Extremus: Year 32

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When Olindse recovered from her bender, Kaiora asked her where she was while she was missing for eight months. The former chose to keep quiet, invoking her right to privacy as an admiral. Something happened while she was struggling through the alcohol poisoning. She couldn’t recall precisely what she experienced, but when she awoke, she had an epiphany. She wasn’t going to be ignored or dismissed anymore. She was so determined to alter her image that she refused to be known as a vice admiral anymore. Of course, this wasn’t something she could simply declare, but the crew could vote on it. Kaiora would have to put it up for a vote first, but after a speech or two, Olindse was able to convince her to do as much. It was unanimous, and she was promoted to full admiral. This gave her a little more autonomy, and allowed her to run certain aspects of the ship, with the Captain’s blessing. The prisoner rehabilitation program was going strong, and operating self-sufficiently. Olindse wasn’t really qualified to be too heavily involved in it, even though she was the one who came up with it. So she needed something else to preoccupy her time. She settled on holiday planning.

The crew and passengers nearly all descended from the universe-slash-planet of Ansutah. Only Omega has no ties to this world, but no one has seen him in years, so he barely counts anyway. Ansutah was populated by monsters, so it was a very dangerous place to live. Their ancestors relegated themselves to an entire continent, which the Maramon revered as a holy place that no one was allowed to visit. The humans kept themselves hidden by remaining in vast cavernous complexes, and under dense rainforest canopies, and by throttling their own technological development. Travel throughout the continent was limited, because they couldn’t invent airplanes, even though historical records showed that it was physically possible. Even above ground trains and vehicle roads were too risky. Boats were mostly pointless, because there was no reason to traverse the ocean. There were some bodies of water, of course, but they would be too exposed to satellites, and the like, so they went straight to submarines, and used them sparingly. But mostly they got around via a network of subway tunnels.

Besides the technological restrictions, there were some things they didn’t have because they didn’t want to be found out by the white monsters. Holiday celebrations were one of these things. They did observe a few important anniversaries, like the birth of a respected philosopher, or the invention of one of those pivotal technologies that made their lives more convenient while maintaining their high level of secrecy. Even so, they didn’t hold parades, or throw large parties, or put on live concerts. Music was not non-existent, but it evolved quite differently than on Earth, because they were just too afraid that a Maramon fishing boat would come a little too close to their landmass, and hear the ruckus. People had fun, and they enjoyed their lives, and though they lived under constant threat of being found out, they didn’t suffer from paranoia every second of every day. But they also valued quiet simplicity, because it was the best way to prevent things from getting out of hand. When the human refugees escaped into this universe 71 years ago, they held onto this value, because they didn’t know how to break free from it. They didn’t understand how parades came about, or how to promote a live concert. Very few people are alive who still remember Ansutah, but that doesn’t mean they’ve come up with their own holidays. And so Olindse and her new team has mostly been replicating Earthan observances. Today, that changes.

“Didn’t we just celebrate that, uh...” Kaiora snaps her fingers, trying to remember.

“Thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving, yes.”

“That was yesterday, yeah. I have to start planning for the next one now. Traditionally, Christmas preparations begin about a month prior.”

“Oh, Christmas? I didn’t really care for that one” Kaiora says.

“I want to do something different, which is why I’m asking for approval,” Olindse explains.

“Very well, what’s your pitch?”

“This time of year has a long history of being stolen by other cultures, and of various cultures celebrating their own holidays around the same time,” Olindse begins. “According to the ancient texts, it was once called, umm...” She has to consult her tablet. “Saturnalia. It was first commemorated by a group of people called...pagans? Christians took it to honor the birth of their god’s hooman son, who was probably actually born in spring. Then the corporations took it from them to rejoice in their capitalism. Other religions have done their own, unrelated things.”

“Which one did we do last year?” Kaiora asks.

“Well, we did all three of the main ones,” Olindse answers, “but we focused on the last one, because it demands the least amount of cultural appropriation.”

“And which one are you doing this year?”

“We’re continuing the tradition of stealing the day for our own purposes by honoring something else.”

“Which is...?”

Olindse waits to answer for dramatic effect. “Forgiveness.”

“Oh my God, this is about Halan Yenant.”

“What?”

“You’re trying to get him out of hock.”

“What are you talking about? No. What? No.”

“Yes, you are, this is your plan.”

“What makes you say that?” Olindse asks. How did she guess?

“Because I know you. The theme is forgiveness? Oh, come on, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Don’t you want this too?”

“Of course I do, but I can’t just let him go. He committed a crime.”

“He’s been doing very well in his counseling sessions.”

“And I’m happy for him, but...”

“But what?” Olindse urges. “He’s 56 years old.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Do you think that’s old?”

“According to history.”

“Yeah, on Ansutah. You’re getting confused. He’s fine, it would not be some kind of mercy release. He has many years ahead of him.”

“Not if he stays in there. Studies have shown that incarceration takes two years off of the life expectancy of an individual for every year behind bars.”

“That’s sad,” Kaiora agrees, “but the law is the law, and I am bound to it more than anyone. I have to maintain an example. If I try anything untoward, I could end up in the cell right next to him.”

“At worst, they would strip you of your rank.”

“Well, I don’t want that either..Olindse! Jesus!”

“All right, all right, all right,” Olindse says. “So let’s talk about it. You can’t release him for good, but we have to make a grand gesture in order to exemplify the spirit of forgiveness. People are expecting it.”

“Who’s expecting it? You just came up with this new holiday.”

“I’ve been talkin’ about it, just not with you.”

Kaiora sighs. “What did you have in mind?”

“A year.”

“A year, what?”

“Release Admiral Yenant for a year.”

“Civilian Halan Yenant,” she corrects. “You want me to let him go for a year, and then put him back in his cell after that? That would make us look worse than just leaving him in there for good. It would be so bizarre”

“Oh yeah, hmm. So, what’s your counter?”

