to take her place during those missing years. “I didn’t really have much of a choice.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. We just need you to help get us through the Xearea years before The Last Savior is called upon.”

“Whoa, wait. The Last Savior? There’s an endgame to this?”

“Well, not really,” Memphis replied. “It’s just that a Savior won’t be necessary past the 22nd century. At that point, humans tend to be able to take care of themselves well enough.”

“I didn’t know that. I guess I thought you would always have one Savior at all times.”

“That doesn’t account for the interim periods between a Savior’s retirement, or death, and the activation of their successor. Nor has there always been only one at a time. You’ve just only been around when we started our little Buffy sequence.”

“Buffy sequence.”

“Ya know...’cause there can be only one? Never mind. You don’t really need to know the history. What I can tell you is that teleporting Saviors used to come in packs, because life used to be more dangerous. Each time someone comes up with something like antiseptics, seatbelts, or cellphones, we lose a little bit more of our relevance, and our numbers are decrease. The Last Savior will mark the end of that era.”

“I see. And who handles these interim periods?”

“Before, we would stagger their activations, but since we ended up with only one at a time, time travelers like your father are called to fill in those gaps.”

“Oh. The pieces are all coming together now.”

“I should hope so. Now that you have some perspective, you really must be going. Like I said, you’ll have to work through an entire year in only a day. You’ll be given an average of three minutes per day.” She eyed her wrist again, still intent on pretending there was a watch attached to it. “Starting...now.”

Before that last word left Memphis’ lips, Mateo teleported to a new location. He apported a nice couple lost on a nature hike back to safety. He rescued a child who had fallen in the ocean from her floating city. He pulled someone out of the street where someone else was recklessly driving one of those manual vehicles from the olden days that probably should have been outlawed by now, if they weren’t already. These were the easy jobs, likely just to get him familiar with the process. There was even a possibility that they were staged by Memphis, or maybe Arcadia, so that the dumb trainee wouldn’t screw something up for real. He ended up moving on to developing countries where technology was far more advanced than anything he saw in his original time period, but still more primitive than what could be found elsewhere. Things were more dangerous in these parts, but still not generally as bad as the early 21st century. There were a few really terrible things, though. A test of an earthquake management system resulted in a massive backfire. Hundreds of workers and bystanders were suddenly put in immense danger. Mateo was forced to teleport next to maybe two or three people at a time, huddle them together, and teleport them far enough away to keep them safe. Then he would have to go back and grab some more. Fortunately, even with the time constraints, he was successful in his mission, and no one was seriously injured.

There were still other human-driven complications that Mateo had to deal with. Weapons still existed, and they still often ended up being pointed in the direction of innocent people. Two countries that shall not be named even fired missiles towards each other, forcing Mateo to teleport onto each of them, and spirit them away to the middle of outerspace. How people who knew nothing of teleportation and time travel were explaining any of these things was neither something Mateo had time to worry about, nor the resources to answer.

He did all this over the course of three days. Eventually, the passage of time barely registered with him. He just kept going, really only stopping to inject himself with the fancy futuristic stamina drug. It was likely developed as part of a supersoldier program, but was deemed unsafe because of its awful side effect. A couple hours before midnight central, Memphis dropped by quite briefly to let him know that his, uhh...nine-tuple shift was over, and that he was free to rest. He really needed it too, because by the time he woke up back on the island, it was 2125, and he still felt like crap.

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