“I didn’t know we were negotiating.”

“I’m always negotiatin’, baby”

Kaiora sighs again. “An hour. He can come out for part of a party.”

“A month.”

“A whole party; not just an hour of it.”

“A fortnight.”

“A day.”

“A week.”

“Okay, fine. A week.”

“A salmon week.”

“What the hell is a salmon week?”

“Eight days.”

“Why?”

“Some salmon have an extra day between Saturday and Sunday.”

Kaiora itches her cheek, and then it just snowballs into her massaging her whole face with both hands. “Very well, one salmon week.”

Olindse smiles, pleased with herself for managing to negotiate up to what she wanted all along. “I’ll go tell the party planning committee.”

“You’ll be making the shipwide announcement regarding this decision.”

She smiles wider. Even better.

“And you’ll be telling them that all of the prisoners will be temporarily released for that period of time.”

“Excuse me?” Olinde's questions.

“I mean, we can’t just let Halan go. That would be unfair. We obviously favor him, but if this—nay, your—holiday is about forgiveness, then we don’t really get to choose who we forgive, and who we don’t. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“You want to let a mutineer and a terrorist go free for a week?”

“I don’t want anything. This is all you...baby.” Kaiora doesn’t expect Olindse to change her mind due to this mandate. It’s a reasonable condition, and she knows this. What Kaiora wants is for the Admiral to take responsibility for this decision, so it doesn’t blow back on Kaiora, or the rest of the crew. It’s fine if she wants to do this, but she doesn’t get to do it free of consequences. If Halan is released alone, it will undoubtedly go well, and Olindse will be able to use this as evidence that he ought to be released permanently, and perhaps even reinstated as an admiral himself. But the poor optics will do lasting damage to the passengers’ confidence in the crew to remain impartial and unbiased. By packaging him with Ovan and Dvronen, Kaiora has ensured that Olindse’s objective is not realized too easily. Yes, the Captain does ultimately want Halan to go free too, but while most of the ship agrees with them, there is a significant population which does not. Favoring one prisoner over the others threatens the stability of society, and risks the crew crumbling to the whims of a hypothetical new government administration that builds itself upon a foundation of integrity and justice. Ovan and Dvronen will almost certainly screw this up, but it will look fair, and that’s really all that matters, politically speaking.

Olindse straightens herself out, and nods. “Excellent idea. I shall prepare a statement.”

Vice Admiral Thatch yawns before he can get a word in. “Sorry. That story wasn’t boring, I’m just very tired.” Two years ago, Olindse returned to the extraction room, and summoned Thatch again to ask him for advice on what she should tell Captain Leithe about where she had been for the previous eight months. It was he who suggested that she had every right to just say almost nothing at all. Time travel is a tricky thing, and while it is possible to exploit this for personal gain, or personal agenda, it’s entirely rational to demand secrecy in these matters. For instance, Thatch now has a decent idea of when he’s going to die, and what kind of relationship he’ll have with his captain when it happens. This gives him a little insight into the future, but he knows that saying too much to others could jeopardize the timeline. Olindse was able to claim to know enough about the future that explaining her absence might do the same. It didn’t necessarily have to be true. She just had to convince Kaiora that it wasn’t worth this risk. This tactic worked, and ever since then, Olindse has continued going to Thatch for guidance. To communicate, they no longer use the extraction mirror, but a different time mirror, which Old Man gave to him long ago, and which was still in a secret compartment in his office. They’re both using the same exact mirror, but Thatch is in possession of it in 2286, and Olindse has been using it in the present.

“Do you want me to call back later?” she offers.

“No, I’m all right. But, uh...was there a question in all that?”

“How do I justify releasing the other two prisoners, and how do I keep them in line for the eight-day period?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Well, if they cause trouble, the good prisoner is at risk. People won’t want to see him released one day if they think something like that could happen again.” She’s not naming names, again to protect the timeline.

“Not if you frame it right.”

“How would I frame it?”

“Don’t just let the two mystery bad prisoners you told me about agitate the status quo. Actively encourage them to do it, but...ya know, covertly. This good prisoner that you like will then be able to step up, and be the hero that saves the day. I know that’s not your strong suit, but with my help, you’ll be able to manipulate them to do what you want.”

“That may be so, but I could never trick the good prisoner. He has too much integrity. He would stop it before anything happens, and then your whole gambit doesn’t work.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t have to manipulate Halan to do the hero thing. It’s in his nature. All you have to do is worry about the other two. He’ll react accordingly on his own.”

“I never told you that Halan was the good prisoner.”

“I read between the lines,” Thatch admits. “The way you talk about him, that only describes one person in the whole universe.”

“You can’t say anything,” Olindse reminds him.

“Literally, I can’t.” Thatch holds a little green plastic bottle in front of the mirror. “These eye drops will erase my memories. I won’t remember any of this.”

“Won’t you experience missing time?”

Now Thatch pulls a bottle of liquor into frame. “I lose chunks of time all the time. I learned long ago to just let it go. If whatever I did while I was blacked out doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, then I obviously don’t have to worry about what it was.”

“That’s a scary way to live your life, man.”

Thatch shrugs, takes a sip, and sets the bottle back down. “It works for me.”

Olindse nods, not in understanding, but understanding that he believes as much about his own lifestyle, and that that’s never going to change.

“So how ‘bout it, Full Admiral Olindse Belo? Want me to teach you how to manipulate a couple o’ bad guys?”

Olindse thinks about it for a moment. There are some pretty problematic ethical implications for trying something so shady. Still, Halan must be set free, and if this is one step towards that goal, she has to do it. She has to do whatever it takes. “Teach me.”

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Microstory 1825: Experience

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I’ve never told anybody this, but I’m about to leave this earthly plane, so I guess I’ll finally get it off my chest. I was abducted by aliens. At least that’s what I’ve always assumed they were. They didn’t exactly tell me where they were from. They didn’t look human, and they spoke to each other in a language that I didn’t recognize as being from Earth. Though, to be fair, since I’m not a language guy, it could be some dialect I’m not familiar with. And maybe they were mutants. Or maybe they were humans, and I just couldn’t see them well amidst all the drugs they had me on, and the poor lighting. So here’s how it began. I was sitting in my living room, watching something mindless and stupid on the television, when a bright light came in through the windows. At first, I thought it was just headlights, but then I saw that the lights were surrounding me. I started getting really nervous. My neighbor told me the government tracks your internet usage, but I didn’t understand. Computers were still so new back then in the 90s, I didn’t know what I was doing. Did I say something treasonous? Did I accidentally admit to committing a crime? The lights died down, and I thought I was safe, but then I blinked, and I was on my back in a strange room. Mysterious figures were hovering over me, speaking that language I was telling you about. When they noticed I was awake, though, they switched to Russian so I could understand them. They told me to relax, and that they weren’t going to hurt me. I don’t know if that was a lie, because they did draw some blood, and it didn’t feel very good. They didn’t probe me, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. They just left the room, and I never saw them again. I couldn’t be sure how long I was in there, but they continued to subject me to tests. Flashing lights, loud music, soft music, the sounds of people shooting at each other. Best I could tell, it was a psychological experiment to see how I reacted to these things. I think I passed.

I went to sleep in my little alien cell one night—though it may not have been nighttime, since there weren’t any windows, and I think I was in space—and when I woke up, I was back on the couch. The television was playing white noise, and it was a week later. My boss fired me for never showing up, even claiming that he broke into my house to see if something was wrong with me. I can’t say for certain that I was abducted by aliens, but something had to have happened. I lost time, and people lost time with me. It’s hard to ignore that evidence. I chose not to tell anyone about this. I apologized to my boss, and though he still couldn’t give me my job back, he promised not to do anything to risk my chances of getting another. I was back to being employed within the month, and fortunately, nothing like this ever happened to me again. What would have been the point of me making such wild accusations when I didn’t have any proof? Yeah, I wasn’t at home at the moment that my old boss tried to find me, but perhaps I was just at the store. I could have been lying about the whole thing, and no one could have backed up my story. So I just stayed quiet, and stayed the course. I kept my head down at work, and didn’t try to figure out the truth. Like I said, they never came for me again, and I haven’t suffered any inexplicable health complications since. To be sure, I’m not dying as a healthy and lively young man, but my eating and drinking habits suggest that this was inevitable regardless. I’m only telling my story now because it’s where my mind has gone in these final moments. It’s the only interesting thing that I ever experienced.

Microstory 1824: Red Meat Cute

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Over a decade ago, I moved to a new city with big dreams. No, this wasn’t Hollywood, or New York. I didn’t think I was going to become rich and famous. What I thought was that I was going to get a fresh start. I wanted to—no, needed to—get away from my hometown where my grandfather closed the plant, and ruined the local economy. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. The business was failing, and this was the only option. It happens. Still, it didn’t feel safe to stick around with my last name, so I escaped. I didn’t know anyone in the area, so I went out at night, hoping to meet some cool people. That’s when I met the girl who would become who I thought was my best friend. She took me under her wing, and showed me how things worked around here. One thing in particular she introduced me to was this app that lets you order food from various restaurants, and have it delivered right to your door. I would later learn that she was kind of playing on my naïvete by making it look like us dumb farm folk hadn’t learned about this newfangled technology yet, when in reality, the city belonged to the test population for an entirely new industry sector. Nobody had this yet, I wasn’t behind the times. The app didn’t even have very many restaurant partners at the time. Anyway, I knew what my new home address was, and I knew how to use a smartphone, but I’ve always been just a little bit careless. I entered 56th Street when I really meant 56th Terrace. So I’m waiting for my food, and watching the estimated time approach, and then I see the app claims it’s been delivered. I look on the porch, in front of the garage, even on the roof, like an idiot. No, it’s not there. That’s when I realize my mistake. I call the app, and the restaurant, and they both tell me that it’s not their problem. So I take a walk.

I went to the bad address, and rang the doorbell. The guy who answered was drinking my strawberry milkshake, and I could smell the burger and fries. I explained to him what had happened, and he was apologetic, but also not? He acted like he was just an innocent bystander who had done nothing wrong. I asked him where he thought it came from. Apparently, when a stranger showed up at his door, and handed him unasked for food, he didn't stop to think that maybe someone else would be missing it. Well, I was none too happy, and I let him know as much. He apologized some more, and offered to pay for it, because he was really hungry, and had already touched everything. Instead, I showed him what app to download, so he could reorder for me, and then we would call it even. I turned to leave, satisfied with this result, when he stopped me. Actually, he didn’t instruct the app to deliver to my house, but to his own again. If I wanted it, I was going to have to stay and share the meal. Okay, I admit, that was kind of a cute way to ask me to lunch. As we were waiting, we got to talking, and long story short, we were together for eleven years; married for eight. Today, I discovered that he has been cheating on me, for what’s probably been just about the entire time. I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m talking about my best friend. I realize now that I should have seen it coming. The signs were all there. She always thought I owed her for helping me get my bearings in the city, and he always felt entitled to take whatever he wanted without considering other people’s feelings. It was a match made in hell. To make matters worse, on my way to confront her at her work, a freaking loose brick falls off of the façade of that first goddamn restaurant I had delivered, and strikes me in the head. I guess I really wasn’t cut out for this city.

Microstory 1823: Brother Confessor

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You don’t know us, but you’ve heard of us. You’ve heard what we do for each other. We rely on a lot of secrecy, but we are not evil. We’re just a group of like-minded individuals who help each other succeed in life. We don’t cover up murders, or child-trafficking, despite what many of the rumors say about us. At least, I don’t think that ever happened. I ended up in a pickle once, and it nearly ruined my life, so maybe I’ve always been naïve about the whole thing. This will be my final confession. I was walking home from a night class once when men in masks jumped me, and stuffed me into a van. I’ve never been much of a fighter. I don’t like violent sports, or watching two dudes go after each other in the parking lot. But this was a life or death situation, as far as I knew, so I kicked and I screamed, and I got myself out of there. I actually jumped out of a moving vehicle, and started to run away. Well, they caught up to me, and took off their masks, promising that they weren’t trying to hurt me. I was being recruited into a secret society. It wasn’t associated with the school, though I know a lot of things like this are. Their requirement is that every new member be in their first year at university, but I never really did understand how they chose us, or what criteria they looked for. The reason I mention it is because it takes a certain type of man to agree to join a group that just scared him half to death. I was skeptical, of course, but I was intrigued, and a little excited. I joined, and found myself surprised, and a little bored. We mostly just sat around, talking about fair women that we knew. There was a tutoring program, and a sort of insurance fund we paid into that could be used in extreme circumstances. Again, it wasn’t meant to be for a murder charge, but a request could be made to get out of jail.

Our brotherhood developed a network; a network like any other. Everyone does this; they know people, or they know people who know people. We just do it more officially and formally. This was before social media made it easy to crowdsource the solution to problems. But like social media, some members of the network were less connected than others. They weren’t completely unconnected, and they weren’t left out on purpose, but they weren’t as good at maintaining relationships. There was one guy who was particularly unconnected. He really only knew me by the time his problem rolled around, which meant that I was the guy he called. We worked together, but I didn’t know him that well compared to my relationships with some people outside of the brotherhood, but he probably would have considered me to be his best friend. So he calls me up and tells me he thinks he’s run someone over. He felt a bump as he was driving, and found blood on the grill of his car once he got home. I manage to calm him down, and tell him that it was probably just an animal. Well, it wasn’t. I saw on the news that night that a young woman died from a hit-and-run, and it was about where my brother described it. I regretted my earlier advice, and told him to turn himself in, but he claimed he wasn’t obligated to do a thing. He threatened to have me fired, and he had such power at the time. I didn’t know what to do. It may seem obvious to you—especially now—but things were really complicated from that side of the dilemma. He was putting me in such an awkward position. I had to choose between doing the right thing, and protecting my career. So I stayed quiet, and I’ve lived with that guilt for the last fifteen years. I guess the silver lining to dying is finally being free from this burden.

Microstory 1822: Child Support

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When I was growing up, my family told me to get a hard-working job. It may have been the very first thing they said to me. I bet I came out of my mother 65 years ago, and they said, son, you need to know the value of honest manual labor. They didn’t care how well I did in school, or how good I was at socializing with the other kids. They could still remember the great depression, even though a long time had passed for them already, and they didn’t want me to go through the same problems they did. It was a nice sentiment, but it wasn’t very forward-thinking. Since they didn’t value education, I didn’t have much of a chance to explore my strengths, and learn new skills. I went from one blue collar job to the next. This factory, that warehouse, this office basement, that farm. I know it sounds like I kept getting fired, but that’s not what it was like. I would just keep getting better opportunities, or have to move somewhere else. In those days, finding work wasn’t all that hard. People always needed people like me to do the things that they didn’t want to do, and which robots hadn’t figured out how to do...yet. That’s kind of what this story is about. I had heard that someone or something would be coming for our jobs, but I didn’t know that meant every job I was possibly qualified to do. I didn’t know the last job I lost would be the last I ever had. I had picked up so many skills along the way, but it seemed like they were all out of date before I was old enough to survive on my retirement. You may think I was bitter, but I wasn’t. I saw it coming. I am not against automation in general. I even made sure my kids got themselves some skills that would make them indispensable within the workforce. But my daddy didn’t teach me the same, so I was unprepared for it to happen so soon.

I’m sure glad I raised my children differently than my parents did. It was a bit of a double edged sword, though. Now that they were grown, and had built great careers for themselves, they had more than enough amongst them to support me and my wife in my early forced retirement. Her parents were even worse. No daughter of theirs was going to work a day in her life. She was expected to find a man to take care of her. That was meant to be my responsibility, and I was failing everybody. Not once did my kids make me feel bad about giving us money even though I wasn’t even 60 years old yet. They said they were more than happy to give back what we gave to them. I know that this happened. I know that I raised them, and taught them, and helped them. It just didn’t feel like enough, and it felt like they were giving back far too much comparatively. Things did not get any better as the years went by. It was incredibly stressful, asking them for a little help when my social security benefits weren’t enough. It was a little less stressful when they started sending us what was basically an allowance, so we didn’t have to ask, but it was still difficult. It was better for the most part when they decided to set us up with some kind of fancy computer account where money would automatically transfer from their banks to ours, but in other ways, this was worse, because I felt like such a disappointment. One thing I let go was my health. We chose to eat a lot of fast food, because it’s cheaper, of course, and we wanted to stay frugal, since we had not truly earned this money. On the upside, my early death is going to release the kids from some of the burden. On the downside, I’m worried about my wife’s health, and there’s also this annoying thing about suffering a lethal heart attack at age 65. That’s not great.

Microstory 1821: Coulrophobia

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I’ll tell you about the worst period of my life, since it’s all I can think about right now. But first, a little backstory. When I was seven or eight years old, the circus came to town. Well, it wasn’t really in town; we had to drive an hour to get there, but it was worth it. I grew up poor, so it was a real treat to get some entertainment besides skipping rocks across the pond, or singing songs with my siblings. I loved everything about the show, but I especially loved the clowns. Even the sad ones looked like they were having the time of their lives. They were so energetic and fun, it was all I could do to resist the urge to jump out of my seat, and start dancing with them. Of course I never did, but I didn’t let go of that feeling either. Most kids my age were hoping to get into college, but I set my sights on something else. I wanted to go to clown school, which I could read about at my local library. Again, local is a strong word since it took two hours to get there on foot. My parents didn’t have the time to take me, but they encouraged me to learn, so they didn’t stop me from getting there on my own. It was a different time back then. Kids were regularly left alone to take care of themselves. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I raised myself, but I had to develop independence at a pretty young age to save my family the trouble. Anyway, clown college. They didn’t even have one in my country. The closest one was probably in France, but those were mostly mimes, so my best bet for a regular happy clown program was the U.S. Getting there wasn’t as hard as you might think, but finding my place there, and figuring out how to thrive in an alien environment, proved to be quite tricky. But I did it. I made it to the school, gave them my money, and began my education. In those days, it was a three-month program, rather than two.

I adored being a clown. It was everything I hoped it would be when I was young. I had a unique name, and a unique makeup pattern. I decided to stay in the country, because I was comfortable here by then, and there was plenty of work to be had. I was getting so many gigs, I couldn’t accept them all. We developed a network of clowns in the area—like a miniature union—where we would refer business to each other when we were too booked. We developed a set of rules too. We had to kick clowns out when they didn’t fulfill the spirit of the art, or match our moral standards. Then, several years ago, things got real bad for us. You probably heard about this; fake clowns started appearing all over the country, and into the next. They always showed up at night. It was always in the suburbs, or rural areas, presumably so they wouldn’t get caught by a dense city population. They didn’t do anything, but stand there, and look menacing. It scared everyone who saw one, and even those who had only heard about it on the news. As for me, it was really damaging to my business. Nobody wanted a clown at their birthday party anymore. We just could not be trusted. Some believed that it was some kind of publicity stunt for a horror film, but no one took responsibility for the phenomenon, and such a film never materialized, as far as I know. I didn’t exactly look into it, but I imagine I would have heard the truth. I was fortunate enough to have been old enough to retire, but many of my colleagues weren’t so lucky. They needed those jobs, and they needed the good reputations to get them. Sure, the sightings only lasted a few months, but the damage was ultimately permanent, and the industry never fully recovered. Business was hard enough already, but I fear—after I’m gone—all clowns will die.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 23, 2381

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They told Xerian everything—well, not everything—about who they were. They just told him enough for him to understand why they were going to disappear at the end of the day, and not return for another original Earthan year. They also told him about the reframe engine, which is significantly slower than the standard light year engine that these people were used to, but also not a useless waste of hydrogen. They explained as little about the cuffs as they could to get by, but after some probing questions, Xerian learned that their pattern wasn’t technically necessary. They ought to be able to switch it off whenever they pleased, and presumably forever. That made the team uncomfortable. They had to come to terms with the fact that everyone they met would always find it strange that they would elect to live this lifestyle. The way they looked at it, though, asking them to suppress the pattern would be exactly the same as asking a normal person to do it in reverse. This was how they perceived time, and even the newbies were used to it by now. It wasn’t out of the question, but perhaps it ought to be. Ramses figured he could modify the cuffs physically to remove the power/pattern suppression function. That would still leave them with the other useful features, like associated teleportation, and a handy computer they always had on them. Unfortunately, it was more complicated than it sounded. Olimpia would always need her time illness to be suppressed.

Xerian was patient, so he could stand to wait for the team to spend the rest of the day recovering from their ordeal, and then not be able to return to work for a year. The Denseterium was still decades away from realizing their dream of building a light year engine capable of traversing a whole galaxy across the observable universe in three thousand years or less. Theoretically, they could do it now, and in fact could have always done it. Their goal was to collect every star in the Milky Way, but they didn’t actually need to in order to demonstrate their might. Why, the whole reason they were at war with Andromeda was because they were so technologically advanced already. The Hyperdense galaxy was simultaneously already complete, and would never be complete. They could use it now, or continue to add at will They too were patient, because they had an objective in mind, and didn’t see Xerian as enough of a threat to alter those plans. Hell, they could have light year engined every star into place almost immediately, but they were using regular Class E stellar engines, because they required less energy.

“Is that true?” Ramses asked. “Why couldn’t they just use a lot of little light year engines to consolidate the stars first? Sure, this uses a lot of energy all at once, but the stellar engines lose a lot of mass for thrust. I don’t think they’re saving themselves anything.”

“They are,” Xerian contended. “The stellar material expelled as thrust is collected and recycled afterwards. A light year engine disperses the material that it leaves behind so much that it’s pretty much actually wasted.”

“Who told you that?” Leona asked.

“Uhh, I dunno, that’s just the science.”

“I’m not convinced that it is,” Ramses disagreed. “A light year engine is incredibly efficient. Otherwise, our colleagues back home wouldn’t bother using it.”

“They’re just using it for a ship, though, right?” Xerian reminded him. “Entire star systems are different. They’re open, making it harder to contain waste.”

“I guess,” Ramses said, “but I can’t imagine the Shkadov thrusters are any less wasteful. I mean, it takes energy to collect that too. I would need to see the math.”

“A what thruster?” Xerian asked.

“That’s what we call them where we’re from.” What the team chose not to explain was that they were from a different reality. They instead said that they came to this part of the universe from a distant galaxy which Leona called 3C 295. It was five billion light years away, which would take a light year engine a century and a half to cross. This fabrication had the added benefit of justifying their fondness for their temporal pattern. For them, the fictional trip only took five months. They didn’t explain what happened to their capital ship after arriving, or who else came with them.

Xerian nodded in understanding.

They could sense his eagerness to finish breakfast, and get started. Ramses wiped his mouth with his napkin, and took out the reset button. “If everyone’s ready...”

“Hold on.” Leona tapped on her Cassidy cuff, and suddenly everyone else’s cuff fell off of their respective wrists. “Okay, now we’re ready.”

“Why did you just do that?” Mateo questioned.

“Oh, did we not tell you?” Leona asked. She looked around the room. No one knew what she was talking about, except apparently Xerian. “New plan. Once Ramses reconstitutes the AOC inside the matrioshka detachment, I will associate teleport there alone. I will then make my way to a different part of the detachment, drop one of the extra cuffs there, and hopefully get out in time, before Xerian integrates one of the other cuffs with the Suadona, using it to associate teleport his entire ship to that new location, basically blowing up that section of the detachment.”

No one responded for a moment. “What!” Mateo questioned.

“We’re turning the cruiseliner into a bomb,” Leona reiterated. “At that point, he’ll use whatever tactic he needs to wrest control of the detachment as a whole.”

“And what exactly are we doing during this time?” Olimpia asked.

“You’ll be safe on a lifeboat,” Leona answered. “This will all be done remotely. Only one of us needs to actually transport inside the matrioshka brain to physically move the extra cuff, so it can be a beacon for the bomb.”

They just stared at her.

“This makes the most sense,” Leona defended. “Why would we all go there? That’s stupid and pointless. Xerian has already told me the best place to plant the cuff beacon. It will do a significant amount of damage to cause panic and chaos, but not enough to blow the whole thing up, which would defeat the whole purpose of the mission to take over.”

“Are people going to die?” Mateo asked her.

“Maybe. I won’t be able to evacuate people from that section, because then they’ll know something’s about to happen.”

“You forget, love,” he said as he was replacing his cuff. “I’m still the one in charge here.” She may have had the ability to remove their cuffs without their permission, but his remained primary. This was going to have to happen fast. He tapped on the screen, dropping Leona’s cuff too. He then magnetized all of the cuffs into his lap. He stole Ramses’ reset button, and pressed it as he was literally running away with all of the devices. As he ran down the corridors, he kept his eye on the progress bar that illustrated how much of the AOC had been restored on the matrioshka detachment.

Ramses was upon him before the bar had reached a hundred percent. “Wait! I’m all right with you being the one to do this in Leona’s stead, but...we need one of those cuffs. The matrioshka brain has ways of blocking anyone from teleporting into their borders without authorization, but our technology is incompatible with theirs. They don’t know how to block the signal. So just give me one of them, and you can go off and execute the plan.”

“New new plan,” Mateo said cryptically. “Nobody’s teleporting anywhere...except for me, I guess. But nobody’s killing anybody, period. There’s a peaceful way to do this, and I’m gonna find it. I’ll let you know where I am when it’s time.”

“What if you get caught before you can send us your location?” Ramses asked.

“If I get caught, and I’m not able to send a message, then it’s not time. Pretty simple.” Ramses’ reset device beeped. One hundred percent. They had their ship back.

“Wait!”

“Tell my wife, were I you.” Mateo locked onto the signal of one of the Cassidy cuffs that were being stored on the AOC, and transported himself right to it.

He looked around carefully, worried that it didn’t work, and he wasn’t where he expected to be. Everything appeared to be in working order, though, with the ship powered down, currently operating on dormant lighting. He was standing in engineering, which was a section he didn’t spend a lot of time in, since he didn’t know how anything worked down here. Even so, he knew where the cuffs were stored. He unlocked the secret safe, and counted. They were all here and accounted for; the four he brought with him, the one on his wrist, and the five extras. Leona and Xerian wanted to destroy one of these for the sake of the mission, but as far as they could tell, these here were the only ten such devices ever created, except for the one in Kestral’s possession. Half of them were designed by an unknown party—likely some version of Holly Blue—while the rest Ramses made after reverse engineering one. So he could probably make more, but it was still best to treasure them. Besides, there had to be a diplomatic solution to this. Mateo was no diplomat himself, so he—

“Hello?”

He jumped up, startled. This wasn’t super surprising, though, was it? A mysterious baby ship that disappeared five years ago suddenly reappearing right where it was  before? That was bound to raise some eyebrows. Winging it had gotten him this far so far, so he might as well try to ride that wave until it crashed down upon him. He quietly spun the safe back into the recess. Then he echoed the question, “hello?”

“Mateo?” Wait, was that Angela?

He ran through the numbers again. He definitely just left nine cuffs in that safe, and he was still wearing the primary. How had Angela come with him? “Angie?”

“Report!” she whispered back loudly.

“Uhh...report!”

“I asked you first!”

“I asked you second!”

She growled. Giving up, she climbed down the steps. “I came back in because I forgot to grab my multitool. As I was heading back for the upper level, the dormant lights turned on, but that seemed normal, and the hangar bay had plenty of lighting. And I could hear a flurry of activity outside. When I made it back up to the airlock, and looked outside, it was still lit up, and still noisy. Until it wasn’t. The lights all switched off at once, and the bay was completely empty. It felt just like it does when we jump to the future. I figured it was best not to open the outer door.”

“What is the date, according to the main sequence timeline, at least?”

She sighed. “March 18, 2376.”

Mateo checked his cuff. That wasn’t what it showed, and it should have adjusted accordingly if he had jumped back in time either way. “You jumped five years.”

“It felt like a blip.”

There wasn’t much seating in engineering, because it wasn’t necessary. There was one chair at an interface terminal, and a bench that was a tight fit for two. He sat down on one end, and tapped his hand on the other. She squeezed in next to him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “You’re a duplicate. You see, Ramses installed something that he didn’t tell us about. It was a reset button. Basically, he made a copy of the AOC, but sort of left it in the aether, so that if the real one was ever destroyed, we could get it back. I think the temporal battery has been drained.”

“The AOC was destroyed?” Angela guessed.

He nodded. “Huge antimatter-matter annihilation. Took out part of a city hundreds of kilometers away. Don’t worry, everyone who lived there was either already dead, or evacuated.”

“When does this happen?”

“It doesn’t matter, we can’t undo it. All we wanted was our ship back. I don’t know what went wrong exactly. I imagine the backup process had already begun when you slipped back in to retrieve your tool, and you were backed up as well. Way he tells it, that should not have occurred.”

“So I died?”

“Oh no,” Mateo assured her. “That’s what I mean, you’re a duplicate. The other Angela is safely on another ship, as is everyone else. It could be thousands of light years away, but I haven’t calculated our coordinates yet. I came here to retrieve the copy of our ship without putting the team at risk, and maybe—I dunno—end a war or two?”

“I see. This could get awkward.”

“Yeah.”

“No, you don’t understand. Olimpia...”

“We know.”

“Oh.”

“Angela, we’re gonna figure this out. You have every right to be in this timeline, and the next. It’ll be fine. In fact, I could certainly use your help. You used to be a counselor, after all. I mean, that is, if you want to. There’s a reason I tried to keep the other Angela out of it in the first place.”

“Why don’t you call me Marie, to distinguish us. And of course I’ll help you. Tell me everything you’ve learned in the last five days.”

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Extremus: Year 31

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It took a shockingly long time for Omega to realize who the photographer, September was, and what her weird cryptic messages meant. Her name was no random coincidence. There is a woman from Earth with the ability to travel through time—fittingly, through pictures. Sometimes when she does this, she will just be completing a loop of destiny. She hasn’t changed anything about the timeline; she stayed in one reality, and did everything she was destined to do. Other times, however, she’s able to change the past, and when that happens, it will generate a brand new timeline. The problem is, now there were two versions of her in this reality. It’s unclear how it occurs, but there are a few options to deal with this situation. Her method is for all the alternates to coexist in the same timeline. They usually avoid any confusion or complications by going off in different directions, and the traveler will give herself a different name to distinguish themselves. The original was and is named Paige. The second one is Dyad, the third Trinity, and so on. September is the seventh incarnation. How and why she ended up on Extremus, and how involved she is in its goingson, is something that Omega isn’t cognizant of. That’s not his concern right now, though. He’s on a mission of great importance, and the key to completing it lies in the comments that September made just before the detachment team left.

Omega was a clone. The original, Saxon Parker, was given his own mission, along with a few others. They were tasked with installing an outpost in every single star system in the galaxy. His superiors decided that they wanted a human touch to the automated ships. Thusly, the clones were grown. They were each given a number, Omega’s being the last, which inspired him to name himself accordingly. Omega also didn’t want to go through with the mission, so Saxon was forced to fill in for him. But this isn’t about Omega’s number. It’s about number 83. That’s what September offered them, so to the location of number 83 is where they’re going.

The team doesn’t want to travel through time, and Captain Leithe strongly suggested that they not anyway. Still, they needed to cover over 20,000 light years, and they needed to figure out how to do it in a matter of years. So instead of sending their whole ship back in time, they sent the original time shuttle on its own. Once there, it would take the long way around to finally reach the location of Anglo 83, which shouldn’t be too far from the border of what was deemed Earth’s stellar neighborhood. This neighborhood spans a radius of fifty light years in all directions, and the True Extremists have decided—without telling anyone, naturally—that everything beyond it belonged to them.

Surely they would claim that they were protecting fragile Earthans from the existence of their distant cousins by not actually telling them about the border, but this is a ridiculous stance. Sure, it’s fine for when the people of Earth were young and naïve, but when they began to try to spread out to the stars, the True Extremists should have made themselves known. As explained by famous futurist Isaac Arthur, if you don’t want people to come to your backyard, you don’t hide from them. You warn them that you’re there, and you do it loudly. No civilization capable of galactic colonization would ever dare trespass against a neighbor who has proven themselves strong enough to be seen for as long in years as they are far away in light years. That is, if the Earthans could witness the might of the True Extremists, they would know how powerful the aliens were based on their ability to be witnessed from 50 light years away at least 50 years ago. It’s even in the freakin’ handbook. According to protocols developed by Earthan scientists before they so much as passed the heliosphere, first contact with a superior alien force is to be made at those aliens’ discretion; not the other way around.

“Is it finally ready?” Captain Moralez asks.

“Yes, it’s arrived at the destination, currently pilot fishing Voussoir Splitter Seven,” Valencia answers.

“Any explanation for why it cut it so close? We have been ready to cast for over four years.”

Valencia shakes her head as she’s looking over the data. “Best guess, it went slow. It wasn’t traveling at maximum reframe. I’m not really seeing that in the logs, though.”

“Did you do this?” Yitro questions Omega.

“Why would I do that?”

“Your little riddle that the photographer had for you. She must have given you the impression that we shouldn’t arrive until now. So you programmed the shuttle to go just a little bit slower than it could have.”

“September told us to find clone 83. She didn’t say when. This had nothing to do with me, I don’t know what went wrong.”

The Captain isn’t convinced.

“He’s telling the truth,” Valencia argues. “Stop looking at him like that.”

“I’m still not convinced he should be here,” Yitro says to her. “It’s his brother out there on that ship. That could be a conflict of interest.”

Omega can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“We don’t have the split schedule,” Omega tries to explain, “but we know that Anglo 83’s module hasn’t had time to split apart that much yet. There could be as many as 1100 people on that thing right now. They should all be asleep, but...we don’t know that.”

“Even more cause to be concerned about you going on this mission,” Yitro reasons.

“No offense to you, honey,” Omega says to the mother of his child before switching his attention back to the Captain, “but I’m the smartest person on this detachment. You need me.”

“Someone has to stay here anyway,” Yitro contends, knowing it to be a weak argument.

“Yes,” Omega says with a condescending nod, “the navigator, and the casting engineer, as well as the medic, and our amazing auxiliary crewmember. The rest of us are on the away team. This was decided long ago, why are you fighting it now?”

“I don’t know,” Yitro admits. “I’m just worried about what’s waiting for us on the other side of that quantum casting pod. I don’t like that we’re four years behind. But you’re right. Intelligence aside, having a clone on the team is an asset. Let’s go.”

“Not quite yet.” Kaiora wanted to send a doctor with them, but Extremus couldn’t afford to lose anyone right now. The crew was having a surprisingly hard time backfilling medical positions. Dechen Karma was the best medic currently licensed, so that was the compromise. “You need a fitness approval from me.”

“And I need to finish running diagnostics on these pods,” engineer Hardy Gibson adds.

“Oh, good,” Yitro says sarcastically. “Anyone else? Navigator Trimble?  Yeoman?”

They shake their heads, a little in fear.

“Great, then I think we’ll just be going. It’s been four months, there’s nothing wrong with the pods, or our bodies.” Yitro starts taking off his uniform.

“You don’t need to do that,” Gibson assures him. “It just hooks up to your brain.”

“I knew that, I’m just...getting comfortable.”

“Is he okay?” Omega whispers to Valencia.

“A lot can change about a person in four years,” she replies. “This is a small detachment ship. Cabin fever, if I had to guess.”

“Maybe he should be staying behind.”

The three of them climb into their respective pods. Gibson and Karma link them to the computer, and prepare to cast them thousands of light years away. “It’s just like playing Quantum Colony,” Gibson says, “except we’ll be sending your consciousness there intact, rather than having you pilot a surrogate.”

“Very well,” Yitro replies. “Do it.”

Omega tries to give Valencia another knowing look, but they can’t see each other from inside their pods. So he just closes his eyes, and lets himself go.”

Omega awakens in the destination pod, but it’s not what he expected. His new body ought to be tilted at a 135 degree angle, just like his real one. Instead, he’s fully flat, and fully encased. This looks less like a casting pod, and more like a stasis chamber. No, this doesn’t make sense at all. He slides the hatch above him open, and pulls himself up to look around. This doesn’t look like the time shuttle either, but it does look familiar. He tries to speak, but it’s always a little difficult at first, so he clears his throat profusely. “Computer, report.”

“It is February 12, 2300 at closest estimate to realtime. Cruising at point-nine-nine—”

“I get it,” Omega interrupts. “We shouldn’t be time dilating yet. We should still be at reframe speeds.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” the computer says.

“Hey, computer! I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Okay, well I’m sorry to have bothered you. Sorry, Anglo Eighty-Three. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“What did you just call me?”

“I was programmed to recognize your designation as Anglo Eighty-Three. Would you like to provide me with a different name?”

“Where are we?”

“This is Voussoir Splitter Seven of the Project Stargate Quantum Seeder Program for the Milky Way Galaxy Colonization Initiative.”

That’s not right. He’s not supposed to be on the modular ship yet. He was just supposed to be cast to their time shuttle, where they would investigate from the outside, only intending to board the splitter if necessary. Omega has to work through this logic with the computer. “Why am I awake?”

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Anglos are not meant to wake up unless something is wrong with the ship, so why am I awake?”

The computer took a moment to respond. “Unknown. Revival process triggered from inside the stasis chamber.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you, since I was asleep, and couldn’t have prompted said revival process myself?”

“Hmm.” That’s an interesting response.

“Computer, did you detect a quantum casting event prior to my awakening?”

“Checking logs. Yes, recent casting event detected.”

“Okay...”

“You’re not Anglo Eighty-Three, are you?”

“No, I’m a different Anglo.”

“This...is a problem.”

“Yeah. Do you detect any other vessels in this region of space?”

“One, traveling at incongruent relativistic speeds. Communication impossible.”

“Not impossible, just a shorter time frame. I’m gonna teach you how to reframe your communication protocols. I absolutely must connect with my Captain, and my...Valencia.” They never really did fully define this relationship. They have the same last name now, but never married.

Valencia sits before the computer, staring at the camera. “Engineer’s log, February 14, 2300. It has been two days since I arrived alone on the time shuttle. Still no word from the Captain, or Omega. I cannot reach the Perran Thatch. I have been monitoring the progress of Voussoir Splitter Seven, which is traveling at maximum relativistic speeds. So far, nothing has gone wrong. I am detecting no other vessels in the vicinity, nor any reason to believe that the True Extremists are anywhere near here. I have been able to make short jumps to confirm this. If they’re planning to come here at all, they’ve not arrived yet, though I can’t rule out the possibility that the casting problem is the result of some kind of sabotage. I may end up becoming the victim of survivor’s guilt, with my two crewmembers lost to the quantum void.” She sighs.

A message pops up on the screen, reading turn off the reframe engine, love.

“Computer, turn off reframe. Match relativistic speed with the voussoir splitter.”

After the computer complies, another message arrives, but video this time. “Valencia, you made it.”

“You’re on the splitter. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“It’s only been a few minutes.”

“It’s been a couple days for me.”

He shrugs. “I’ve heard it both ways. Where’s Captain Moralez.”

She sighs again. “Shit. I was hoping he was with you.”

“No. Hopefully he’s just back on the Thatch.”

“Are we ever that lucky?”

“We found the source of the meteor chain.”

“That took us twenty years.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“We need to find him.”

“We will.”

Not too far away, but still out of sensor range, Yitro wakes up to find two weapons trained on him. They wait as he coughs profusely. “Oh, man, pardon me. Good day, I’m Captain Moralez of the Perran Thatch Detachment Ship. Got any water?”

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